Rough, gravelly voices echoed briefly through the warm cabin.

“Aye, that old coot must’ve been drinking again. Go on ahead without him.”

“Hmm… I hope there’s enough space for everyone.”

The elder guests arrived one after another, each voice steeped in respectful age, but before anyone could fully respond 

A presence entered.

Like an avalanche breaching the threshold, a massive man stepped through the cabin door.

His long, light lavender hair had faded with time, and his shoulders were as broad as the stone bulwarks of Northwall. His very being filled the room. The pressure he exuded was immense, not violent, but vast, like a mountain made flesh.

And yet … 

“…Count?” someone murmured.

“Hmm?”

The resemblance was unmistakable.He looked nearly identical to the Count Balzac, who sat at the table mid-meal.

“Father? What brings you here?”

It was none other than the previous Count of House Dvorjak, Balzac’s father. Once hailed as the Empire’s strongest Warden of the Frontier. A man who had earned renown under the name of Lucar Dvorjak.

“You’ve grown stronger, my son.”

“I’ve focused on training as best I could, but… Father, you, have you grown stronger still?”

“Laying down my duties gave me more time to wield the sword.”

The son’s face twisted with a complicated emotion, something close to sorrow. The kind of sorrow that only came from chasing a figure one could never catch.

Whether the father understood or chose to ignore it, he simply laughed heartily and pushed his way through the gathered crowd toward the fire where the prince sat.

“Thoom!”

He dropped to one knee with seismic weight. Even kneeling, he stood nearly eye-level with the seated prince.

But Aziel’s gaze remained calm and unmoved.

“Lucar Dvorjak greets His Highness, Prince Aziel!” he declared.

His eyes held a brilliant clarity, cold and unyielding, like the eternal snows of the northern range. If Aziel burned like fire, Lucar stood like a mountain. Heavily rooted, immovable, frigid.

Everyone waited, breathless, for the prince’s reply.

And then … 

“Couldn’t find a place to die, so you came back, ghost blade?”

He greeted the man with an insult.

The room drew a sharp breath.

But Lucar, unbothered, merely nodded.

“Indeed. I’ve come back because I find it unsatisfying to die like this. I heard Your Highness is preparing a rather entertaining battle.”

Not denial, but affirmation. The words made little sense to the onlookers, but they were exchanged with perfect understanding.

Balzac’s face tightened with concern, watching his father’s proud bearing bend into something pleading.

“Your Highness… grant me a place among your ranks. I’ve sought danger my whole life.”

“Father … !”

“Be silent, Count,” Lucar said, raising a single hand. Balzac fell silent immediately.

He locked eyes with Aziel for a long moment, waiting.

The prince tilted his head.

“You’re still lacking.”

“In what way?”

“You’ve reached the ghost, but not the mystic. Your sword… still hasn’t touched it.”

Lucar’s eyes widened, furious tension flashing in his face.

Aziel had expected Lucar would appear eventually, but not this soon.

Lucar Dvorjak, father of Balzac, the previous Lord of the Frontier, and one of the Empire’s five Grand Swordmasters. In his youth, he had earned the title “Sword Mountain” for the crushing weight of his blade. In old age, he became known as “Sword Ghost,” a whisper of death that haunted the northern range.

He had spent his life seeking the outer limits of swordsmanship, hoping to push past skill into mystic, into the divine.

Whatever rumors he’d heard must have drawn him here.

“I’m not the god of war you’ve been waiting for. Nor your executioner,” Aziel said, his voice flat.

Lucar’s face faltered with disappointment.

Aziel remembered the reports. During the era when he’d posed as a false emperor, he had read classified documents about the man.

“Lucar Dvorjak, the Ghost Blade of the North, has been observed suffering inexplicable fits of madness. His obsession with swordsmanship has become self-destructive. He seeks duels and brushes with death constantly.”

“His reckless solo assault on the Eskimo igloos was one of the key triggers of the enemy’s advance past Northwall. Refusing to bring even a single knight, he fought alone and was presumed to have died in battle.”

The old knight, possessed by his own madness, had hurled himself toward the most dangerous enemy in the north in a futile bid to overcome his own limits.

Whether or not he had succeeded, whether he had touched a new realm of understanding, was unknown. The reports ended there.

But one line stood out:

“Had Lucar survived and remained at the Wall, the Eskimo advance could have been delayed by years. His mere presence might have afforded time for evacuation and preparation.”

This was a man whose continued existence might have changed the course of history.

And now, here he was, kneeling before Aziel, begging to fight once more.

“You’re hunting the Eskimos, are you not?” Lucar asked.

“I am.”

“Then I can help. I am Lucar Dvorjak.”

Aziel gave him nothing.

“Why would I need your help for something I can already do?”

“Your Highness…”

“I said I needed companions to walk beside me. I never asked for a madman who drags death around like a lover.”

Lucar, once one of the five greatest knights in the Empire, was deemed unnecessary.

Everyone exchanged glances. The weight of Aziel’s words settled like frost on the skin.

Still seated, the prince regarded the kneeling knight with a look of tired indifference. And then … 

He smiled.

Not warmly. Not kindly. But with deliberate cruelty.

He shifted his gaze, as though peering beyond Lucar’s massive shoulders, toward something far away and beautiful.

“A pity, really. Lord Lucar. You’ll just have to watch from afar. I’ll make sure the flames I unleash are dazzling enough. Brighter than anything you’ve ever seen in the north.”

There was madness in the way Aziel’s words twisted. 

In the way his eyes glittered.

In the graceful flick of his hand, as if painting war in the air.

Lucar’s own eyes dimmed with longing.

He could see it. Not just a battle, but carnage. The dream of every warrior: a field where death reigned supreme.

He exhaled sharply, intoxicated by the image.

And then Aziel snapped the illusion.

He dropped the smile. Cut off his movements. Cold silence fell.

Lucar flinched, jaw clenching in frustration. But he said nothing.

The prince rose.

“Let’s go. My limbs are warm. The signal has been fired, it’s time to set the trap.”

Without looking back, he walked away.

Andre and Sol scrambled to follow, half-rising.

Alfred was already at his side, draping his coat over his shoulders.

The others looked between Lucar and Aziel, their faces saying, Is this really happening? Are we leaving him?

“Count,” Aziel called, “Northwall is your territory. Are you going to keep staring at your father’s back forever?”

It hit like a spear to the chest.

Balzac stood slowly. And followed.

The cabin door slammed open. Wind howled inside.

And yet, Aziel walked on without pause.

One step. Two. Three.

“Uaaaagh!”

From behind came Lucar’s roar.

But the prince did not stop.

“Your Highness! I, Lucar Dvorjak, former Warden of the North, Knight of the Empire, swear upon the mana in my belly and the chivalry in my heart!”

The elders tried to restrain him, grabbing at his sleeves, but they couldn’t stop the force of his will.

Lucar burst out into the snow and dropped to his knees once more.

“Please, use me! Let me be your blade! I offer this life without complaint! Make me the vanguard of your battlefield, where death runs rampant! I beg to join the war you will ignite!”

His voice cracked.

Only then did Aziel stop.

A smile slowly, deliciously, curved across his lips.

He had caught a big one.

A real beast.

But he composed himself, arranged his face into an expression of reluctant acceptance, and turned slowly. Painfully slowly.

He looked down at the giant knight with haughty eyes.

“If you desire it that badly… fine. Come along.”

Lucar lit up, bowing his head in hurried reverence, eyes wild with joy.

Behind him, the rest of the party stared in disbelief.

Aziel struggled to keep a straight face. His nostrils flared with restrained laughter.

Thank the gods for the blizzard, it hid his smirk behind his wind-whipped silver hair.

Madness must always be drowned out by a greater madness.

Father and son had chosen to follow a mad prince.

Now the real suffering would begin.