Duke William Blackwood rubbed his hands together as he took in the man before him completely. Everything about Count Jorand Whitecrest seemed to be swallowed by white—his beard, his hair, even the extremely elegant robes draped over his broad shoulders. But William knew better. The white wasn’t just a matter of age, it was a symbol, the colors of House Whitecrest, a force that held dominion over lands stretching eastward to the sea.

The years had left their mark on the man, but wisdom clung to him just as tightly as his reputation.

Bringing the goblet to his lips, William took a slow sip. The moment the bitter liquid touched his tongue, he sighed, placing the cup back down with deliberate care.

“Jorand, my old friend,” he said and sighed dramatically. “Your wine is still as bitter as ever.”

Across from him, Jorand picked up his own glass, swirling the dark liquid before taking a sip. “The nobles would say it’s simply not to your taste. Everyone else seems to like it.”

William let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “They’re just too scared to say anything but praises in front of you.” His eyes glinted with knowing. “You do know what our positions mean to others. They’re terrified to offend us, even a little. And saying your wine tastes bitter—I don’t think so.”

Jorand exhaled a soft laugh, setting his cup aside. “I don’t think you traveled all this way just to complain about people treating you too nicely, or to remind me that my wine tastes bitter.”

A rare smile tugged at the corner of William’s lips. “No,” William admitted. “I was out hunting and thought to visit you at the same time.”

Jorand arched a brow. “You traveled for hours just to hunt?”

“No. To meet you.”

That seemed to catch the count’s attention. His fingers tapped lightly against the wooden armrest of his chair.

“The kingdom is changing,” William continued, his tone dropping lower. “And there is much to discuss. And who better than you? Especially since I know you are in the middle of selling your allegiance to the first prince.”

Jorand didn’t react immediately. Instead, he reached for his cup once more, taking a thoughtful sip before setting it down again. William could see the hesitation in his little action. Jorand had been a man of quick and precise actions, but when he took a slow sip out of the wine glass and exhaled loudly while putting it back on the table, he knew that his old friend had already come to his own conclusion.

“Are you here to stop me?”

“In a way,” William admitted, “but more exactly, I’m here to make you pause. To reconsider.”

“Reconsider toward whom? I made my choice based on who is most likely to end up as king among the three.”

William’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened. Jorand’s grabbed the glass again.

“There might be four soon.”

The count’s brow arched mid-sip, the wine stopping just short of his lips.

“I know King Sullivan was lonely because he got crazy women as queens,” he said slowly, lowering the glass. “But did he really father an illegitimate son? I’ve never heard of him.”

William shook his head. “No. It’s not one with royal blood.”

The count frowned, his fingers tightening slightly around the stem of his goblet. “Then what do you mean?”

William leaned back, settling comfortably into his chair. His silver eyes locked onto the count’s, watching his old friend’s confusion deepen before dropping the words like a blade.

“Count Arzan came to meet me.”

The pause was brief but heavy. The count blinked, then tilted his head, processing the name before scoffing.

“The new hero of the kingdom?” He gave a small shake of his head. “I never heard about this.”

“It was confidential,” William said, picking up his wine again but not drinking. “He came and went without anyone knowing. He can be sneaky.”

“And what was this meeting about?”

William’s lips curled slightly. “Why don’t you take a guess?”

There was no immediate answer. The count’s eyes narrowed slightly, then widened just a fraction as a thought struck him.

“He’s Valkyrie’s son.”

A long silence stretched between them. Jorand’s expression shifted—from confusion to deep thought, then to something dangerously close to realization. And then—

Bang.

His arm slammed onto the table, rattling the table.

“He intends to run for the throne? Is he crazy?”

William laughed. “I think so.” He swirled his wine lazily before adding, “We might need some crazy for the good of the kingdom.”

Jorand didn’t seem convinced. His fingers tapped against the table, his mind clearly still working through everything. He grunted before responding.

“So you’re supporting him.”

“Not exactly. At least, not yet. But he gave me a lot to think about. A lot of things. He predicted the fief war that’s raging right now.”

The count’s fingers paused mid-tap. He exhaled through his nose, lips pressing into a thin line. “He knew it was coming?” He leaned back slightly, rubbing his beard. “Well… I suppose that’s believable. He already seems to have made gains in the war, but I don’t know if he’ll win.” His fingers drummed against the table once more. “Apparently, almost all the nobles in the Sylvan Enclave are coming for him.”

William didn’t answer immediately, watching as his friend continued to piece things together. Then—

“But I suppose,” Jorand muttered. “If you’re talking about him positively, that means the rumors about him having dark powers are wrong.”

Duke William nodded, setting his goblet down with a quiet clink.

“On the contrary,” he said. “He hates it.” His fingers traced the rim of the cup as he continued. “It’s a conspiracy. I can tell because I met and talked with him.”

“Is that why you’re in favor of him? You do know it’s unlikely he’ll survive. I only get bits and pieces from that side since the whole place is locked down, but from what I hear, the forces against him are overwhelming.”

William exhaled slowly, nodding. “I know,” he admitted. “But I have hope for one reason.”

The count raised a brow but said nothing, waiting.

“You know he didn’t go straight to his territory after leaving the capital,” William continued. “My men tracked his movements. He headed toward the Sylvara Forest.”

That got a reaction. A deep frown. “The one leading to—”

“Sylvastra.”

A long silence stretched between them. Even though William had known this piece of information, saying it out loud felt different. And by heart, he knew the next question.

“You think he met the elves?” he asked.

“Yes. It’s just a theory, but I think so. He wasn’t in my territory just to talk to me, and my men never saw him passing through on his way back home. And yet, we both know he’s in Veralt now. I suspect he has connections with the elves… and they helped him travel back.”

“That changes a lot of things,” Jorand said while his eyes seemed distant—the man was clearly rethinking everything. “No human has ever gained the elves’ favor. But do you really think he can defeat his brother and win this war?”

William sighed. “We’ll wait and watch. Because I have no idea. With that kid, nothing is predictable. I haven’t made my decision yet—for that very reason. But don’t forget… if he actually does it, the waves it will send through the kingdom will be immense.” He met Jorand’s gaze. “We’ll need to be prepared.”

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Jorand nodded in return. “You’re right.” He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Thank you for informing me. If you hadn’t, I might’ve rushed into an alliance.”

William laughed, the sound lighter than before. “I didn’t warn you just because I see Arzan as a potential claimant.”

“Then what else?”

“When Arzan came to meet me,” he said, “he told me some things about Regina that you should know.”

***

Roran Brightholm moved through the estate like a shadow, his breath steady but his heart hammering against his ribs. It had finally come to this.

An assassination.

And then—freedom. No more hiding in this wretched place, no more playing the part of a loyal vassal. He would return to the capital, to the safety of Magus Verdia, and claim what was rightfully his—power, prestige, and the respect he had bled for.

But his fingers twitched at the thought. What if it went wrong?

His mind raced through the possibilities, each one gnawing at his nerves. What if Arzan survived? What if the guards found him before he could escape? What if—?

Roran shook his head sharply, his grip tightening around the small glass vial hidden within his robes. The potion felt warm against his palm, as if reminding him of its purpose. No. Think of the better outcome. Finishing the job. Getting out. Returning to the capital as the man who helped secure the future.

He exhaled, slow and measured, then glanced at the window. The sky had darkened completely. Night. The perfect time to move.

His steps were light as he ascended the stairs—not to the floor where Arzan’s room was, but one level above. The hallway stretched ahead of him, quiet and empty. He had planned for this. Finding an unoccupied room wasn’t difficult, and once inside, he wasted no time.

Crossing the chamber like he’d planned, he reached the window and peered down.

A handful of guards lingered in the courtyard below, their eyes fixed on the perimeter. None of them looked up.

Good.

He placed a hand over his chest, feeling his own heartbeat beneath his palm. Steady. He had prepared for this.

Muttering the incantation under his breath, he cast [Featherfall], his body growing lighter as he stepped onto the ledge. Without hesitation, he pushed off, plummeting toward the window below.

The night air rushed past him.

At the last moment, his fingers caught the window hinges.

For a breath, he dangled there, his muscles straining, then—quietly, carefully—he pushed himself inside.

His breath came out in a quiet sigh, and he quickly scanned the room.

His eyes drifted to the bed, where Arzan was, his figure barely rising and falling with each breath. The lord hadn’t stirred. Hadn’t even reacted to the shift in the air as a stranger slipped into his chambers.

Good. This will be quick.

Roran moved with careful precision, muttering a soundproofing ward under his breath. A faint shimmer pulsed across the walls, sealing them in silence. No one would hear. No one would interrupt.

He took another step forward, slipping the dagger from his robes. The cold steel gleamed in the low light, sharp enough to end this in one clean motion.

Standing over Arzan, he let out a slow breath.

“You might be a good lord,” he thought, tilting the knife downward, “but you crossed the wrong people.”

His grip tightened. One strike—

“You’re early.”

Roran froze.

Arzan’s voice was calm, almost amused.

“I was expecting you to come a bit later.”

The man in the bed opened his eyes.

Roran took an instinctive step back, his heart slamming against his ribs as Arzan sat up, a slow smile creeping onto his face.

Was I seen? The thought raced through his mind like wildfire. Was this all a trap?

He clenched his jaw, pushing the doubt away. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t hesitate now.

With a snarl, he lunged, slashing the dagger toward Arzan’s throat.

A pulse of energy flared between them.

The force sent Roran flying backward, slamming him into the wardrobe with a heavy thud. His head spun, his vision blurring for a split second—just long enough for the door to swing open.

Fuck.

Knight Killian stepped inside, his blade drawn, guards flanking him on either side. His gaze dropped to Roran, impassive yet sharp.

Pinned, surrounded, Roran’s breath came fast. His mind spun for an escape.

“You’re done here,” Arzan said, swinging his legs over the bed. His voice was almost casual, like he was discussing dinner plans. “Just give up, and we won’t torture you during interrogation.”

Roran’s fingers twitched.

When? His mind demanded. When was my cover blown? How long have they known?

It didn’t matter.

There was no time to think. No time to hesitate.

His hand shot into his robes, gripping the vial.

The only way to survive.

Without another thought, he downed the potion. Just then, a [Wind Blade] shot forward.

But Roran was ready. His fingers flicked, summoning a wind barrier just in time. Arzan’s attack should have been stopped—should have—but the magic tore right through, slipping past the defense.

Roran lunged to the side, his body twisting unnaturally fast, dodging just as Killian surged forward. The knight’s sword came down in a sharp arc, aimed straight for his shoulder—

Then the blade stopped.

Not because Roran had dodged. Not because he had blocked it.

But because something had changed.

Scales.

Dark, jagged scales rippled across Roran’s arm, climbing up like living armor. His breath hitched as his body trembled, visibly something else waking inside of him.

Power flooded his veins. Chaotic, violent, uncontrollable. A force that roared like a storm, making his own magic feel small in comparison.

Fourth circle…? His mind reeled. He could feel the strength thrumming through him. The unmistakable strength, the mana flow—it was on a level he had never touched before.

But none of it mattered.

Not now.

His gaze flickered up, meeting Arzan’s and Killian’s. The knight’s sword crackled with lightning, energy pulsing up the blade. Arzan’s hands moved, gathering mana, his eyes unreadable but sharp.

Can I take them out?

For a moment, Roran considered it. He knew it was a matter of survival or doing his job. He had to choose one even with the power inside of him. But there was no moment to think, to come to a decision.

Hence, he decided he wanted to live more.

Without another thought, he snapped his fingers, channeling a spell—

Not at them.

At the floor.

The dark mana surged, wind compressing into a single violent burst. [Wind blast]

Boom!

The explosion rocked the room, tearing through wood, sending dust and splinters flying. It happened too quickly to process. He saw Arzan’s hands covered with another spell, but Roran didn’t wait to see what it would do.

He moved.

In one swift motion, he spun and launched himself out the window.

The night swallowed him whole.

***

The soft hum of mana dissipated as Kai lowered his hands, undoing the protective barrier that had shielded both him and Killian from the blast.

Dust still lingered in the air, swirling the air, filling his lungs. The wooden floor where the explosion had struck was shredded, deep cracks splintering outward like veins. A gaping hole yawned at the center of the destruction, the jagged edges still smoldering with traces of dark mana.

When Roran brought the vial tip closer to his lips, there was a single thought that ran through his mind— not again. He had an immediate flashed back to Actra—the twisted form, the monstrous strength, the raw chaos that had nearly torn through him.

Kai exhaled, his fingers flexing as he took in the aftermath.

It had worked.

One of the major reasons he had gone through with the procedure was this moment—this exact scenario. He knew the recovery would force him to rest for a day, that if someone wanted him dead, this was the best opportunity to strike. A perfect bait.

And the rat had taken it.

But he hadn’t expected this.

His gaze dropped to the blackened remnants of the floor, then toward the shattered window where Roran had fled. His mind turned, dissecting what he had just seen, what the man had become.

The potion.

The same kind that Actra had used.

Was it so common? Were there more of these cursed vials in circulation?

His jaw tightened.

Or had Verdia given it to him specifically?

If she had, then she saw him as a major threat. Not just an inconvenience—an obstacle. That thought settled heavily in his chest.

Beside him, Killian stepped forward, his sword still in hand, though the crackling lightning had faded from the blade.

“I’ve already given orders,” he said. “The guards are on full alert. He won’t get far. Every exit is sealed.”

Kai nodded. “I hope we can catch him alive.” His eyes flickered toward the ruined floor again. “If not, we lose a good pawn against Verdia. Just hope he doesn’t try to escape through Vasper Forest.”

“If he does,” Killian murmured, “he won’t have a good time.”

***

A/N – You can read 30 chapters (15 Magus Reborn and 15 Dao of money) on my patreon. Annual subscription is now on too. Also, pre orders for Volume 1 are live.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep