The staircase twisted up into a vast, marbled hall, its walls lined with tall, arched windows spilling in slants of golden sunlight. The hallway stretched out like the spine of the castle, leading to a pair of immense wooden doors carved with intricate detail. The symbol of Carnifex, as big as the Prized Possession behind Stick, was etched into their surfaces, its lines clean and imposing, hinting at power and authority beyond the doorway. Two guards with Stamos-like equipment stood sentry before the door, their visors angled to watch any approaching figure. The chill of anticipation prickled Stick’s skin, but something else snagged his attention: a familiar figure seated along a row of polished benches that lined one side of the hall. Not him.
Dressed in his resplendent burgundy tunic, the Lord appeared almost regal in his bearing—if not for the impatient tapping of his boot. The rich fabric caught the light from the window, making the gold embroidery shimmer with every movement. A large, circular brooch of finely worked gold clasped a dark green mantle at his shoulders, the cloak draping over him. His belt, wide and adorned with metalwork, cinched his waist and hinted at the sword that had once hung there. Every inch of his attire, from the ornate designs at his sleeves to the crest embroidered over his heart, marked him as a man of status. If only Baron Lucio Bonatelli was a man. His arms were crossed, brows furrowed in a scowl, as he engaged in a hushed conversation with a blue-haired boy standing next to him.
“I’m a High Council member now! Why can’t I have my sword inside the hall?” Bonatelli demanded, his voice a low rumble.
The boy’s outfit was something that Stick hadn’t seen before. It was an eccentric mix of style and function. His coat flared dramatically at the shoulders, the sharp red edges and layered fabric giving him a commanding presence. Beneath the coat, a deep-blue tunic and brown trousers hinted at upper-class origins, though the well-worn fabric suggested a life that had seen battle. His right shoulder was protected by a single piece of angular armour, adding a practical layer to his otherwise stylish garb. Strapped boots and padded leg guards completed the look, giving him the mobility of a fighter while maintaining a relaxed fit. A red scarf, draped over his neck and shoulder, added a splash of bold colour and movement, making him stand out among the guards. Stick’s eyes fell from the boy’s missing helmet to the lance in his hands. If it weren’t for that weapon, Stick wouldn’t have taken him for a fighter at all.
image [https://i.imgur.com/7bvqo2t.jpeg]
“I don’t know, Lucio. Ask Father about the rules, not me,” the boy responded, sounding exasperated.
Did he just say Father?
The boy’s words had landed with the sting of familiarity, yet it seemed only to frustrate the Baron more. “They can’t do that only to me! What makes you so special?”
If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
“Everyone has to follow that rule.” The boy sighed, barely concealing his impatience. “It’s just that I’m a Praetorian. That’s basically it.”
“Don’t test me, Nakamura!” Bonatelli snapped.
“He was right. You take things too personally.”
Stick glanced at his fellow prisoners, but they were just as transfixed by the scene. As they approached, the blue-haired boy, Nakamura, turned his sharp gaze on them.
“Halt!” His voice was firm, his posture less so, though his expression was one of weary duty. “You’re about to enter the High Council’s Hall. Leave any Main-Hand weapons you carry with you here.”
The blue bag he held open looked barely large enough to hold even a dagger, let alone a full-length weapon. But Becket, moving with habitual precision, activated his Inventory. In rapid succession, he withdrew two swords, each dematerialising above the bag’s opening as they entered, as if consumed by the small container. Fascinating.
Finally, Becket’s hand hovered over the hilt of the sword strapped to his hip, hesitating. Nakamura shook the bag to signal him to hurry up. When Stick raised his head, he met Becket’s eyes. He didn’t say anything, but the message in his gaze was clear, and Stick felt an odd pang of understanding. He just stared at Stick for a moment before the sword and the scabbard on his hip dematerialised. He grabbed the new item that appeared in the Inventory window and placed the last sword in the blue bag.
“Thank you,” Nakamura said curtly.
He closed the bag and hung it from his belt, his sharp blue gaze drifting over each of them, lingering on Stick a moment longer than the others. His eyes narrowed as they settled on Stick, surprise sparking in their depths.
“He really is LVL 1,” Nakamura murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Baron Bonatelli, catching this, stood up, scandalised. “What? You think I’m lying?”
Nakamura’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know, Lucio. The General said you’re too close to this case.”
“Stop calling me that! It’s Baron Bonatelli to you!”
But Nakamura’s attention had already shifted back to Stick, his gaze more searching now, as if he were seeing something unusual. His eyes, an arresting shade of blue, scanned Stick’s face as though searching for answers he couldn’t find. Stick also couldn’t help but stare. There were a few things different about that boy. There was the blue hair, of course, but also the more horizontally oriented eye sockets that Stick had not seen before struck him as odd. Despite his stern role, there was something contemplative—almost reluctant—behind his expression, as though he didn’t quite want to be here, performing this duty, but he still did his job in a faithful albeit less authoritarian manner. Strangest of all, he seemed to meet Baron Bonatelli on an eye level, despite clearly being a guard. Just who is this guy?
A nearby guard cleared his throat, drawing Bonatelli’s attention. “Baron Bonatelli, sir.”
“What is it?” The Baron’s voice was gruff, his impatience flaring again. “I’m in the middle of something!”
The guard stepped forward. “The Council is ready for the hearing.”
Bonatelli straightened, casting a final glare at Nakamura before adjusting the clasp on his cloak and storming forward. Stick felt the weight of the moment, the solemnity of whatever lay behind that door. He exchanged a glance with PP and, catching a final, assessing look from Shadis, stepped forward into the unknown.