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The impassioned words clashed with the cold wind, reaching the ears of the two men.
Sauros withdrew his hand, his sharp gaze flashing as he turned to stare directly at Allen.
Had it not been Allen who came to the tower today—or if it were not Allen alone, but accompanied by Rudeus, Sylphiette, Ghyslaine, or even Eris and Philip—he would not have spoken so openly, so sincerely.
This was not merely an emotional outburst.
It was also an expectation, a lesson meant for Allen.
Because among the two generations, Allen was the one who best suited his tastes, the one who was truly exceptional.
Lilia would grow inexplicably emotional every time she mentioned him—the figure who had returned from that rainy night carrying a severed head, outshining even Ghyslaine, who had already reached Sword King status, breaking through obstacles with sheer, unreasonable force.
The first time they met upon his return, he had immediately killed Thomas, settling a grudge with swift, decisive brutality—his ruthlessness, his cunning, his methods.
His extraordinary theoretical knowledge of swordsmanship, which had allowed Eris to rise from an intermediate to an advanced swordsman in less than a year.
The wooden staircase at the base of the tower—the only one regularly maintained—with its 132 steps, symbolizing the 132 generations of glorious ascension.
Could Allen be the one to extend it to the 134th step?
That was Sauros's true goal.
That was why he had told Allen about the "Iron Heart of Boreas."
Yet his expectations fell flat.
In his line of sight, Allen merely looked back at him calmly, his expression unreadable.
Cold.
No agreement, no support, no raised fist in shared fervor.
The fire in Sauros's eyes dimmed. He narrowed his gaze, studying Allen deeply, a flicker of disappointment passing through his eyes before he turned back to the window.
Atop the tower, the echoes of his earlier declaration were scattered by the wind—
As if they had never left his lips.
A moment later, Sauros let out a derisive snort. Without looking at Allen again, he waved a dismissive hand, shooing away the stubborn youth.
"Go. I know why you've come, but I won't grant your request. The traditions of Boreas rest in my hands. If even our household rules can be bent and changed at will, what meaning does the 'Iron Heart' hold? How could we face the 132 generations of Boreas ancestors? How could we honor this land passed down through the ages?"
"Though you are exceptional, I do not yet see the 'Iron Heart of Boreas' within you."
"Rootless driftwood, water without a source."
"Tasteless to chew, a pity to discard."
He paused, the dignity of a lord returning to him as he spoke condescendingly, as if the person beside him were not his grandson, but merely some passing adventurer.
"Keep struggling. There's still time."
"Think carefully. Observe closely. Learn what the Iron Heart of Boreas truly is. You're still young—you can afford to waste a little more of your life."
"Go. I'm tired."
"When you've come to your senses, return here. I'll arrange for someone to send you back to the royal capital."
"That is where you belong."
There was no trace of fatigue on Sauros's face, yet he had clearly issued a dismissal. But after a long moment, no footsteps sounded beside him.
Allen remained where he stood.
Frowning, Sauros turned to look at him.
The cold wind rushed in through the window.
Contrary to what he expected—a young man's face twisted with frustration—
Allen's eyebrows were raised high, his lips curved in a bright smile as he stared at the "orb" outside the window.
Then, he spoke.
"The Iron Heart of Boreas is nothing more than sheer will. And yours, Lord Sauros, is lofty indeed. From great heights, one can see far—can gaze calmly upon the past and the future."
"Unfortunately, I am not fond of standing so high. It makes me uneasy. I prefer to solve the most pressing problems before turning my eyes to the future."
"As for the past?"
"I have none."
Sauros's eyes narrowed, his displeasure growing as Allen's leisurely voice continued to drift into his ears.
"So, this humble man standing firmly on the ground would like to ask you a question."
"If lofty ideals, gazing upon the entirety of Boreas, can be called the Iron Heart—"
"Then what of the will that remains grounded, simple, direct, focused on the smallest of details?"
"Does that not also count as the Iron Heart of Boreas?"
It had been a long time since anyone had debated Sauros in such a manner. He studied Allen for a moment before turning back to the window with a scoff.
"Speak plainly. No riddles. You've picked up Philip's bad habits."
At that, Allen's smile widened, his eyes nearly vanishing into slits—indeed resembling Philip in that moment.
He glanced sidelong at Sauros.
"Then let me ask you this."
"To repay kindness with kindness, vengeance with justice—does that not embody the 'Iron Heart'?"
Sauros's eyes narrowed further.
"Of course it—"
But he cut himself off, suddenly turning to stare at Allen, his gaze sharp.
Allen, however, kept his eyes fixed on the spatial rift's mana orb floating in the sky outside the window.
He no longer met Sauros's eyes.
His smile faded, his tone calm.
"Whether I possess what you call the 'Iron Heart of Boreas,' I do not know."
"But one thing I am certain of."
Allen lifted his hand, pointing at the mana orb in the sky. Then, slowly, he shifted his arm westward—toward the royal capital.
His unfinished words hung in the air.
Not a trace of hesitation.
Not a hint of weakness.
Only weight.
And the thick scent of blood.
"I think you may be overcomplicating things. I do not need your permission. I do not need you to break Boreas's so-called traditions, Lord Sauros."
"I need only my own hand."
"Gripping my own sword."
"A single swing."
"James will die."
"And then, none of these problems will remain."
Silence.
Deathly silence filled the tower.
Sauros stared at Allen, unblinking.
"He is your father."
"I have no father. I am an adventurer. Since when do adventurers have fathers?"
"Fool! Reckless brat! Even if you were a King-rank, do you think you could kill a minister in the Asuran capital and walk away alive?"
Allen's lips curled as if he had heard something amusing. His reply came swiftly.
"You may believe that. From where you stand, if I told you I could kill him and not only survive but thrive, you would never accept it."
"So believe what you will. But—"
Allen turned his head, locking eyes with Sauros.
Word by word, he spoke.
"The so-called North God trash James keeps in the Boreas estate? Even if I carved through every last one of them, I wouldn't need to swing twice at the same man."
Their gazes held.
In Allen's eyes, Sauros's expression was clear.
He was not angry.
Only watching, examining, reassessing—
As if seeing Allen for the first time.
A long moment passed before Sauros finally spoke again.
His tone was calm.
Unnervingly so.
And in it, there was none of the aristocratic refinement he usually emphasized.
Instead, it carried the same rough, straightforward cadence as Allen's—
The bearing of a warrior.
"Are you threatening me, boy?"
"I wouldn't dare."
Allen smiled, his eyes narrowing as he regarded Sauros.
"You're tired. I'll take my leave."
Without another glance, he turned and strode toward the exit.
One step.
Two.
Three.
Just as he passed through the tower's doorway—
Sauros's voice came from behind.
Calm.
Too calm.
"Hilda's health has been poor lately."
Allen stopped but did not turn.
Sauros's voice continued.
"Visit her in private. Spend time with her."
"I'll give you three years. Stay with Hilda and Eris. After that—"
"Get the hell back to the royal capital where you belong."
A smirk tugged at Allen's lips as he took another step forward.
"The royal capital?"
"Oh, I'll return."
"And it won't take three years."
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