Moir had been engaged to Her Highness Athena, the First Imperial Princess, since childhood—destined to become the most revered First Royal Consort of the Somaria Empire.
The Violet House doted on him fiercely because of this betrothal, and nobles across the Royal Capital had no choice but to steer clear of his path.
By nature, Moir was willful and arrogant, strutting through the entire Royal Capital with impunity.
Even if some ill-mannered young nobles clashed with him, the next day their elders would drag those brats to apologize to Moir in person.
He should have reigned supreme in the Royal Capital’s noble circles!
Yet two individuals matched his status and lineage perfectly—and delighted in opposing him.
Every clash ended with Moir failing to regain the upper hand.
One was Lilith Carrie Orange, the Second Imperial Princess of the Somaria Empire, of royal blood herself.
The other: Mavis Gibbon Fred, young master of Duke Fred’s household, tasked with guarding the demon-plagued border of the Transverse Great Mountains.
Setting aside Lilith—that mixed-blood brute with brawn but no brains—
Mavis, that effeminate-looking nuisance, not only targeted Moir relentlessly but feigned a pitiful, bullied expression whenever possible.
Worse, the foolish nobles of the Royal Capital fell for his petty tricks every time!
That suit Moir commissioned at great expense? Mavis bribed the tailor and stole it.
Moir planned a leisurely ride at the outskirts ranch first—only for Mavis to buy the entire estate and bar him entry.
If Moir hosted a ball, Mavis would issue Duke Fred’s invitations for the exact same hour.
Damn that Mavis! Clearly targeting him on purpose!
“Last magic combat lesson,” Moir fumed inside the carriage bound for House Decora’s ball, “he used a scroll to injure himself, then played the wounded, pitiful victim!”
“As a result, Father scolded me and cut my allowance for half a month!”
Mavis exploited his “no-magic” reputation to frame Moir effortlessly.
Whispers of Moir’s “brutality” were tolerable—but losing half a month’s allowance?
Heaven knew how frugally he’d lived: not even a decent suit to buy.
Damn Mavis! Forced him into such straits he had to wear the same suit twice—a truly pitiful plight!
Today, he *would* humiliate Mavis. Only then would his fury settle.
“Daina, are you absolutely certain everything’s ready?”
Daina, the Dark Elf maid, replied listlessly, “Of course, my young master Moir. Foolproof.”
But recalling past incidents, she added dryly, “Though… my dear young master, are *you* certain nothing will go awry on your end?”
After all, every scheme Moir devised backfired mysteriously:
Sabotaging Mavis’s suit? His own got ruined.
Lacing Mavis’s horse feed with laxative before the race? His own steed ate it.
“You have a remarkable talent for backfiring schemes,” she murmured. “Though… utterly adorable.”
The scheming-savvy Dark Elf sighed, then pressed Moir’s head firmly into her ample bosom.
In a besotted whisper: “Ahh~ No helping it. My arrogant, endearingly clumsy young master… so adorably infuriating… makes me want to… cherish you forever.”
“Y-You scoundrel! What nonsense!” Moir sputtered, shoving her away. “Damn you, Daina! Calling your master clumsy? Do you *want* punishment?”
Daina covered her face with a giggle. When she looked up, a suspicious blush dusted her cheeks.
“So… punish me? Please, punish me, Young Master Moir.”
Startled by her expression, Moir’s eyes widened. He blustered, “H-Hmph! Scoundrel! I *will* punish you! Absolutely!”
He shot her a fierce glare, huffed loudly, and leaped from the carriage.
House Decora had arrived.
And parked right behind his family’s carriage—a lavish coach emblazoned with a rose crest.
*The* rose crest.
Mavis’s family coach—his sworn rival’s!
As Moir spotted it, the curtain drew back.
Golden curls. Eyes sparkling like rubies.
Mavis’s face—more beautiful than any woman’s—peeked out.
“Oh my, if it isn’t Moir?” he exclaimed with feigned surprise.
Clad in *that* exquisitely familiar suit, he drew instant gasps.
“What a magnificent suit! Young Master Mavis shines like a divine messenger!”
“Tonight, countless ladies will dream of him!”
“Oh~ Truly breathtaking.”
*Damn it!* That was *his* suit—the one Mavis stole by bribing the tailor!
Had *he* worn it today, those praises would be his.
Damn Mavis! Stealing Moir Elai Violet’s glory *again*!
Moir glared daggers.
“Ah, Moir…” Mavis, assisted down by a servant, shrank timidly behind him. Angelic features trembling—utterly pitiful.
“Oh~ Poor Young Master Mavis, bullied again!”
“How can Young Master Moir glare so fiercely? Oh, my poor sweetheart!”
Nobles whispered, sympathy flooding toward Mavis, disdain flickering toward Moir.
Yet Moir saw it clearly: Mavis’s ruby eyes glinting with triumphant mockery—*just for him*.
“Aaaaargh! Damn you, Mavis! Playing victim again! Duel me, you effeminate coward!”
Moir surged forward like a lit firecracker.
“Oh heavens! Stop him!”
“Knights! Restrain House Violet’s young master!”
“Poor Mavis—brutalized just for arriving together!”
Gasps rippled. Sympathy for Mavis. Disdain for Moir.
Duke Fred’s knights blocked Moir firmly. “The ball begins, Young Master Moir. Please proceed.”
Their tone respectful, bodies immovable.
Four more knights escorted Mavis toward House Decora.
Passing Moir, Mavis turned—face still trembling with faux fear.
“I’m sorry, Moir,” he called loudly. “My fault for angering you! I’ll never attend the same ball again!”
As nobles murmured over his humility, Mavis leaned close, voice dropping to a whisper only Moir could hear:
“Angry, Moir? Yes… *that* expression. Frustrated. Helpless. Foolish.”
“You’ve utterly delighted me.”
