The scandal erupted like a powder keg.

News that Nolan Rook had abruptly rejected an interview with a renowned media outlet—one that had already bragged about securing it—spread uncontrollably.

This wasn’t a simple snub. Not a polite refusal or a rescheduling. No, the mysterious young hero had outright told them to get lost.

“What’s wrong with that boy?!” shouted a woman in the marketplace, clutching a still-damp newspaper. The front page bore a humiliating headline for the outlet that had trumpeted their “exclusive” interview.

“Serves them right,” another woman replied with a sly grin. “They spent days boasting like they owned him, as if he were their dancing monkey!”

“This is a disaster!” interrupted a fruit vendor, slamming his counter. “My wife hasn’t stopped talking about that interview all week. And now? All for nothing?”

In cafés, noble tearooms, and soldiers’ taverns, the conversation echoed the same.

“This is humiliating for the paper,” muttered a middle-aged man, sipping his tea with a mocking smirk. “They overplayed their hand and got burned.”

“The real question is… why did he refuse?” mused a younger man, eyes glued to the newspaper. “It makes no sense. Is he afraid of slipping up?”

“Or maybe…” A woman leaned forward, her smile cunning. “He doesn’t want to be seen.”

Heads turned toward her.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“What do you mean?” asked a gray-bearded man, frowning.

“They say no one truly knows his face,” she continued, relishing the attention. “Only knights saw him bloodied and muddy on the battlefield. What if he’s an old man? Or scarred beyond recognition from war?”

Rumors spread like wildfire.

Some claimed Nolan was elderly, his legendary swordsmanship born of decades of training, and that he refused public appearances to hide his age.

Others insisted his face was riddled with scars, hence avoiding cameras.

But the most popular theory? His sheer, monstrous strength.

“I heard he swung a sword as big as a horse and took down three foes in one strike!” a man enthused in a tavern, drawing awed nods.

“Obviously! Surviving that many battles? He’s gotta be a muscle-bound colossus!” another declared.

The gossip soon crossed borders. Foreign radio stations debated the “Nolan Rook mystery,” and international publications sent emissaries for firsthand scoops. Meanwhile, the capital’s focus narrowed to one event:

Princess Iris’s birthday.

If Nolan had rejected the interview, the only chance to see him would be at the royal gala—where the princess herself confirmed he’d attend.

It was no joke to call this party the golden goose no journalist dared miss.

Thus, many begged, bribed, or schemed for an invitation… all to corner Nolan.

The day arrived. Nobles, officials, and the kingdom’s elite streamed into the castle. Ornate carriages bearing crests of powerful families lined the entrance, guests gliding past guards with practiced ease.

Streets near the castle teemed with onlookers—commoners hoping to glimpse the nation’s luminaries. Excited murmurs, hushed bets on the most extravagant attire, and the buzz of anticipation filled the air.

Then, an understated carriage halted at the gates.

Unlike the gilded, knight-escorted coaches, this one bore no emblems. The doors opened, and a dark-haired young man stepped out, dressed in formal but unadorned attire. Beside him, a brown-haired girl followed, scanning her surroundings with wary curiosity.

The guards barely glanced their way.

“Probably some noble’s assistants,” one muttered as the pair walked toward the entrance.

“Yeah, they don’t look important,” his partner shrugged.

The crowd ignored them too. Why fuss over two anonymous young nobles?

But inside the castle…

Only a handful knew the truth.