Josephine von Konrow.
Julius sat alone, his fingers brushing the bone necklace resting against his chest. The material was cool, unnaturally so, as if it rejected the surrounding warmth. He had not taken it off—not even once—despite the urge to examine it more closely.
Earlier, when his trusted entourage had finished their inspection of the guest mansion, their reports had been… unsettling in a different way.
There were no abnormalities.
The lodgings were not only secure but tailored—precisely—to Solidarian customs. The placement of furniture allowed for ceremonial spacing. The sleeping chambers aligned with directional taboos. Even the dining arrangements respected Solidaria's preference for shared elevation rather than hierarchical seating.
That alone was alarming.
The one who guided them had introduced herself as Jane. A maid. Stoic, composed, efficient. She spoke little, but every instruction was clear, every gesture practiced. Hospitality without servility. Respect without groveling.
It made his men comfortable.
And Julius trusted these men. They were his most loyal aides—people who had followed him through assassination attempts, court intrigue, and exile-like postings. Their loyalty was not bought. It was earned.
So when they said this place was safe, Julius believed them.
Still, the necklace bothered him.
When he presented it to Hans—the mage accompanying the delegation—the man's reaction had been immediate and visceral.
Hans's eyes had dilated as if he had seen a ghost.
"T-this is…?!"
He had stopped himself, swallowing hard, hands trembling as he hovered just short of touching it.
Hans explained in hushed disbelief that the necklace was made from genuine Leviathan teeth—not imitation, not alchemical synthesis, but the real thing. High-grade. Perfectly preserved.
"And—and that's not all," Hans had continued, voice bordering on hysteria.
The necklace was imbued with multiple defensive enchantments, stacked layer upon layer. Eighth-tier magic at minimum. Some patterns were unfamiliar—possibly original constructs.
"Such an artifact—no, such a relic—should not exist," Hans had said. "Even our national treasure, the Saint's Cross, only holds a single eighth-tier healing spell. And to engrave circles this intricate on something so small…!"
Julius had tuned out the rest.
He understood enough.
This was not a gift meant for courtesy.
This was protection.
When Hans requested permission to study it, Julius refused immediately. He promised to allow examination only after the delegation concluded.
He was not foolish enough to misunderstand his situation.
From the moment he was born, Julius Ainsworth's life had been… constrained.
Born to a low-ranking concubine, he had been marked from the start. His existence alone was a provocation. His brothers made sure he understood that. Their cruelty was not subtle—psychological humiliation layered with physical violence, always just short of fatal.
Yet he endured.
Because his mother endured.
She had been kind. Gentle. Fiercely protective in the only ways available to her. She taught him dignity where none was afforded. Strength where none was expected.
Without her, Julius knew he would have broken.
Direct harm had been avoided only because she was the king's favorite concubine. Touching her son too openly would invite royal wrath. But favoritism was a fragile shield.
And now, it was cracking.
The king's health had been deteriorating for years. With it, his influence waned. The succession battle had moved from whispers to daggers.
Though Julius had been formally acknowledged as crown prince, he had no noble factions backing him. His support came from the common folk—an irony not lost on him. Popularity without power.
As the succession grew bloodier, so too did the attempts on his life.
This delegation mission had been a death sentence from the start.
To die in foreign lands was the perfect excuse. An accident. A misunderstanding. A failure of hospitality. Blame could be shifted outward, cleanly, efficiently.
And as crown prince, he could not refuse.
So he accepted.
He bid farewell to his mother, knowing full well it might be their last.
But she had not raised him to be weak.
From a young age, Julius trained relentlessly. Swordsmanship became his refuge, then his weapon. His talent revealed itself early—shockingly early.
One of the youngest sixth-tier swordsmen in the kingdom.
And not just that.
Julius had already been brushing against the threshold of the seventh tier—the realm of swordmasters. The level where technique stopped being taught and instead understood. Where intent alone could bend steel and fear followed the blade before it was drawn.
Even with that, the attempts on his life never stopped.
Assassins slipped into his chambers at least three times a month. Poison found its way into his food at least twice. Sometimes more. Enough that Julius had developed the habit of smelling everything before consuming it, even water.
He survived because he expected it.
More importantly, he survived because he chose the people around him carefully.
Julius possessed an instinct he could never properly explain. A sense—raw, almost animal—that told him whether someone was fundamentally good or rotten. It wasn't flawless, but it had saved his life more times than he could count.
That instinct sharpened weeks ago.
Because that was when he saw it.
A floating box.
Clear as day. Hanging in the air before him, ignoring logic, reason, and everything he knew about magic.
Inside it were words.
[You have been designated as the [Hero]!]
Julius had stared at it in silence until it vanished.
He had no idea what it was. A divine message? A curse? Hallucination brought on by exhaustion?
Soon after, the kingdoms openly announced their search for the Hero, Saint, and Prophet. It was no longer a rumor whispered in temples. It was state policy.
Julius went to the imperial library himself.
He learned that a Hero was a being fated to slay the Demon Lord. A pillar meant to protect humanity itself.
If the floating box was real—and if what it said was true—then his life had never truly been his own.
Still, he remained skeptical.
His mother had raised him to be humble. To distrust sudden destiny. To believe in effort over fate.
Unless reality itself forced his hand, Julius refused to treat himself as special.
That was simply who he was.
But now, there was a far more pressing question.
Why was Josephine von Konrow helping him?
Josephine von Konrow.
The name alone carried weight.
In the Carlisle Empire, she was infamous. Not merely feared—reviled. A woman spoken of in the same breath as catastrophe. Hailing from the Konrow Duchy, a family already known for brutality, she was said to be the worst among them.
Rumors painted her as openly villainous.
They said she committed atrocities against her own sister. That entire towns had burned in her wake. That she once unleashed a plague that spilled into neighboring kingdoms—including Solidaria—and walked away unpunished simply because she was a Konrow.
Collateral damage, they called it.
Julius had always taken such stories with caution. Rumors were weapons wielded by those in power.
But even then—
He had never expected this.
He had never expected a woman who spoke calmly while arrows shattered in midair. Someone who gave him a relic-tier artifact as casually as one might offer a cloak.
Someone who told him—without threat or demand—that she was neither his ally nor his enemy.
On the journey to the Tezca Duchy, before they ever crossed its borders, Julius and his entourage had already fought off four attacks disguised as bandit raids. Too coordinated. Too precise. Sloppy in execution, but clear in intent.
They had known.
Then came the carrier pigeon.
The message was brief.
The one receiving the Solidarian delegation will be Josephine von Konrow.
The reaction had been immediate.
The entire entourage froze.
"That Josephine?!" one of them had blurted out.
Even Julius had felt a knot tighten in his chest.