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Derrick quickly acquired the records of the owners of the buildings from which the assassination attempt was launched. As expected, they all belonged to merchants from the Holy Cross Kingdom. These individuals likely wouldn’t leave any traceable evidence behind.

“Follow the list,” Derrick commanded. “For these establishments connected to the Holy Cross Kingdom, smash one store each. As for those who have done business with them, wreck all their shops.”

With local informants assisting, gathering intel was easy. Derrick's actions unfolded so rapidly that no one had time to react or understand his true intentions. The guards at the city gates, still reeling from witnessing the assassination attempt on the viscount right under their noses, dared not challenge the Augusta family’s private soldiers. Their main concern was escaping the chaos unscathed.

The guards thought the knights had come to protect Derrick, but to their astonishment, Derrick ordered his knights to storm into the bustling streets of Pran City with the precision of wolves descending on prey. Guided by locals, they quickly identified their targets.

“What do you think you're doing? This is the Os family’s establishment! Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?” a manager from one of the shops stepped forward, relying on the name of a well-known noble family to intimidate the knights.

In response, he was met with the brute force of a sword hilt to the face.

“What are we doing? What do you think, you bastard? Wreck the place!” one knight barked.

The poor manager, completely unarmed and powerless, collapsed to the ground. His face was trampled under iron boots as the knights stormed in. The shop assistants, trembling with fear, were on the verge of destroying their own store to avoid further wrath.

Smash! Anything that resisted destruction was struck with heavy blades. The knights came and went in a whirlwind, leaving chaos in their wake. In minutes, they exited, stepping over the fallen manager as they left.

This scene repeated itself across the city, again and again.

Soon, Count Pereira got word of the upheaval. The commotion couldn’t be hidden, and it soon became public knowledge. Enraged, several local northern nobles whose shops had been destroyed rushed to confront the count.

“Count Pereira, Viscount Derrick has gone mad!” one noble protested. “This is reckless! Just because of an assassination attempt, he’s blaming us without evidence! Our ties to the Holy Cross Kingdom are purely business-related.”

Even though they shared northern roots, no noble could tolerate a direct assault on their property. If this was overlooked today, who knew what Derrick might do tomorrow?

Count Pereira, feeling a massive headache, hadn’t anticipated Derrick’s audacity. It was too bold, too reckless. Didn’t Derrick realize the enemies he was making? The young man was clearly too brash and immature. Still, Pereira had to defend his future grandson-in-law.

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“Calm down, all of you! You’re not entirely without suspicion,” he rebuked them. “Don’t blame me for being strict—go back and investigate if anyone let anything slip. If you can find the informant, I’ll personally take Derrick to apologize. Otherwise, you’ll have to endure this.”

Pereira’s mix of reprimand and reassurance managed to pacify the outraged nobles, albeit grudgingly. Then, he noticed Marquis Hussein smirking at the scene, which only further ignited his anger.

“That brat Derrick needs a proper punishment,” Pereira grumbled.

...

But if Marquis Hussein knew what was unfolding next, his smile would have vanished.

The knights accompanying Derrick were battle-hardened from the past six months of warfare. Their tempers ran hot, and their disdain for disorder was palpable. Among them was Simon, a knight who thrived on chaos and gladly took on an even more daring mission.

Smashing shops was the restrained approach. But when it came to the other prime suspect—no, the culprit—there would be no leniency. Simon led his knights, fully armored, straight into the camp of the Royal Capital’s army.

The soldiers there, unprepared and disorganized, barely put up any resistance.

“Capture a hundred of them,” Simon ordered coldly. When an officer tried to intervene, he was struck down. “This is the Northern Conquerors’ First Legion! Who do you think you are?”

But Simon didn’t care about the so-called First Legion, made up of a bunch of farmers conscripted under nobles. The officer was trampled by the hooves of warhorses, and the soldiers nearby, shocked into submission, stood frozen as their comrades, even some junior officers, were hauled away.

In truth, Simon himself hadn’t expected it to be so easy. He silently thanked Marquis Hussein’s incompetence. After two months of leading this ragtag army, the marquis still hadn’t managed to organize them into a cohesive force. With most senior officers absent, Simon easily intimidated them into submission.

“Pathetic cowards,” he scoffed.

The knights rode off, mission accomplished. Derrick had secured the “gifts” he intended to bring to the gathering.

“Let’s go,” he declared. “Time to face those nobles from the capital.”

It had been half a day by then, and Count Pereira had been waiting anxiously. Some northern nobles grumbled that Derrick had gone too far, while the capital’s aristocrats whispered among themselves, amused by the infighting. Marquis Hussein, pleased by the discord, was already plotting how to leverage the situation to his advantage.

Then, noise erupted outside.

“Viscount Derrick has arrived!” came the announcement.

Pereira rushed out, anxious to see if Derrick was injured. But when he emerged, he found Derrick’s prisoners strung up—both the would-be assassins and rows of soldiers clad in royal uniforms, forced to their knees.

“Marquis,” one of the kneeling soldiers called desperately, “Commander!”

As Marquis Hussein stepped out, the full gravity of the situation hit. These were soldiers from the Northern Conquerors’ First Legion, and some onlookers recognized familiar faces among them.

Pereira knew this wasn’t good. What was Derrick planning?

“Derrick, what are you doing?” he demanded.

Derrick turned and grinned. “What our forebears did, of course.”

What had their ancestors done? Thirty years ago, during the War of Division, any fleeing noble was strung up by the fierce northern knights. This legacy of ruthlessness was one reason the northern knights were so disliked.

Marquis Hussein could no longer remain silent. Pushing pastCount Pereira, he tried to reason with Derrick. “This isn’t the War of Division. Killing my soldiers would be an act of treason.”

Ever cunning, he laced his words with a trap, almost eager to see Derrick fall into it. If he could frame Derrick as a traitor, it would be a victory. And he didn’t bother to hide the anticipation in his eyes.