"So, the newly born Campione fought that sword-wielding guy and won," The young man at the table said, his brow furrowing as he processed the report from his subordinate mage.
He sat with one leg crossed over the other, his neatly combed black hair complementing his black jacket, exuding the air of a refined nobleman.
This was Alexander Gascoigne, the Campione of Britain, the Black Prince.
He nodded slightly, signaling his subordinate to continue.
Sipping his tea, he listened intently to the rest of the report.
Then—
Pfft!
A spray of tea shot from his mouth.
Cough, cough, cough. The Black Prince choked, too flustered to care about his soaked shirt, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"What did you just say?" Alexander Gascoigne asked, incredulous.
His kneeling subordinate resisted the urge to wipe the tea from his face, maintaining his usual calm demeanor.
He repeated, "Cross-dressing."
"Hahaha!" A burst of laughter erupted from the Black Prince, echoing through the building, making others tense.
Though this Campione was relatively rational, he was still a Devil King above mere mortals.
"Sorry, I lost my composure," Alexander said after laughing for a while, waving dismissively at his subordinate. "Go on."
The subordinate's mouth twitched as he glanced at the damp report.
Trained to remain stoic, he wouldn't laugh—unless he couldn't help it.
After all, a Campione's outrageous actions weren't his to mock.
Laughing could invite disaster.
When he received this report, it took immense willpower… and he still couldn't hold it in.
Luckily, no one noticed.
"The Italian Campione, the Sword King, Salvatore Doni, wants to cross-dress…" His expression twisted, lips pursed with effort, "and debut as an idol."
The result—
Pfft!
The Black Prince, trying to calm himself with another sip, sprayed tea again.
And the photo of the Sword King attached to the report—
"Hahaha!"
His subordinate sighed inwardly, drenched again. Bad luck.
Abruptly, like a record scratched to a halt, the laughter stopped.
Alexander stood, snatching the soaked report from his subordinate, reading it word by word.
The black-haired, black-clad nobleman narrowed his eyes, his expression a mix of seriousness and vexation.
"It seems my new kin is far more troublesome than I imagined, in both personality and Authority," He sighed.
He didn't believe the sword-obsessed fool had suddenly developed a penchant for cross-dressing.
And to debut as an idol?
Only one explanation made sense.
"To influence the mind of a Campione like the Sword King? That's a thorny problem," He muttered.
"Lucius… is it?"
Though unclear on the specifics of Lucius's Authority, Alexander marked him as someone to avoid direct conflict with.
"But there's something exploitable here," He said, standing and pacing the office, brows furrowed.
"I don't know how long this Authority lasts. But if I help the Sword King this time…"
Campiones were reckless, their alliances and enmities shifting in an instant.
But if he could make Lucius owe him, it could be useful—especially since Alexander had his own ambitions.
He approached the window, still hesitant.
Was it worth it?
"Either way, I'll go see for myself," He decided.
Sparks of lightning crackled around him as he activated his Divine Speed, leaping from the window.
Not just Voban and the Black Prince—other Campiones received the news through various channels, save one.
"You sly, smirking rat! What a disgrace!" A voice thundered, and a laughing boy was slapped off a mountainside before he could speak.
In sleep, Lucius's mental fatigue eased, and he snapped awake, instinctively reaching for the bottle in his coat.
"You're up? After that mental strain, I suggest more rest," Mozlis's voice rang out, tinged with concern or perhaps something else.
"It's enough," Lucius replied, rising slowly and straightening his disheveled clothes.
"Fine. But next time, be more careful. Constantly pushing yourself isn't wise," Mozlis said leisurely.
Lucius didn't respond, pushing the door open and stepping out.
At an old mansion, a faint sound alerted a mage, who spun around warily.
"Who's there?" He demanded, on edge.
He had to be cautious—guarding this place was the Devil King's order.
But when he saw who stood behind him…
"The Black Prince, Alexander Gascoigne!" He exclaimed.
Another Campione!
"I'm going in to take a look. No objections, I presume?" Alexander glanced at the mage, his tone more command than question.
"None!" The mage replied, shaking his head vigorously, survival instincts kicking in.
"Hmph."
The Black Prince snorted, striding toward his target.
Then—
Seeing the golden-haired figure striking poses, he began to question his decision.
He should've worn sunglasses.
***
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