Chapter 8 : The One Who Party!

In the kingdom of Izerack, a man with gray hair and piercing red eyes sat slouched in his chair. This was Tristan, one of the eight great generals of the kingdom, a prestigious position, yet at this moment, he couldn’t help but sigh as he stared at a document in his hands.

"He’s mocking us…" he murmured, his eyes fixed on the letter.

"How dare he have the nerve to invite Izerack’s royalty to his home..." Tristan continued, irritated. Suddenly, another voice rose behind him, that of Livor, his blond-haired lieutenant.

"Still that business with the Murderous Envoy, Tristan?" asked Livor, barely hiding the irritation and resentment he harbored for this captain who treated him like trash just because he himself was an Envoy, a foreigner in this world.

"No, not that matter. This one is even more infuriating."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you remember 'The Light of the Eternal Throne'?"

"Oh… that old bearded guy… What was his name again?"

"Grealf Dracarys, bearer of one of the Crown’s fragments, with the honorary title of ‘King.’"

"Ah, right, him! So, what does he want from you?"

"He just sent a letter… Well, a letter addressed to His Majesty the king."

"Ooh… incredible, two kings chatting with each oth—"

"NO, YOU FOOL!" roared Tristan, exasperated.

"My apologies, Tristan…" replied Livor reluctantly, controlling himself to soothe his captain. "Calm down. What exactly did I say to make you so upset?"

"Grealf isn’t a king. He holds one fragment among thousands of the Crown, which gives him the title, but no political authority."

"Alright, alright, no need to give me a headache over it..."

"That’s the problem with Envoys; they understand nothing of our rules."

"Tsk…" murmured Livor bitterly before asking, "And what does his letter say?"

"It invites the royal family to his manor..."

"Is it an emergency?"

"No, apparently the old fool wants to celebrate his grandson’s first hunt."

"He has a grandson?"

"Actually, no, not that I know of. That’s what makes this letter so strange. I’m going to tear it up." Tristan clenched the letter, ready to crush it in his grip, but a voice stopped him.

"Oh no, no need, Captain… I’ll handle it myself," said Livor calmly. Tristan’s anger seemed to evaporate. He stood up, tossing the letter to his lieutenant.

"Go burn that rag. I’m going to clear my mind," he muttered as he left the room.

But unbeknownst to Tristan, Livor had no intention of burning the letter. He planned to deliver it directly to the royal family and then claim it was an "accidental oversight," just for the fun of it at his captain’s expense.

At Grealf’s manor, everything seemed almost… normal.

"Shame, congratulations on your first hunt!" suddenly boomed a deep, worn voice—that of Grealf.

"Don’t you think you’re overdoing it a bit?" sighed Shame, watching his grandfather, who was standing on the living room table, attempting some awkward dance steps.

Dusk was settling gently over the manor, the first stars were twinkling in the sky, and the wind was blowing lightly against the windows, giving the scene an eerie calm.

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"Overdoing it? Not a chance! Do you know how long I’ve waited for this moment?" cried Grealf, still perched on the table.

"I dunno… a millennium, given how old you are?"

"I WON’T HAVE THAT, KID!" barked Grealf, before resuming in a softer, almost dreamy tone. "I always wanted a grandson, but there was no way I’d settle for just anyone."

"And now, do I get your Crown fragment?" asked Shame, stepping toward the table where his grandfather was proudly holding court.

"Not so fast, brat. You’re still far from ready."

"And when will I be ready, then?"

"When your level bar stops showing numbers and starts displaying ranks."

"Ranks?"

"I’ve reached the transcendental rank, the highest… or so I think… someone once told me there was another one above it, but I was probably drunk when I heard that," Grealf replied, laughing. "But it doesn’t matter, kid. You’ll reach the Anodin-rank when your orb hits level 50, and then, no more numbers."

"I get it…"

"But enough of that, today is a day to celebrate! And don’t forget, the day after tomorrow, you’ll have to pick the prettiest one!" Grealf exclaimed suddenly, with a big smile.

Shame remained puzzled, not understanding a word of the promise his grandfather had made on his behalf.

"Well… I’m off to train, Grandpa."

"Take care, Shame. BWAHAHAHA!" roared Grealf with laughter, grabbing a bottle from the table and downing it in one gulp.

Shame, for his part, headed toward the manor exit, circled around it, and made his way to the garden to train in the calm of the approaching night.

Once in the garden, Shame drew his… rusty sword, his "precious," a hunk of metal he was inexplicably proud of.

"There you are again, sword of legends! Such beauty… this rust… splendid," Shame murmured, gazing at the dull blade with admiration, his tone always as ‘dramatic.’

He then started training, swinging at the air, trying to master his blade as he had seen real swordsmen do. Grealf often told him that what he was doing was nothing like a swordsman’s technique, and, like a stubborn child, Shame wanted to prove his worth to his grandfather.

To do so, he kept swinging the blade with no finesse, delivering crude, violent strikes. Every gesture exuded brutality; Shame had nothing of nobility in his soul, nor in his style.

"AHAHAH! Behold the mastery of the ultimate blade…" he chuckled, redoubling his energy, oblivious to Grealf who, from the living room window, observed the training with an expression that was both puzzled and mocking.

Leaning over the table, a tankard in hand, Grealf watched his strange descendant, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

"He’s a strange one, my kid… Bah, no matter! When those damn aristocrats show up at the party, he’ll have to be ready… BWAHAHAHAHA!"

The moon rose high in the sky as Shame continued training, his face drenched in sweat. To him, each sword stroke was a step toward greatness.

"With this… I’ll get a bit stronger," he murmured, breathless.

"I have to at least reach level 50… Then the old man won’t be able to say anything!" Sword still in hand, he struck with everything he had, hoping wholeheartedly to unlock a new skill. But nothing happened. Disappointed, he finally sheathed his weapon and returned to the manor to go to bed. Meanwhile, Grealf was already sound asleep on the couch, likely after drinking too much.

In his room, Shame collapsed onto his bed and fell into a deep sleep, unaware that he would need to increase his "guilt" to progress in his celestial alignment—an obscure detail he was completely unaware of.

In the throne room of the kingdom of Izerack

"An invitation… from Grealf Dracarys?!" exclaimed the old queen of Izerack, Abeth Si Izerack, frowning. She sat in the center of the majestic hall, where everything exuded grandeur and divinity. In this world, sovereigns were seen as chosen by the gods, and each royal capital embodied this sacredness, perceivable from the first step.

"Indeed, madam, Mr. Dracarys invites you and your family to a banquet at his manor in the Forgotten Forest," replied Livor at once, in a voice so sweet it sounded insincere. Although his captain had forbidden him to deliver the letter, Livor had decided to bring it himself.

"W-Why bring me this letter, and not directly to the king?" asked the queen, suspiciously. A calculating smile slipped across Livor’s lips.

"Normally, Tristan should have given it to you, but… let’s just say he fears that His Majesty might catch you two together…"

"O-Oh, that charmer! But tell me… are you sure the king is unaware of our relationship?"

"Rest assured, Majesty. I would never betray my friend, Captain Tristan," Livor promised in a reassuring tone.

"And what do you want me to do with this letter?" asked the queen, still hesitant.

"Tristan greatly desires that you accept, Majesty. But… he would prefer that you do not reveal that the invitation came from me. Nor to the king, for that matter."

"Why so?"

"The king might grow suspicious… and if he knows the invitation comes from Tristan, he would likely refuse. So, by pretending to know nothing, Tristan clears himself of all suspicion. As for His Majesty, make him believe this letter arrived through a simple servant."

"I-I see… You’re quite clever, Lieutenant Livor. Perhaps I should consider ennobling you…"

Livor gave a humble, albeit false, smile. "Do no such thing, Majesty. Just attend the banquet with your family, and perhaps… bring a few friends, and Tristan as well."

"Oh, certainly. I’ll be there, fear not. And… when does it take place, again…" the queen began, but Livor interrupted her.

"In two days, Majesty," he replied with a smirk.

And so, all the preparations for the "feast" were in place, without Shame having the slightest idea… who knows what expression he’ll make in two days!