In the captain’s office of the Knights Order, besides Captain Arman himself and his deputy Kale who’d returned with him, the drama-loving Crown Prince had followed by carriage after spotting Arman’s odd demeanor—clearly burning with curiosity.
Kale diligently sorted through Knights Order paperwork. The Crown Prince sipped floral tea brought by a servant. Meanwhile, Arman—the heart of the scene—lay flat on the sofa, head buried under his coat, radiating serene “post-life” vibes.
“He’s been like this the whole time?”
“Yep, Your Highness. Might as well check if he’s still breathing—before he actually kicks the bucket.”
“Hah.”
The Crown Prince chuckled, tasting the tea’s bitter edge. He glanced at the silent, shrouded Arman.
“Arman. You still alive?”
“..."
No reply. A soft rustle of fabric. One arm emerged slowly from beneath the coat. Two fingers shot up in a crisp “V” sign—proof of “functional existence.”
“See? Perfectly alive,” the Crown Prince nodded knowingly.
“Alive, sure. ‘Perfectly’? Debatable,” Kale shot back, sharp as ever.
“..."
Polite reply: the “V” flipped instantly into a lone middle finger.
“You two really have… chemistry,” the Crown Prince mused.
“Oh, absolutely. I treat him like my little brother,” Kale said, stressing *brother*.
Both of Arman’s hands shot up—two middle fingers, loud and clear.
“If you’re fine, stop loafing. It’s work hours. Piles of documents need your signature.”
“Ugh…” At the word *documents*, a muffled groan escaped the coat. Even the fingers vanished obediently. Back to ambiguous “serene passing.”
“What a faker…”
“What’s this about?” The Crown Prince set down his cup and stepped closer to Kale’s stack of files.
“The casualty list from the Far North Campaign.” Kale handed it over. “Glorious on the surface—but Your Highness knows the cost.”
The Crown Prince scanned the densely printed names. Familiar ones jumped out—vibrant lives now just engravings on stone.
“I couldn’t join Arman in the north, but this list screams the battle’s brutality. That’s why I oppose turning the Pross Celebration into a royal sideshow for the Knights Order.”
“..."
He stroked his chin, then eyed the thick dossier beside it—personnel records, welfare plans, family compensations. Fresh ink smudges on the desk whispered: *all-night effort*.
With the Pross Celebration nearing, the Knights Order was swamped. Arman and Kale had to soothe grieving families, please the royals, and silence noble gossip. After pulling an all-nighter, an early meeting *and* treating the celebration like a publicity stunt? These fiercely protective leaders nearly snapped. Had it not been the royal chamber—and the instigator not the Second Prince—one (or both) would’ve hurled a glove and shouted, “Talk less. Duel more.”
“I’m not canceling it. Just making it grander. As my brother Erik said—triumphant Arman is the perfect centerpiece.”
“I get it. We’re just political tools for Your Highness—”
“I don’t get it.”
Arman sat bolt upright.
“Hm?” Kale blinked. Arman’s head was still draped in his white uniform. Each breath shaped a ghostly face on the fabric—monochrome specter vibes.
“What’s unclear? You and I—”
“I don’t get why *she’s* mad at me.”
“...?”
“?”
Instantly, debate mode vanished. All eyes locked on the uniform-clad Arman.
“I didn’t do anything wrong. Why’s she angry?”
“Where’ve you been? Turned from clueless mutt to full simp overnight?” Kale quipped.
“Hah?” Arman swiveled the fabric-draped “face” toward him, swaying slightly. Medals clinked noisily.
“Tell us the story. We can’t guess,” the Crown Prince said, intrigued. He settled back on the opposite sofa.
“Ah—well, I *probably* didn’t do anything wrong…” Arman started, then clammed up.
Just as he never mentioned the Crown Prince to Evelia, he wouldn’t name Evelia to the Crown Prince. No leaking royal secrets. No admitting the Second Prince’s spy walked beside him.
*If only Evelia weren’t a spy…*
Bitterness flickered behind the fabric.
If she were truly on his side—or just an ordinary girl—none of this would be so tangled.
Kale saw him as love-struck. But Arman stayed guarded. He engaged, never opened up. Wanted to understand her… feared she’d unravel *him* first. State affairs couldn’t drown in emotion.
*—Wait. Does this make me the jerk?*
“Don’t wanna explain? Fine.” Kale tugged the uniform off Arman’s head. “Stop overthinking. Just apologize.”
“?” Arman caught the tossed coat, staring at the deputy whose daughter was already three. “Apologize for *what*? You’re the bigger simp!”
“She’s a woman. You’ll never know what you did wrong in her eyes,” the Crown Prince added solemnly. Childless but happily married, he nodded in full agreement.
Three men. Same age. Only Arman: lifelong bachelor, still a virgin. The other two? Seasoned veterans of matrimony.
“Huh? But I didn’t—”
*Thwack.*
Kale’s palm landed hard on his left shoulder, grip firm, expression grave.
“No resistance, Arman. Apologize.”
“Wait, I—”
*Thwack.*
The Crown Prince’s hand clamped his right shoulder—less stern, equally serious.
“Delay makes it worse. A real man bends to mend. Go.”
“You two are *insane*?!”
“No.”
Seconds ago, rivals. Now, united front. In perfect sync:
“—This is hard-earned wisdom from experienced men.”
“You’re both *so* annoying…!”
