It was dusk ten days later when Blake was summoned to the fortress by General Celt once again.
"What is it this time?" Blake asked, his tone casual and unconcerned.
"The king has sent a secret edict," Celt replied, unable to muster any anger at Blake's laid-back attitude, only managing a helpless smile.
"He received a formal protest from the Sith Empire."
"A protest?" At this, Blake raised an eyebrow, finally turning his full attention to the elderly general before him.
"They claim that several days ago, their border patrol was attacked by our forces—and they named *you* and your legion specifically. According to their account, you took the initiative to assault their patrol unit and inflicted heavy casualties. Therefore, the Sith Empire demands that we provide them with an explanation and a formal apology."
"And what was our esteemed king's reaction to all this?" Blake asked, paying no heed to the Sith Empire's baseless accusations.
Sometimes, warfare between nations was no different from criminal prosecution. You might know a culprit had meticulously planned a murder, prepared the weapon, and mapped out an escape route—but until he actually committed the crime, it was all just a figment of his imagination. No country's laws would allow an arrest based solely on conjecture. The same logic applied to nations. Everyone knew the Sith Empire had massed its armies at the border and completed all preparations for war—but technically, no shots had been fired yet, hadn't they?
Thus, Blake was not the least bit surprised that the Sith Empire had resorted to such a pretext for their protest. After all, the victim here was a Gifted Knight—not some random foot soldier whose death could be brushed off with a shrug. Though Judy had failed to kill the man, Blake was confident that with her strength, she had delivered a lesson he would never forget. Given that, the Sith Empire would never let the matter rest so easily. Even if it was not for the sake of honor, they had to demonstrate their concern for their subordinates; otherwise, they risked losing the loyalty of their troops—a far more troublesome predicament.
But Blake could not have cared less. Whether it was the Sith Empire or the Kingdom of Wester, both were merely pawns in his grand scheme. A chess player never feared his pieces—nor did he ever feel threatened by them.
"The king's stance is rather ambiguous. He has not yet reached a final decision," Celt said, furrowing his brows—a sign of his deep dissatisfaction. He had sent a detailed report to the capital long ago, yet the king remained indecisive. After all, the two nations were bitter enemies—so what if they had attacked a Sith patrol? If the Sith wanted to make a fuss about it, they should at least present some solid evidence first. But instead of demanding proof, their own king had immediately panicked at the mere mention of the protest.
In truth, Celt had downplayed the severity of the situation when speaking to Blake. When the king had summoned him for questioning, his expression had been one of sheer panic—a sight that made Celt wonder if His Majesty had looked the same when facing the Sith envoys. If that was the case, then they were in far deeper trouble than he had feared.
After all, no matter how one looked at it, the Sith Empire's impending invasion of Wester was completely unjustified. Their earlier demand that Wester hand over the surviving members of the Oruth royal family had been nothing more than a flimsy excuse—a blatant case of grasping at straws. It was one thing to claim, "You are harboring our enemies, so we have no choice but to declare war"—but it was quite another to turn a minor border skirmish into a casus belli for a full-scale invasion.
For two nations of roughly equal strength, such a dispute could drag on for decades, with both sides exchanging accusations and counter-accusations until the matter was eventually forgotten. But the current situation was far from balanced. The Sith Empire had been searching for *any* legitimate pretext to launch their attack—and now they had found it.
During his correspondence with the king, Celt had laid out all the stakes clearly. He had emphasized that if Blake's subordinates were capable of inflicting such heavy losses on a Sith Gifted Knight, it proved that Blake possessed the power to stand against the Sith Empire. At this critical juncture, the only sensible course of action was to win Blake over to their side—not to do anything that might damage their fragile alliance. But the king had paid little heed to his advice.
Celt could understand the king's perspective to some extent. As a monarch, loyalty from his subjects was naturally his top priority. But Blake's actions and words over the past few days had hardly demonstrated any respect or allegiance toward the crown. It was clear that he held the king in low regard—and with his immense power, he had every right to do so. Still, for a king to be so openly slighted was bound to stir resentment in his heart.
If Wester had been ruled by a wise and far-sighted monarch, any lingering doubts about Blake would have vanished the moment he received Celt's report. After all, if the Sith Empire—proud and arrogant as they were—were willing to use one of their own Gifted Knights as a pawn in this diplomatic charade, it was a clear testament to the threat Blake posed. The Sith would never risk such a humiliation unless they had no other choice.
But their current king…
Celt gritted his teeth and sighed inwardly. He had always known that he served a mediocre ruler—but in times of peace, His Majesty's incompetence had been tolerable. Though he was somewhat flighty and indecisive, he had never indulged in the kind of debauchery that would bring ruin to his kingdom. Celt had simply gritted his teeth and endured it. But now, with war looming on the horizon, the king's sheer idiocy was enough to make him want to scream in frustration.
In truth, Celt had been keeping something from Blake. King Wester V had not been "ambiguous" at all. On the contrary, he had already issued a clear order: Celt was to take full command of the noble alliance forces, restrict all of Blake's movements, and if Blake dared to defy the royal edict, he was to be arrested and punished according to military law.
*Punished according to military law…*
The mere thought of those words made Celt want to laugh bitterly until tears streamed down his face. Their beloved king had clearly spent too much time cooped up in the palace—his mind had completely lost touch with reality. Blake was far more powerful than Celt, and it was obvious that he had no intention of swearing fealty to the kingdom. Talk of military punishment was nothing short of absurd. If Celt tried to enforce the king's order, he would be lucky if Wester did not collapse into civil war *before* the Sith even launched their invasion!
Deep down, Celt had no desire to carry out this order. But he had no choice. A monarch's command was absolute. Though he had argued his case passionately, the king had refused to listen—even going so far as to threaten to replace him with another general if he failed to comply. After all, King Wester V was safely ensconced in the royal capital, hundreds of miles away from the border. He knew nothing of the true situation at Redcliff Fortress except what he read in reports. But the chaos unfolding in the capital was something he experienced firsthand—and that was why he hated Blake with such a passion.
Thanks to this upstart noble, the Mobi family had been thrown into complete disarray. Now, with the Sith Empire lodging a formal diplomatic protest, nobles great and small in the capital were buzzing with gossip. The pressure on the king was immense—and he was taking it all out on Blake.
"Therefore… the king has issued his command," Celt said finally, letting out a heavy sigh and abandoning all hope of resisting the inevitable. Let the kingdom burn, for all he cared. As long as Blake did not start killing people right under his nose, he would turn a blind eye to everything else. It was no longer his problem.
"He wishes for you, as the commanding officer, to return to the royal capital in person and report to him directly on the details of the conflict."
"Now?" A faint, mocking smile tugged at the corners of Blake's lips. "Is our esteemed king so bored that he's inviting me to afternoon tea with some limited-edition pastries?"
"Enough with the idle chatter," Celt waved a hand, clearly exhausted. "Lord Blake, the king has given his order. It would be best if you comply. Besides, I don't think the Sith Empire will make any major moves for the time being. The fortress should be safe enough without you."
"I'm afraid it's not that simple," Blake replied, smiling as he twirled the teacup in his hand, his words cutting straight to the heart of the matter. "Did his Majesty also order you to take over command of all my troops?"
Celt fell silent, then nodded heavily, no longer bothering to hide the truth.
"Yes. The king did indeed issue that order."
With that, Celt's expression turned grave and resolute as he fixed Blake with a firm gaze.
"Lord Blake, I have never been a man skilled at persuasion. But I hope you understand that the reason I am being so forthright with you is because I ask you to put the greater good first. It is true—I will not deny that the king's judgment has been gravely flawed this time, and that he harbors a deep dislike for you. But I beg you not to let that lead you to make a decision that we will all come to regret. After all, we are not just here to protect the king. We are here to defend the people of this kingdom from the horrors of war—to ensure that they can continue to live in peace and safety. I know that with my current strength, I have no right to demand anything of you or your subordinates. But I implore you… I beg you to *stay*. If you will remain here and help us defend Redcliff Fortress, I swear to you—no matter what injustices you have suffered, I will do everything in my power to right them in the future!"
Having spoken these words, Celt rose to his feet and bowed deeply to Blake, his voice thick with emotion.
"I beg of you, Lord Blake."
Blake did not respond immediately. He simply stared silently at the elderly soldier before him—at his once-proud posture, now slightly stooped with age, at his graying hair that spoke of years of hardship and sacrifice.
"Please rise, General Celt," Blake said finally, his voice calm and steady.
"This is not your fault. It is not your responsibility. You have no need to beg me for anything. I am a man of my word. I promised you that I would help defend the fortress—and I will keep that promise. You have my word on that. As for that fool of a king… his decisions are a reflection of his own abysmal intelligence. You are not responsible for them. And what I choose to do will be determined solely by my own will."
With that, Blake stood up from his seat.
"Now, tell me—when exactly am I supposed to leave?"
"Within one week."
"Very well," Blake nodded.
"I will depart for the royal capital. But I will leave Messiah, Semia, and Judy here to help you defend the right flank. With them around, I think you will have nothing to worry about for the time being."
Celt felt a wave of relief wash over him as the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. He knew firsthand how powerful those three were. With them guarding the fortress, even Blake's temporary absence would not pose a threat. But Blake's next words sent a chill down his spine, draining the color from his face.
"So, I will only take Ophelia and Charlotte with me. No need for you to make any special arrangements."
"Wait! Lord Blake!!" Celt exclaimed, cutting Blake off abruptly, his eyes wide with shock.
"You truly intend to take *Princess Ophelia* to the royal capital with you?"
"That is correct," Blake replied, his expression unchanged—casual, as if he were planning a leisurely trip rather than a journey into the lion's den.
"She suffered a defeat a few days ago and has been in low spirits ever since. I think a change of scenery will do her good. Besides, the royal capital is such a bustling place—and girls her age love that sort of thing, don't they? And she is my adjutant, after all. It is only right that she accompanies me."
"But—"
"Enough, General Celt. I have no time for further discussion," Blake said, cutting him off once more. "Besides, Ophelia told me herself that she has been wanting to visit the royal capital again. This is the perfect opportunity for her. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have preparations to make."
With these words, Blake executed a flawless noble's bow to Celt before turning on his heel and walking out of the room, leaving the elderly general standing there, dumbfounded, unable to utter a single word.
Celt's mind was racing. He had sensed that Blake bore no ill will toward him—but it was also clear that he held the king in utter contempt. By the Divine Light! Ophelia had once been the most beloved princess in the entire kingdom. Even after her death, her memory had never faded from the people's hearts. In fact, King Wester V's incompetence had only made more and more people nostalgic for the days when she had been their princess—the kingdom's beloved flower. Of course, history was written in stone, and the dead could not be brought back to life. The people could only mourn what might have been. But if Ophelia were to suddenly reappear before them now—at a time when the kingdom was teetering on the brink of destruction—would the nobles of Wester remain loyal to King Wester V?
A cold, foreboding feeling settled in the pit of Celt's stomach. He could not shake the terrible suspicion that a civil war was about to erupt in the kingdom.
Blake paid no heed to Celt's panicked thoughts. In truth, he had guessed that the king would try to make trouble for him the moment Celt had summoned him. Ophelia had warned him of this herself. The king was not a man of foresight or wisdom. He was short-sighted, greedy, and obsessed with immediate gains—never once considering the long-term consequences of his actions. If the Sith Empire had thrown this incident in his face, it was almost certain that he would lash out at Blake in retaliation. And as events had unfolded, his prediction had proven to be spot-on.
Upon returning to his camp, Blake immediately summoned all his subordinates and informed them of the situation. Their reactions varied widely, but none were surprised.
"Your意思 is that the king has ordered you to travel to the royal capital and report to him in person?" Charlotte asked, her expression a delightful mix of amusement and suppressed laughter. She puffed out her cheeks, glanced at Ophelia, and quickly swallowed the laugh that threatened to escape her lips.
"A foolish decision," Messiah stated flatly.
"A stupid move," Semia echoed, her tone identical to her sister's.
"Bullying brother will end badly," Messiah added, grinning mischievously.
"Anyone who messes with Daddy is doomed," Semia chimed in, the twins linking arms and giggling like the children they appeared to be.
"Brother, should we kill him?"
"Daddy, let us handle it!"
"No," Blake waved a hand, dismissing the twins' bloodthirsty suggestions.
"That is not your battlefield. I promised General Celt that I would help defend Redcliff Fortress—and I intend to keep that promise. You and Judy will stay here and continue patrolling the right flank as usual. I think the Sith Empire will be too smart to send anyone else to provoke us for the time being."
"Then… regarding your trip to the capital," Charlotte asked, her tone thoughtful.
"Ophelia and I will be more than enough," Blake replied, turning to look at the former princess, who had been standing quietly by the side, lost in thought.
"You have no objections, do you?"
"I… can I really come with you?" Ophelia asked, lifting her head to meet Blake's gaze, her voice hesitant and unsure. Ever since her defeat at the hands of Kaelan, the former princess had seemed to lose a great deal of her confidence—a fact that had influenced Blake's decision to bring her along.
"Of course you can," Blake said, his tone reassuring. "You are my adjutant. It is only right that you accompany me. Besides, didn't you tell me not long ago that you wanted to return to the royal capital?"
"I did say that… but—" Ophelia began, her voice trailing off, her expression clouded with uncertainty.
"Then I will stay behind," Charlotte said suddenly, smiling warmly as she glanced at Ophelia and shot Blake a meaningful wink.
"I will remain here to maintain contact with our sisters in the Twilight Forest. If anything unusual happens, I will send word to you immediately, my lord."
"Excellent," Blake said, scanning the faces of his subordinates before clapping his hands to signal the end of the meeting.
"Then it is settled… Oh, and Charlotte—your little wink was completely unnecessary."
"I wish it were unnecessary too, Lord Blake," Charlotte replied, leaning in to whisper in his ear, her voice low and conspiratorial.
"Are you certain you do not want to tell Lady Ophelia about *that matter* before we depart?"
"That is her business," Blake said, his brow furrowing slightly.
"It is her right to handle it and make her own judgments. So drop the subject. Remember—we know nothing about it."
"As you wish, Master. I understand," Charlotte replied with a knowing smile, stepping back and bowing respectfully.