“It’s Lance Inkor.”

After dispatching Tristan and Yvolt to the Elven Kingdom for corruption recovery, Burn, Yvain, and Morgan settled down to piece together the information they had gathered.

Yvain finished reading the documents Tristan and Yvolt brought for them and set them back on the table. “The inventor of the Vision Resonator is the illegitimate prince, Lance Inkor.”

Burn nodded. He decisively said, “One.”

Yvain started recounting everything he'd learned from Finn and the nobles he'd met. Their movements, it seemed, had been noted—and not kindly. To both the First Prince’s and the Prime Minister’s factions, their actions were nothing less than an attempt to establish a new power bloc.

“They’ve seen us, and they know us,” Yvain said grimly.

Morgan tapped a finger against her temple, her tone reflective yet sharp. “After finding that pitiful slave and everything that happened that night, it’s obvious the Demon Lord is operating out of Inkia. It’s just a matter of time before they make a move.”

She paused, then let out a dry laugh. “Honestly, it’s not even Inkia’s problem anymore, is it? The problem is the Demon Lord. Or rather, Inkia’s problem is because of the Demon Lord.”

Burn shifted in his seat, glancing behind him. Finn, standing near the door, had stiffened, narrowing his eyes at someone approaching.

The man stepped forward, addressing Burn with a low voice. “Sir, are you sure it’s wise for me to be here? Sir Bedivere’s guarding Edensor alone now.”

It was Gawain, Rank 5 of the Round Table—a knight whose steadfastness could put most saints to shame.

“Did you bring my steeds?” Burn asked, ignoring the question entirely.

Gawain chuckled, shaking his head. “Of course I did. Couldn’t leave those beauties behind.”

In every loop, Gawain was the one trusted to care for the two mechanical Griffiths. He’d also been charged with overseeing Edensor under Soulnaught’s banner. With Yvain’s duties piling up, it fell to Gawain and Bedivere to keep Edensor’s occasionally treacherous nobles in check.

Though, to be fair, the magical pact ensured treachery was mostly a thing of the past.

Gawain knelt before Burn, his posture perfect, his demeanor severe. If loyalty were measured, Gawain was only second to Galahad himself—amusingly, even he surpassed Percival, Burn’s so-called first guard knight.

“Gawain Agravaine, reporting to His Majesty.”

Burn gave a nod of approval. “Good work. We’re stretched thin as it is—Tristan and Yvolt are out recovering.”

And thin didn’t even begin to cover it. The entire Round Table was drowning in assignments. Percival went back and forth between Soulnaught Capital and the Northern Border. Morien was camping near the borders of Inkia and Soulnaught.

Gawain and Bedivere had been tasked with Edensor, while Sagramore, Erec, and Howl alternated between guarding Elysian and shuttling between the emptied kingdom and Soulnaught.

Galahad and Landevale, mercifully, had avoided being dragged into yet another charade of replacing Burn and Morgan.

For now. Both knights had been absent from their posts for far too long, and Burn had put out a carefully worded statement claiming that he’d taken Morgan south to a ‘winter retreat’ for her health. Better air. Better weather. Convenient excuses.

Though Edensor required attention, Gawain wasn’t particularly concerned about Bedivere managing things solo. With the region stabilizing, its once-defiant nobles had been cowed—if not by the magical pact, then by Morgan’s return and the reluctant acceptance of Yvain and Burn’s co-rule.

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

Even the most stubborn holdouts had started to fall in line. Begrudgingly. Naturally.

It wasn’t often that Burn summoned Gawain like this. Typically, he assigned him to distant matters, tasks that required a steady hand far from Burn’s direct oversight. The reason was simple: Burn trusted Gawain implicitly. Beyond Galahad and Percival, Gawain was one of the very few given the freedom to wage war as he saw fit, without the need for prior consultation.

In other words, Burn wouldn’t so much as bat an eye at Gawain’s decisions, no matter how unorthodox—or how absurd. Whether it involved executing criminals, slaughtering innocents, or picking fights with allies and enemies alike, Burn trusted him to handle it.

When it came to decision-making and sheer cunning, Gawain’s methods mirrored Burn’s more closely than anyone else’s. That’s precisely why Gawain felt there was more to this summons than met the eye. If Burn had called him here in person, it wasn’t without reason.

“Take a seat and try to keep up with the conversation,” Burn instructed, his tone as sharp as ever. “I’ll let you ask questions when I think it’s time for you to understand.”

He then turned to Finn, who still hadn’t moved. “You too. Sit.”

“We are talking about the rise of the Demon Lord… in Inkia.”

The political landscape of Inkia wasn’t exactly difficult to grasp—it was chaos neatly disguised as order. Rafaye Inkor wasn’t meant to ascend the throne. That honor had been reserved for his older brother, Ledger. With the support of the former Prime Minister and a formidable Queen Mother, Ledger’s claim to the crown had seemed unshakable.

But while Ledger was busy cleaning up his brothers—removing anyone who might challenge his right to rule—someone else decided to clean him up. The result was nothing short of stunning.

Ledger Inkor, a healthy young man of 25, died peacefully in his sleep. A heart attack, they said. No poison, no foul play, no evidence of tampering. Just a tragic twist of fate. Or so they claimed.

Of course, no one believed it. How could they? The timing was impeccable. Suspicious. Too convenient by half. And with Ledger gone, there was only one legitimate heir left to claim the throne: Rafaye Inkor.

No one had ever expected him to rule. Unfavored and unsupported, his ascent to power seemed less like destiny and more like a cruel joke. But where luck failed him, shrewdness carried him. Rumor had it that Rafaye had once confessed to the former Prime Minister that he had killed Ledger—a quiet boast whispered in passing. True or not, Rafaye wasted no time solidifying his position.

He married strategically, claiming influential daughters from powerful families. In turn, those families fought tooth and nail to curry his favor, their self-serving schemes only strengthening his own. All Rafaye had to do was sit back, play the long game, and build his power base.

Years of machinations eventually bore fruit. Queen Celia Angemoux emerged as his strongest ally, creating the First Prince’s faction with his blessing. But the former Prime Minister didn’t forget. He’d lost the battle to secure the throne for Ledger, but he wasn’t done fighting.

The old man used his remaining influence to make his son the next Prime Minister, passing down the war like a family heirloom before dying of an accident. And the current Prime Minister needed a prince to make his vision of the future a reality.

The two younger legitimate princes—children of another queen and a concubine—weren’t worth the effort. But an illegitimate prince? One who was already a towering success in his own right? That was a different story.

Enter Lance Inkor. At 30 years old, he was everything Rafaye wasn’t: young, brilliant, influential, wealthy, and powerful. The son of a Wintersin noble, Princess Willow, Lance’s bloodline stretched to the Wintersin Emperor himself. Yes, he was technically the son of the distant fourth cousin of Wintersin’s ruler.

As the owner of the continent’s most exclusive gentlemen’s club and a close associate of Loneborn Merchant Group—the wealthiest merchant syndicate in the land—Lance was more than capable of holding his own.

In fact, it wasn’t so much that the Prime Minister backed Lance; it felt more like Lance was backing the Prime Minister. Even after the death of Princess Willow and her father in the Wintersin’s Civil War.

What truly set Lance apart was his survival. Rafaye hadn’t acknowledged him until well into adulthood, conveniently sparing him from Queen Celia’s earlier purges of potential threats to her own son’s rise. By the time anyone cared to look twice, Lance was untouchable.

But it was actually deeper than that. Because all of this couldn’t have happened only recently. This all seemed to be something that had been planned for decades.

So, they had to start from the very beginning.

Burn raised his voice, “Who helped Rafaye’s rise to the throne?”

A heart attack. Ledger Inkor’s death had never sat right. And now, with the Demon Lord’s shadow creeping through the world’s rulers, Rafaye being one of his pawns felt almost inevitable.

“Rafaye met Princess Willow Barbarella’s father about a month before Ledger’s death,” Finn said, handing Burn a document. “It’s the only unusual thing in his timeline.”

“Lance Inkor’s grandfather helped Rafaye secure the throne, opposing the previous Prime Minister…” Yvain said.

“Two,” Burn noted in his mind. “Next?”