“For your own good, you should leave Camlann. Make sure to never enter His Majesty’s eyes ever again,” Aroche said.

Subtle. Subtle like a guillotine wrapped in velvet. With his head bowed, Alicei frowned—not that anyone could see it. So, some ‘accidental’ glances, and now he had to exile himself from any room that might contain Apex Two? A bit dramatic, wasn’t it?

Still, now wasn’t the time to argue semantics. Speaking out would only paint a bigger target on his back.

“Leave,” Aroche said again. “His Majesty and I have something to discuss.”

Count Rosberg bowed immediately, his face pale enough to blend into the marble floor. Ever since this so-called “Lord Leodegrance” appeared at dawn, the Count had been acting... off. Like he was watching a dead man walk around refusing to be dead.

And it wasn’t just him. A few other poor souls who recognized the name or the face—or maybe just the aura of doom—were responding with the kind of reverence usually reserved for divine apparitions or catastrophic omens.

Alicei wasn’t sure what he was looking at, but whatever Aroche Leodegrance was, he clearly occupied a disturbingly high rung on the invisible hierarchy ladder. Not just respected. Revered. And not the kind of reverence that earned applause—but the kind that came with haunted silence and people slowly backing away.

It wasn’t fear for their lives—not like the terror Apex Two inspired with a single sideways glance. No, this was something else entirely. This was the kind of horror you felt when you realized the monster under your bed might actually be real—and sitting down for tea in your living room.

So, who was this Aroche?

Alicei didn’t have a clue. Not a single record. Not even a whisper in the shadows about him being in the inner circle. For someone who prided himself on knowing everything about the power web around Apex Two, that was… unsettling.

Unsettling enough that Alicei briefly considered burning all his records and starting over. If this man was real—and clearly he was—then Alicei had somehow missed a walking nightmare dressed in nobility.

And that was deeply, professionally offensive.

So, he asked his uncle.

“Uncle, who actually is this Lord Leodegrance…?”

Count Rosberg turned to him, stunned—like Alicei had just sprouted gills and announced he was from another galaxy. Was it really that shocking he didn’t know who this Leodegrance specter was?

“How old were you five years ago, Alexei?” Rosberg asked.

“Uh… twelve?” Alicei—currently going by the name Alexei—replied.

He’d adopted the identity of the Count’s country bumpkin nephew for convenience. After a few days of light research, a quiet disappearance, and the sudden death of the original Alexei (may he rest wherever bodies go), the role was his.

Physically, the match was decent. The real Alexei had darker blond hair, dark eyes, a shorter frame, and a decidedly less dignified presence. Not exactly a mirror image, but close enough that no one squinted too hard.

Besides, who would question it? The original Alexei had been living in solitude on some backwater estate with five loyal servants and a lot of sheep. Rosberg hadn’t seen him in years—so what if the new version showed up taller, more refined, more symmetrical, and with rose-gold eyes that practically screamed, I’m not from around here?

Apparently, no one blinked. The five servants? ‘Tragically’ died of ‘food poisoning’ just weeks prior. A conveniently dramatic excuse to seek help from dear Uncle Rosberg.

The Count bought the story with all the caution of a man desperate to do one good deed before dying. He even seemed touched by his long-lost nephew’s sudden arrival, complete with a traumatic tale of household tragedy.

But who would’ve guessed that the second His Majesty so much as glanced at him, Alicei was flung across the palace like an inconvenient paperweight and nearly killed?

Honestly, the fact he’d woken up this morning in one piece, walking, breathing, and still mildly hopeful for a royal apology felt like some kind of divine joke.

One with a very twisted punchline.

“You were twelve… hm. And living in that place, did your parents ever bother telling you anything about the outside world?” Rosberg asked.

Alicei, ever the devoted method actor, gave a perfectly rehearsed shake of his head.

Rosberg sighed, a deep, disappointed exhale aimed at his long-dead relatives. Naturally, it was their fault. That distant cousin of his—some forgotten branch of the same noble tree—had apparently failed spectacularly to educate their child about the existence of, well, everything.

Of course, Alicei was now fairly confident that the real Alexei did know who Leodegrance was. But alas, he wasn’t Alexei. He was a visitor from deep space wearing a teenage meat suit. So who else could he blame for the ignorance except his own impressively crafted cover story?

“You can’t not know about the Leodegrance family, right?” Rosberg pressed again, clearly trying to give this presumed idiot a second chance.

Alicei’s mental gears ground furiously. Why on earth would he have needed to memorize a family with no active ties to Apex Two? But wait—he did recall the surname of one Round Table member.

Landevale Leodegrance. Right. The ex-fiancée of His Majesty. Lovely.

“Yes, I know, uncle,” he said, smoothly delivering his line.

For the first time, Rosberg’s gaze sharpened into something unsettling: suspicion. Suspicion, aimed at him. Alicei was actually a little offended. So this was how it felt to be under-informed. He hated it.

Clearly, this was a failure on his part. A lack of preparation. Unforgivable.

“Since you don’t know, don’t cause any more trouble,” Rosberg declared, the benevolent dictator of worried uncles everywhere. “You’ve already had your share. Stay in your quarters for today—at least until the higher-ups are gone.”

So, maybe he wasn’t suspicious of Alicei’s identity yet.

But he was clearly terrified the boy might stumble blindly into death a second time. Understandable, really. Alicei was that talented.

Back in the silence of his quarters, Alicei scanned his internal brain chip, digging through the Alliance’s database for any scrap on the Soulnaught Empire’s elusive Leodegrance family.

And there it was—the answer to the creeping wrongness gnawing at his instincts.

For three years, the Alliance had parked themselves comfortably above Nethermere’s sky, and yet the name Leodegrance had always been... conspicuously absent. Whispered about in the kind of hush that suggested not just scandal, but outright heresy. Breathing the name was a crime just shy of staging a coup. Possibly worse.

Even Landevale—who earned her place as a top-tier Round Table knight through sheer competence and death-defying badassery—had her surname swept under the rug like a wine stain on royal carpet. The empire made sure people remembered her blade, not her bloodline.

Why? Because Leodegrance wasn’t just a family—it was the traitor family.

The Emperor’s half-brother, Clarent Pendragon was the family’s prize exhibit. Born of the late Queen, a Leodegrance herself, Clarent came pre-packaged with pedigree, charm, and ambition. And as it turned out, the full support of his mother’s entire house when he decided to try and snatch the throne.

It didn’t end well.

The rebellion flared up like a rash and was put down with surgical brutality. The Emperor didn’t just crush it—he killed Clarent personally. With his own two regal hands.

And that was only two years before the Alliance came waltzing in. Two years—just enough time for everyone to stop talking about it, but not nearly long enough for anyone to feel safe talking about it.

Even the informants who could be bought with half a coin and a meat pie wouldn’t touch the Leodegrance name. It was that cursed.

So now, the million-coin question: where in all ten hells did Aroche Leodegrance come from?

Alicei’s search coughed up exactly one match. One.

Duke Aroche Leodegrance: dead in the rebellion, loyalist to Caliburn Pendragon, perished valiantly on the battlefield against Clarent Pendragon’s forces.

Which raised an entirely new question.

If he was supposed to be dead, then who exactly was the man alive and terrifying everyone today?

Ah, of course. That would explain the collective pants-wetting.

Because Aroche Leodegrance wasn’t just a noble with a scandalous last name. No, no—he was dead. Officially. Certifiably. Buried-in-the-history-books dead.

He had perished during the great family implosion that was Clarent Pendragon’s rebellion. A loyalist duke, falling with his house split in two, nameless among many on the blood-soaked battlefield. The end.

Except now he was walking through the palace like death had taken one look at him and decided, “You know what? Never mind.”

And that was the horror in their eyes.

But what was Aroche Leodegrance to Caliburn Pendragon? What exactly did this man mean to Apex Two?

Because he didn’t exactly walk in like a forgotten cousin returning from a fishing trip. No—this was someone the palace staff practically bent backward to accommodate. And Count Rosberg, a man who managed the Emperor’s teenage palace, hadn’t so much as questioned him—even though Aroche was supposed to have been dead for five years.

Which raised the real question: Who the hell was he?

A man resurrected? A man who’d faked his death and conveniently stayed in hiding for half a decade? Or was this some high-stakes, top-tier identity theft?

All valid theories. Alicei shelved them for now—there were juicier questions to pursue.

Like: why had the Emperor shown up unannounced? No royal procession, no warning, no guards in glittering formation. Just himself, his dazzling Empress, and apparently, a craving for a cozy dinner date in the countryside.

And now, this morning, they were indulging in a charming musical interlude in the instrument room.

Right.

So: Apex Two and his wife, sneaking off for what looked like a honeymoon moment, and a presumed-dead nobleman from a disgraced house showing up before dawn to find them?

Interesting. Very interesting.