"Is this the woman I can’t afford to offend…?"

Charles wiped the cold sweat beading on his forehead, his gaze darting to Lumbia in the corner. Lumbia rolled his eyes, the gesture a silent admission: Don’t look at me—I can’t help you with this one.

Tina had just humiliated the Third Prince and snubbed the Wilton family without a shred of hesitation. Yet, the Wilton scions merely turned a blind eye, acting as if nothing had happened.

Where are the Wiltons? Charles thought anxiously. Your sister is about to be beaten to death—are none of you going to intervene?

He scanned the room for the Wilton heirs. His eyes landed on Doug, who stood chatting nonchalantly with another noble, his expression unreadable. The muffled screams of Issa, who had been thrown out earlier, now faded into an unsettling silence.

Charles swallowed hard, resigned, and sank back into his seat.

This is too much...

When the banquet finally ended, Charles felt like a man walking a tightrope. He even approached Winters, the host, to apologize for the chaos, only to be met with a pitying look. Winters clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture oddly foreboding.

It felt like a death sentence.

By the time Charles left, it was nearing four in the afternoon. His instructor's practical training session had long since started. Deciding he was already late, he dawdled, buying fruit from a street vendor before heading leisurely toward the training ground.

What greeted him there was a storm brewing in human form: Grant, his new combat instructor. The man’s expressionless, scarred face exuded menace, his black eyes smoldering with barely contained fury.

Charles froze. Without a word, he stuffed an apple back into the bag and quickly retreated, only to steel himself moments later. After hastily tidying his appearance, he stepped back onto the training ground.

"You’re late, Charles West." Grant’s voice was flat, but the faint twitch at the corner of his eye betrayed his simmering anger.

Charles winced, realizing just how much he’d miscalculated. This wasn’t just tardiness—Grant had clearly been waiting for him for far too long. A grueling twenty-day journey from the North, crossing mountains and valleys, all to teach a noble brat who dared to show up late in a leather jacket unsuitable for combat training.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Grant," Charles began earnestly. "I attended the Third Prince's banquet as a representative of the West family. I came here as soon as it ended."

Grant’s eyes flicked to the fruit in Charles’s hands. His expression darkened further.

Charles panicked and stammered, “I-I truly apologize, sir. I—”

"Forget it." Grant’s voice cut through the air, low and bitter. "Nobles are all the same."

He turned and walked away, his shoulders stiff with restrained emotion.

"Class is over. You can go."

Charles sighed heavily as he watched Grant's retreating figure. He had made a terrible impression, and the damage wasn’t easily undone. Determined to make amends, he hurried after his instructor. But by the time he reached the gates, Grant had disappeared.

That evening, Charles found him sitting alone atop the highest rooftop in Violet Flower Park, the academy’s most picturesque spot. The blooms below glowed faintly under the stars, their fragrance mingling with the crisp night air.

Grant didn’t turn around as Charles approached, his deep, gravelly voice breaking the stillness. "How did you find me?"

Charles, drenched in sweat, his leather jacket clinging to him, grinned despite his exhaustion. "The academy isn’t that big, Teacher Grant."

Grant let out a dry chuckle, but his tone remained cold. "I thought you’d be different, Charles."

The words struck like a blow. Grant continued, his voice heavy with disappointment. "I came here on an old friend's request—not to see you show up late, eating fruit in that ridiculous jacket."

"So you chose to come here just for me?" Charles asked softly, sitting beside the man.

Grant’s scarred face was a map of battles long fought. His lifeless eyes reflected none of the beauty surrounding them. "Yes, I did."

The silence stretched between them, but this time, Charles broke it.

"Teacher Grant," he began, his voice steady despite the vulnerability in his words. "I haven’t made a mistake since I was eight years old. Do you know why?"

Grant remained silent, so Charles continued, unbuttoning his jacket to reveal a back marred with scars.

"Because in the West family, mistakes mean death. My sister, Freya, is different. She has our parents’ love and protection. But me? I was disposable."

He paused, his sapphire-blue eyes gleaming under the starlight. "So I made a deal with her. I became her pawn, her shield. It saved me—at least, for a while."

Charles’s voice grew quieter, tinged with bitterness. "Even with Freya’s protection, I faced ten assassination attempts before I turned twelve. I survived because I learned something: right and wrong are irrelevant when survival is at stake. The only thing that matters is leverage."

He looked at Grant, his gaze piercing. "Attending today’s banquet wasn’t a mistake. It was a calculated decision that benefited my family. But to you, it was a betrayal of duty. That’s the difference between us, Teacher."

Charles knelt before Grant, lowering his head in a gesture of humility. "That’s why I need you—to teach me what’s beyond survival. To show me the difference between right and wrong."

Grant stared at the boy kneeling before him. For the first time in years, a flicker of life returned to his hollow eyes.