CHAPTER 65: NEW BUTLER

Meanwhile, Fenric strode through the corridors of the manor, his face set in stone but his thoughts a storm. The revelation gnawed at him.

The Shadow Blades... Fourth Prince’s dogs.

His hand brushed his sleeve, where faint traces of his own blood still lingered. Aria’s faint breathing from the adjacent chamber gave him a moment’s grounding. He glanced toward her door, watching the soft spill of candlelight.

They wanted me dead... and they fed Laxin a lie to make him their weapon. Fourth Prince... how far are you willing to go?

Fenric’s expression darkened, a cruel smile tugging at the edges of his lips.

"Very well. Play all the games you want. In the end, I will be the one who wins," he muttered as he returned to his office. Sitting at his desk, he dipped his quill in ink and began writing a letter bound for the capital.

Not long after, the door creaked open.

"Your Highness, you are alright? I rushed here the moment I heard you were attacked," Lareth said, his face pale, voice shaken.

Fenric waved a hand dismissively. "Save your loyalty speeches, Kareth. You and I both know you need my head more than my well-being."

Kareth exhaled, lighting a cigar with trembling fingers. Smoke curled around him. "And yet... here I am. Perhaps I need both—your head and your survival."

He then gave a humorless chuckle. "Though I was away, it was no lie that I could not help you then. But now? I’ll see who dares to move against you." His gaze hardened as if he is genuinely concerned.

"don’t worry about me, a Envoy is coming here to see after all" Fenric said smiling.

Kareth narrowed his eyes. "What are you scheming? Why would an envoy from the capital come here..."

"Why else?," Fenric cut him off sharply. His smile returned, thin and dangerous. "Of course they will come to see me. After all—I was attacked."

He did not mention what the letter truly contained: a veiled accusation that would force the court’s eyes onto the Kareth as he didn’t help him, and perhaps... set in motion his downfall.

Far away in the capital—

Inside a dragon-carved chamber draped in velvet and smoke, a man lounged lazily on his bed. His hair spilled across the cushions, his eyes sharp despite the indolence of his posture. A maid entered silently, bowing deeply.

"Well?" the prince asked, his tone cold and cutting. "Did he die?"

The maid shook her head. "No, Your Highness. He survived."

Drake’s lips curled into a frown. "Wasn’t that Laxin a Grandmaster? Tell me, why does Fenric still draw breath?"

The maid’s gaze lowered, her voice cool, unwavering. She was no ordinary servant—her bloodline bore the steel edge of the Ragos family. "He indeed was an Grandmaster. The one who protected him was a girl—the maid named Aria. A slave. Dark-haired. The one Fenric acquired from the slave market."

The prince froze, then laughed low, bitterly. "A slave protected him? Hah. Then perhaps... that Slave is far more troublesome than I imagined."

His eyes gleamed, dangerous. "Very well. If that slave could shield him against an Grandmaster attack, which means she is at Grandmaster too..."

He leaned forward, shadows coiling across his face like serpents."...She must be dealt with before she grows any further," he muttered.

"That is also the will of the Matriarch," the masked servant replied coldly. "The maid has talent. If she joins our family, then it is good. If not... she dies."

Drake gave a slow nod, but as the figure bowed and left, his jaw tightened. Behind his calm expression, his thoughts burned.

Damn Ragos... now sending a maid to supervise over me!. You think you own me, you bitch?

A crooked smile twisted his lips, almost deranged in its edge. Once I break free from your control, the very first thing I’ll do is kill you all—or make you crawl like the slaves you forced me to act like.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself back against the headrest. Closing his eyes, he let the darkness within him swirl, pulling his mind into meditation.

***

Back in Lyria City, an unusual scene was unfolding.

Three days had passed since Laxin’s defeat at the prince’s hands. Now, dressed in a crisp butler’s uniform, the once-proud young master stood silently at the side of the dining hall, hands folded neatly behind his back. His expression was calm, but the faint twitch at the corner of his jaw betrayed the storm raging within.

At the head of the table, Prince Fenric dined in his usual unhurried manner, eating almost clumsily—yet with the confidence of someone who no longer had to care about appearances. Each bite was taken with deliberate ease, while his "butler" looked on, forced to witness the indignity of his new role.

The rumors had already spread like wildfire through the estate: the duel had ended not in Laxin’s death, but in something far crueler. Declared beaten, the arrogant heir had been stripped of his status and bound to serve the very man who humiliated him.

The palace servants whispered ceaselessly:

"Better to be executed than live like that."

"Can you imagine? The Laxin, pouring wine and opening doors..."

"They say the prince kept him alive out of spite—made him a slave as a living warning."

Every glance toward Laxin carried disbelief, pity, or barely concealed delight at his downfall. Yet behind his mask of obedience, his eyes simmered with barely restrained hatred—especially whenever they fell upon Fenric.

Later that evening, within the privacy of his chamber, Fenric sat in a high-backed chair, his silver hair catching the candlelight. Across from him knelt Laxin, his posture rigid, fists clenched at his sides as though the act of bowing itself carved into his pride.

Fenric’s gaze sharpened.

"Tell me, Laxin... what are your true abilities?"

Laxin’s lips pressed into a thin line. His silence lingered, his eyes like burning coals, daring to resist.

Fenric leaned forward, voice calm but carrying an iron edge.

"I am not asking. I am ordering you."

At once, the slave mark etched into Laxin’s chest flared to life, searing him with chains of crimson light. He choked, the taste of blood flooding his mouth, his body convulsing as if invisible shackles pulled his very soul apart. His pride screamed at him to hold his tongue—but the mark showed no mercy.

Through clenched teeth, blood trickling from his lips, the words were torn from him.

"...I... was granted the Death Supreme Class... awakened in me at sixteen. It is... rare, feared... tied to the dominion of death itself."

His body shuddered as the slave mark pulsed hotter, dragging more truths from his soul. His nails dug into the floorboards as he croaked out the rest.

"...It grants me command over corpses... I can twist the dead into walking soldiers... and drain vitality like one siphons air. My body resists decay, and wounds heal by leeching the life of others."

Blood tears welled at the corners of his eyes, his pride in tatters.

"...But... I have not yet mastered it. I only know how to shape raw death qi... I cannot yet wield it as effortlessly as one breathes mana..."

Fenric tilted his head, watching with the faintest smile.

"Death Supreme, hm? No wonder your arrogance carried such weight."

The mark dimmed at last, releasing him. Laxin collapsed forward, coughing raggedly, the floorboards slick with spit and blood. His body trembled, not from weakness, but from the humiliation of being forced to bare his greatest secret.

Fenric’s tone remained steady, almost casual, as if he had simply been appraising a new weapon.

"From now on, every ounce of death within you belongs to me. You’ll refine this gift—not for yourself, but under my command. Consider it repayment for your arrogance."

Fenric leaned back in his chair, his silvery-white hair catching the faint glow of the lanterns. His eyes narrowed with a glint of mischief.

"As for your class," he said slowly, voice smooth as a blade sliding into its sheath, "I have many ideas you can work on."

Then his tone shifted, quieter, as though dangling bait.

"And perhaps one day... you can kill the true killers of your family."

Laxin’s bloodied face jerked up, his eyes widening.

"What do you mean...?" he rasped, voice rough but filled with sudden intensity.

Fenric’s lips curved into a knowing smile, one that offered no comfort.

"Grow stronger, and I will point you toward the real culprits. Not the names whispered in taverns. Not the false faces you’ve been fed. The true ones... the ones who actually put your parents in the grave."

Laxin’s breath hitched, rage flaring in his chest as his gaze locked onto Fenric, searching for even a shred of deceit.

Fenric, behind that placid expression, allowed his thoughts to flicker briefly. A perfect chain. Bind him with vengeance—let hatred be the leash he cannot chew through.

The chamber grew heavier with silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the lantern flame.