'It was no estate; it was a stronghold.'

It was Clay's only comment after spending half his day exploring the supposedly estate-looking place. He had only managed to explore about half of it, even after spending hours wandering.

Located on one of Mount Opal's ridges, a towering castle stood at its summit, overlooking the breathtaking alpine landscape.

There, the Durkton estate resides, a massive structure of splendid stonework of undeniable fortitude. The castle's interior was no less impressive, with each room speaking of the Durkton's legacy as formidable sword wielders.

Stands of armors and griffin banners, mana-powered lamps, carved pillars and trusses, patterned marble floors, and ashwood furniture maintained by batches of maids and servants—all inhabit each of its hallways.

Though, these all made sense to Clay. The Durkton territory, after all, stood on the edge of the Golian Kingdom, bordering the fertile and mountainous lands against the Kruman Empire in the east.

And when conflicts arose between the two countries, the Durktons never faltered to stand as Golian Kingdom's leading bulwark, earning them ruling respect from the Royal Family and securing their place as one of the most distinguished lineages in the Kingdom.

'Ah, of course. Not to forget that one.'

At the heart of the estate, before passing the great hall, Clay had witnessed a gleaming marble statue of Count Glennard himself standing on an elevated platform, chiseled with artistry in all his glory.

On its left arm, the sculpture held the most accurate replica of the Sword of the Sun—a revered artifact with a deep history and religious significance in the Golian Kingdom.

To call it a mere replica or not, it still emanated a surge of divine power, enough to make Clay goosebumps as he passed by. It was no wonder knights guarded it heavily, unlike other chambers in the estate.

'But this sword was soon stolen by the hero.'

If Clay isn't mistaken, the incident shall happen tomorrow during the ongoing Sword Ceremony.

It was there Axel, the hero, and his crew of main characters infiltrated the estate. They managed to yoink the sword without much trouble, all thanks to the high-level invisibility magic of Effelia, one of his crew.

"Heh," murmured Clay as he chewed with a sly smirk. 'As if I would let that happen easily.'

Clay was shoving pieces of steak in his mouth, savoring his dinner alone on an ashwood table in the estate's dining room.

Butler Gil was behind him, stiffly observing his young master eating without any hint of etiquette.

The butler speaks, with a hint of uncertainly in his tone, "Forgive me, young master, but could you please r-repeat your request?"

Clay paused mid-chew, his brow furrowing slightly. "Must I repeat myself?" he asked, then took a long sip from his glass.

The butler cleared his throat. "No, sir. You wished to move the Count's Sword to the lower armory, correct?"

Clay slowly nodded, taking another gulp. "Yes, that's right. Is there a problem?"

The butler hesitated, beads of sweat forming on his aged face. "Forgive me, sir, but with many esteemed visitors arriving tomorrow, including the Kingdom's Defense Minister Groivan and his son, the Count may be displeased if we left the statue without its—"

Thud. Clay landed his glass on the table with a loud noise. It did not break, but it did startle the maids passing around the hall.

Clay turns to the butler after brushing his mouth, showing a look Clay knew only Horus could pull off.

Butler Gil knew this expression damn well. Despite his high position in the ranking of servants, half his duties focused on the welfare of the youngest son, Horus.

Clay knew most of those who worked for Horus—servants, maids, or even tutors and scholars—rarely lasted long in their positions, either quitting after just a few days or pleading with Butler Gil to transfer them elsewhere.

It was why, unlike other young noblemen, Horus did not have many servants in his wing. And given Gil's unrivaled patience and experience, it was natural for the Count to put Gil to take care of Horus, even if it was against the old butler's will.

"I understand." Gil sighed.

"I have a reason. I'll deal with Father," stated Clay, his silver fork pointed in the air.

Gil, out of choices, gave a curt nod, his expression polite but guarded. "Very well, sir. I will see to it that the knights are informed."

━━━━━━━━━━

Dusk soon came, and Clay spent his night in his room, scribbling down notes on batches of parchments.

'Too many had already happened. By the third volume, the hero must have gathered half his original crew.'

As most heroes in a typical fantasy novel, they all possess a willing crew that helps them accomplish their goals. Be it a member of the Royal Family or an exiled elven princess, Axel Hillkind—the hero—is no exception to this.

Clay recalled Axel had seven companions in total, and most were outlaws. One of them was the half-elf Effelia, a capable Third Circle light and illusion mage. Without her, it would be impossible to sneak the Sword of the Sun out of the highly-guarded estate.

'This should be viable enough.'

Clay finished with seven pages, all written in Filipino. Each narrated critical events, character descriptions, and necessary locations that Clay needed to take note of. With all this information at his disposal, Clay just had plotted a safe, ideal move to save his head tomorrow.

And by that, the morning came more quickly than Clay had hoped. He did not sleep—as if he could, anyway.

With the help of Gil and the pale-blonde maid yesterday, Clay did not take long to dress.

He ended up in linen garments in full regalia—in a monochrome of black as Clay requested to the two. His gloomy option made the maid and Gil hesitate, but they still respected his uncanny choice.

"Young master," the maid called. She then offered Clay a sheathed sword as she bowed.

Behind her was Butler Gil, who seemed excited at the sight. "That is a special one, young master. It was a gift from the Beckett Royalty to your mother when she was still alive. I found it in the lower armory last night, unused but should still be in fine condition—I dare say."

Clay took and examined the sword, drawing it halfway. It was a fine, lightweight blade with a silver hilt. At its pommel was the Durkton crest—the symbol of courage and loyalty bestowed by the Kingdom—the silver griffin.

Clay could tell that this wasn't an ordinary sword. It had mana-sensitive inscriptions on its edge that should glow when infused with mana.

One tradition the Durktons always held is that all heirs of the territory must be at least a swordmage at their Fifth Circle—indeed a rare feat since only one over a thousand, with enough luck, are at the edge of their Fifth Circle.

The other family members, however, including women, are not forced to wield the sword but are mandated to study it and its diverse history that runs in the family.

This tradition answers why Horus studied swordsmanship at the academy while having no talent for it. And it was why Luther, his respected prodigal older brother, soon took after Count Glennard's position as the territory's head.

"A fine one indeed," said Clay with a faint, minuscule smile.

Clay soon found himself in the estate's bustling courtyard, surrounded by towering stone walls that close it from the rocky cliff within the view. There, poles with griffin banners stood tall, fluttering in the strong breeze.

"This way, young master," said Butler Gil, leading Clay to the entrance where a bunch of armored knights guarded its well-decorated front.

"G-Greetings, young master," said the tallest among knights in a bold, Chirean manner—a familiar tone Clay could distinguish. His bulky body seems to bulge out of the tight steel armor, and so does his bright red hair.

'Must be an immigrant from the south—but does Horus know this guy?'

Ignoring his thought, Clay replied with a short nod and continued tailing Gil. The knights bowed as he parted.

Clay, still led by Gil, entered the event's circle, a circular arena surrounded by a crowd of nobles and youths. The tall poles and knights adorned its perimeter, creating an imposing spectacle.

As Clay stepped onto the shallow platform, all eyes were down on the ring below. Two men, perhaps at their late adolescent age, were locked in a fiery match, their movements fluid and precise.

The two fighters moved warily but with force, their swords clashing with a loud clang. Each motion made the crowd cheer and jeer, loud enough to make Clay mishear Gil calling out to him.

"Young master, you must head upward and greet the visitors," repeated Gil as he led Clay to a staircase at one corner.

And as Clay followed, his eyes subtly caught a group of hooded figures above one of the courtyard's spires. They quickly disappeared, fading in a meld that only those who expect it could glimpse.

'They are here... just as expected.'