“Lord Kuro, I heard the Knights’ Sanctum will soon be recruiting new apprentices. Is that true?”

  After a stretch of idle conversation, Lord Charnis abruptly shifted the topic.

  At the question, Lord Kuro stroked his beard with a faint smile. “It’s absolutely true. A close friend of mine serves as an executive knight there—he told me so himself.”

  “That’s wonderful news!” Charnis’s eyes brightened, though hesitation flickered across his face. “In truth, I wish to recommend my son, Lawell. You know as well as I do—he’s always had the makings of a fine knight, but lacks the right connections to enter the Sanctum. As my long-time friend, you’ll help me with this small favor, won’t you?”

  Kuro’s expression turned knowingly indulgent.

  In the Kingdom of Zehn, titles were not hereditary. Charnis’s line had reached its end—his children would no longer inherit noble status.

  If they wished to retain the privileges of the upper class, they needed new titles of their own.

  And the simplest, most suitable path was to earn knighthood within the Sanctum.

  “Of course, my friend,” said Kuro warmly. “I’ve seen Lawell’s character for myself. The boy was born to wear armor. I’ll use my connections to secure him a place among the Sanctum’s ranks.”

  Kuro was more than willing to help—after all, one never knew when the favor might be returned.

  “I truly cannot thank you enough,” Charnis said, bowing with courtly grace, the gesture full of gratitude.

  “It’s merely what one friend should do for another,” Kuro replied with a genial smile, twirling his beard.

  At that moment, a maid in a black-and-white uniform entered, curtsied, and announced softly, “My lord, Sir Barber has returned.”

  Charnis’s smile vanished, his tone turning cold. “Has he brought back that commoner?”

  “Yes, my lord. A plainly dressed young man follows behind them.”

  “Then that must be him…” Charnis nodded, expression hardening with certainty.

  Kuro, who had been listening without context, interjected curiously, “What’s all this about?”

  Without preamble, Charnis briefly recounted what had happened between Lawell and the youth near the academy.

  Kuro’s face darkened with indignation. Whether his outrage was genuine or performative was hard to tell.

  “Outrageous! I’ve never heard of such insolence! A baseborn peasant daring to strike a noble—he should be executed in the streets! Only that would uphold our honor!”

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  The two nobles rose in a fury and strode toward the courtyard.

  …

  As Glen approached the Charnis estate, he couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer opulence before him.

  The ruling class of this fantastical world truly lived differently—their homes were magnificent, their architecture rivaling the finest of his previous life.

  Upon entering the estate, he was greeted by a neatly trimmed garden maze, with a beautifully carved fountain standing proudly at its heart.

  Maids tended to the grounds like silent gardeners, pausing only to curtsy whenever Sir Barber passed in his polished armor.

  A wave of nostalgia stirred within Glen—he could feel the echo of the body’s original memories.

  “There! That’s him, Mother! That’s the one!”

  A sharp, shrill voice shattered his thoughts.

  Looking up, Glen saw Lawell striding forward beside a noblewoman whose expression was as cold as her jewels.

  “Madam,” Barber began respectfully, as he and the guards saluted in unison.

  Lady Sophia barely acknowledged them with a nod. Lifting her chin imperiously, she fixed Glen with disdain. “So you’re the one who dared to strike my precious son?”

  Instead of answering her directly, Glen looked at Lawell with quiet amusement. “Seems I went too easy on you after all.”

  “How dare you speak that way in front of me!” Lady Sophia screeched, her composure shattering like glass.

  At once, the guards raised their swords—some even drew flintlock pistols.

  The maids, wide-eyed, retreated behind the hedge walls, whispering among themselves.

  “That’s the commoner who hit young master Lawell? How reckless!”

  “He’s doomed. The lord will have him executed. Such a pity—he’s so young.”

  “Hush! If the lady hears you, you’ll be punished!”

  Only Glen caught every word.

  “You filthy peasant! You’ll hang for this!” Lawell sneered, laughing cruelly as the blades glinted around Glen.

  But the young man showed no sign of fear. Calmly, he brushed aside a sword tip that nearly grazed his nose and said evenly, “No need to rush, gentlemen. The show’s not started yet—your masters haven’t arrived.”

  Moments later, two figures appeared—Lords Charnis and Kuro themselves.

  “Let me see who had the gall to strike my son!” Charnis’s voice thundered before he even entered view.

  As the two nobles approached, everyone bowed or saluted in turn.

  Charnis waved impatiently, his cold gaze pinning Glen in place. His tone dropped to a dangerous murmur. “So it was you. Tell me, boy—who gave you the courage to lay a hand on my son?”

  Glen gave a short laugh, his disdain barely veiled. “That day, I was in a foul mood. Your son just happened to look like a good outlet. So I hit him. Is that a problem?”

  A stunned silence followed. Eyes widened. Even the maids gasped, hands flying to their mouths.

  Is he insane? Lord Kuro nearly tugged out his beard in disbelief.

  “Good. Very good,” Charnis snarled, his face contorting with rage, flushed scarlet.

  Beside him, Lawell and Sophia trembled with fury, their eyes blazing with murderous hate.

  Had such words come from a fellow noble, they might have borne it.

  But from a commoner—a man so far beneath them it was an insult to even acknowledge him—such insolence was unforgivable.

  Driven beyond reason, Lady Sophia suddenly snatched a knight’s sword from a nearby guard and swung it furiously at Glen’s face.

  Charnis, still consumed by rage, failed to stop her in time.

  Yet such a clumsy attack was laughable. Glen merely raised a hand and caught the blade mid-swing. The steel edge did not even pierce his skin.

  Sophia pulled and twisted in vain—the sword was frozen in his grip, as though the world itself had stopped around it.

  “Barber! Pull her back!” Charnis barked, his voice finally regaining control.

  But Barber didn’t move. His palms were slick with sweat.

  As a trained knight, he understood all too well what he was seeing.

  To grasp a sharpened blade with bare hands and remain unscathed—to control one’s muscles with such precision—meant only one thing: this “peasant” was no weaker than himself.

  “Milord,” Barber said quietly, voice trembling, “don’t move against him. This man… he’s dangerous.”

  Charnis’s mind went blank at the words.