From within came a voice as clear and commanding as tempered steel. "Come in."
I pushed the door open, stepped inside, and closed it softly behind me.
My mother, Liora, sat at the broad desk, golden afternoon light catching in her long blonde hair. Her deep sea-blue eyes scanned a border report spread before her, brow faintly furrowed. Even seated, she radiated an effortless duality: the serene holiness of a saintess who shielded the innocent, and the razor-sharp killing intent of a warrior who eradicated evil without hesitation. She was an angel in armor, beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.
Beside her stood my stepfather—her second husband and chosen partner—Thorne Blackfang. He towered like an ancient pine, broad-shouldered and unyielding, his presence thick with the slaughter-soaked aura of countless battlefields. Where my mother was light and judgment, he was shadow and annihilation—a demon forged for war. The air in the room hung heavy, almost oppressive, saturated with their combined battle intent as they absorbed the grim news from the frontier.
When I spoke—"Mother"—my voice cut through the tension like a blade.
Both of them snapped their attention to me. In an instant, the crushing pressure vanished; their auras retracted as smoothly as drawing breath. The room settled back into comfortable stillness.
Liora's expression softened, the killing edge melting into warmth. "My sweet boy," she said, setting the report aside. "What brings you here?"
The oppressive weight in the room lifted as smoothly as an exhaled breath, their auras folding back into themselves with practiced ease. The stillness that followed felt almost gentle by comparison. All around us—knights, aides, and retainers lining the walls—people quietly released the breath they'd been holding. A few even glanced my way with faint, grateful nods, as though I'd single-handedly banished a storm.
I walked forward without hesitation, stopping just before my mother's desk. Liora tilted her head, one elegant brow arching in silent question, and gestured for me to speak.
I scratched the back of my head, feigning casual embarrassment. "Mother… I'd like to spar against ten thousand knights. Same realm and stage as me."
The words hung in the air.
Liora blinked. Thorne blinked slower, like a mountain trying to process a pebble. For a heartbeat, the room was utterly silent.
Then came the reactions I'd expected: sharp inhales, muffled gasps, a few poorly stifled snickers from the younger knights near the back. Whispers rippled outward like rings in water.
Ten thousand?
He's lost his mind.
Pill-fed young master thinks he's a hero now.
I didn't care.
Not even a little.
My eyes stayed on my mother, calm and steady, waiting for her answer.
My mother—Liora—rested her chin on her hand, slender fingers tapping thoughtfully against the polished desk. A long, quiet moment passed before she sighed and flicked her wrist in a dismissive yet decisive gesture.
At once, a female knight stepped forward from the ranks along the wall and dropped to one knee with flawless reverence. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, with long, silky black hair cascading down her back like liquid midnight. Her armor did little to hide the generous, sculpted curves beneath—full breasts, narrow waist, hips that swayed naturally with every disciplined movement. She was breathtaking, the kind of beauty that turned heads even on a battlefield.
In a flat, even tone that brooked no argument, Liora said, "Arrange whatever my son has requested."
Then her sea-blue eyes fixed on the knight, softening just a fraction. "But don't overdo it."
The knight bowed her head deeper. "Yes, Holy Commander."
I nodded in acknowledgment, a small smile tugging at my lips.
Around us, the retainers and knights wore complicated expressions—some envious of the indulgence I was granted, others plainly baffled. Why would the pampered fifth son of a duke suddenly demand to face ten thousand opponents at once? Whispers flickered, but no one dared voice them aloud.
The black-haired knight rose gracefully and approached me, offering a respectful gesture toward the door. I inclined my head and began to follow—then paused.
Turning back, I closed the distance to my mother in three quick strides, leaned down, and pressed a light kiss to her cheek. "Thanks, Mom."
Her stern facade cracked just enough for a fond smile to touch her eyes. She lifted her hand in a lazy wave. "Go on, then. Try not to embarrass me."
I grinned, waved once more, and fell into step behind the knight as she led me from the room. The heavy doors closed behind us with a soft thud, sealing away the watchful eyes of the fortress elite.
Whatever came next, I was ready.
I followed the black-haired knight through the winding corridors, our footsteps echoing off the stone in a brisk, purposeful rhythm. The pace was quick—almost clipped—so I decided to break the silence.
"Hey," I said lightly, falling into step beside her. "What's your name?"
She didn't slow, but her voice came crisp and formal. "Elara, young master."
"Elara," I repeated, letting the name roll off my tongue. "Beautiful. Suits you."
A faint huff was her only response, but I caught the slightest tightening of her jaw. Undeterred, I fired off a string of idle questions—favorite color, favorite food, whether she preferred dawn patrols or night watches. She answered each one, terse and dutiful: "Silver." "Roast venison." "Dawn." Her tone grew progressively sharper, irritation threading through every syllable.
Perfect.
I let my gaze drift lower, watching the natural sway of her hips beneath the fitted plates of her armor. Each step sent a subtle, hypnotic roll through her frame, the leather and steel doing little to hide the curves beneath.
Grinning to myself, I struck.
My hand flashed up and down in a blur—too fast for her to react—and landed a firm, open-palmed spank across her right cheek. The crack echoed sharply down the empty corridor, crisp and satisfying. I'd measured the force perfectly: enough sting to surprise, enough warmth to tease pleasure rather than pain.
Elara yelped—a short, startled sound—and whipped around, cheeks flushing crimson, eyes blazing with outraged hatred.
I met her glare with a lazy wink and a small, circling gesture: keep walking.
For a heartbeat she stood frozen, lips parted in shock. Then, with a sharp exhale through her nose, she turned and resumed marching—faster now, shoulders rigid. But the flush hadn't faded; it had deepened, spreading down her neck, and the faintest tremor in her stride betrayed her.
She'd liked it.
Pride just wouldn't let her admit it.
Yet.
As we walked, Elara's voice cut through the rhythmic echo of our footsteps.
"Young master, the ten thousand knights you requested… they're currently preparing to hunt. Five thousand demons—Unawakened Realm, Zero-Star Early Stage."
Just saying the word demons made her voice waver, the faintest tremor of unease.
I frowned. Needing ten thousand Three-Star knights to take down five thousand Zero-Star demons could only mean one thing: demons were inherently far stronger than humans at equivalent realms.
I shrugged it off anyway. None of that would matter once Realm Invincibility was active.
We stopped at a junction where sunlight poured through an open archway, carrying the scent of grass and leather.
Elara turned to me, posture rigid. "Go straight through that gate. You'll reach the eastern training fields—wide open grassland where we drill the warhorses. Wait there. I'll notify the instructors and have the knights recalled and assembled for your spar."
Her lips curved into a haughty smirk. "Try not to lose too badly."
She spun on her heel and strode off, hips swaying with deliberate provocation.
I watched her go, my smirk sharpening.
"The first girl I claim after I earn that trait," I muttered low, "is you, Elara."
Then I stepped into the sunlight and headed toward the field where ten thousand knights would soon face me.