Chapter : 393

In that single, quiet statement, Rosa had done more than just refuse his request. She had, for the first time, peeled back a tiny corner of the icy fortress she had built around herself and shown him a glimpse of the real, human woman trapped within. A daughter, journeying to the bedside of her dying mother.

Lloyd could only stare, his own political calculations, his tests, his games, suddenly feeling petty, insignificant, in the face of her quiet, private grief. He had asked for a political partner. And she had, in her own, quiet way, answered him as a person.

The weight of her reason was a profound, humbling thing. It was not a rejection of him. It was a duty to her. And in that moment, the chasm between them, while still vast, felt, for the first time, not entirely empty. It was filled, now, with the ghost of a shared, unspoken, and deeply human, sorrow.

The morning of his departure dawned grey and cool, the sky a muted wash of pearlescent light. The Ferrum Estate was already stirring, the quiet hum of a great house preparing for the day. But for Lloyd, the usual morning routine felt different, imbued with a new sense of weight and purpose. He was not just heading to another tedious lecture with Master Elmsworth; he was embarking on a journey to the very heart of the kingdom, summoned by the King himself.

He dressed with meticulous care, not in the practical, hard-wearing clothes of the factory, but in the formal, understated attire befitting the heir of an Arch Duchy on a diplomatic mission. A tunic of the finest, deep blue Ferrum wool, its high collar subtly embroidered with the silver thread of their house sigil. Trousers of a dark, almost black, material, tucked into polished, knee-high riding boots. Over it all, a heavy traveling cloak, its dark fabric lined with sable, a necessary defense against the chill of the road and a quiet statement of his rank. He looked in the mirror and saw not the awkward, fumbling boy of his past life, but a young man of quiet, contained authority, his handsome features sharpened by a new, almost unnerving, intensity in his dark eyes.

He left the suite without seeing Rosa. She had already departed, he had been informed by a quiet, deferential servant, having left with a small, discreet retinue just after dawn, her own journey south to her family’s estate beginning. The room felt strangely empty without her silent, icy presence, the air lacking its usual, almost palpable, tension. He found himself looking at the empty velvet armchair, a strange, almost melancholy, pang in his chest. Her reason for not accompanying him, the simple, painful truth of her mother’s illness, echoed in the quiet space. It was a vulnerability she had shared, however reluctantly, and it had fundamentally altered the landscape between them.

A magnificent carriage, far grander than the practical vehicle he used for city errands, awaited him in the main courtyard. It was a ducal carriage, its lacquered black panels polished to a mirror shine, the roaring lion of House Ferrum emblazoned on its doors in gleaming silver. A team of four powerful, perfectly matched black horses stood harnessed and ready, their breath pluming in the cool morning air. A retinue of ten Ducal Guards, hand-picked by his father for their skill and unwavering loyalty, sat astride their own mounts, their armor gleaming, their expressions grim and professional. It was a procession designed to project strength, dignity, and the unmistakable authority of the Arch Duchy.

Ken Park stood by the carriage door, a silent, imposing pillar of competence. He was not in his butler’s livery today, but in the stark, functional dark leathers of a traveling warrior, a longsword strapped to his back. But Lloyd knew that beneath that practical exterior, Ken’s other, more shadowy, self was ever-present, his true role that of a guardian, not just a guard.

As Lloyd approached, his father, Arch Duke Roy Ferrum, stepped out from the main doors to see him off. It was a rare, significant gesture.

“Lloyd,” Roy began, his voice the usual gruff rumble, but his eyes held a new, complex mixture of emotions. Pride, yes. But also caution. And a father’s undeniable, if unspoken, concern. “Remember who you are. Remember who you represent.”

“I will, Father,” Lloyd replied, his own voice steady.

Chapter : 394

“The King is a shrewd man,” Roy continued, his voice dropping slightly. “He is not our enemy, but he is not entirely our friend. He is a king, and a king’s only true loyalty is to his own crown, his own power. He will test you. He will probe for weakness. He will assess your strength. Do not be intimidated. But do not be arrogant. Speak plainly. Think strategically. And,” he paused, his gaze intense, “trust your instincts. They have served you well thus far.”

It was the closest his father had ever come to admitting that Lloyd’s recent, bizarre successes were not just luck, but the result of a genuine, if still baffling, new competence.

“I will be careful, Father,” Lloyd said, a quiet promise.

Roy nodded once, a sharp, decisive gesture. He clapped a heavy hand on Lloyd’s shoulder, a rare, grounding touch of paternal affection. “Go, then. And bring honor to our house.”

With a final nod to his father, Lloyd climbed into the luxuriously appointed carriage. The door closed with a solid, satisfying thud, sealing him within a small world of polished wood, soft leather, and quiet contemplation. With a sharp command from the captain of the guard and a jingle of harnesses, the carriage lurched forward, its wheels beginning their long, rhythmic journey over the cobblestones, away from the estate, away from the city, and towards the unknown purpose of a king.

The journey to the royal capital of Bethelham was a three-day affair, a long, winding path through the heart of the Ferrum Duchy’s lands. The carriage, its suspension a masterpiece of dwarven engineering, moved with a smooth, steady rhythm, the world outside a passing tapestry of rolling green hills, dense, ancient forests, and small, bustling villages where people stopped to stare and bow as the ducal crest passed by.

Lloyd spent the hours not in idle contemplation, but in a state of deep, focused thought. The carriage became his mobile war room, his mind the battlefield. He leaned back against the plush leather cushions, the rhythmic clatter of the horses’ hooves a steady percussion, and he reflected.

He thought of the world he now inhabited, a place so different, so fundamentally alien, from the one he had known for eighty years. Earth had been a world of hard, cold, beautiful logic. A world governed by the immutable laws of physics, of mathematics, of chemistry. A world where power was derived from knowledge, from technology, from the ability to manipulate the very building blocks of the material universe.

Riverio… Riverio was a world of will. A world where the laws of physics were not immutable, but suggestions, capable of being bent, rewritten, by the sheer, focused force of a powerful mind. Void Power, Spirit Power… they were not just magic; they were a different kind of science, a science of metaphysics, of soul-deep energy, of a reality that was fluid, malleable, responsive to intent.

He had been trying to apply the logic of Earth to the realities of Riverio. His soap, his factory, his marketing—they were all products of Earth-based thinking, of a rational, systematic approach to problem-solving. And they had been successful, wildly so, precisely because that kind of thinking was so alien, so revolutionary, here.

But the true powers of this world, the powers that governed the fates of kingdoms, the powers wielded by men like his father, by women like Rosa, by the King himself… they were not born of logic. They were born of will. Of bloodline. Of a connection to the ancient, untamed energies of the world itself.

He knew, with a certainty that was both humbling and exhilarating, that he could not rely on his Earthly knowledge alone. He had to master the rules of this new, strange game. He had to understand its magic not as an engineer analyzing a system, but as a native learning to speak its language. The fusion of his two selves, of his two lifetimes, had to be complete. The engineer and the mage had to become one.

And then, his thoughts turned to the man he was journeying to meet. King Liam Bethelham. The man he had met as the eccentric, charming, almost buffoonish ‘Lord James’. But the memory of that last encounter in the Grand Hall, of the diamond lion sigil, of the quiet, absolute authority that had radiated from him as he had dismantled Rubel’s life… that was the true King.