Author: 冬瓜茶仙人 / Winter Melon Tea Immortal

Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/

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Chapter 95

Yitzfa had never run so hard in his life. The wind rushing into his nostrils and lungs made him painfully breathless, but Shivers tightly gripped his wrist and dragged him along at a breakneck pace. The downhill path only added to their momentum, making it unbearable. Every second, Yitzfa felt he would collapse.

But he couldn’t stop.

The noise behind them made it clear that someone from the mansion was in pursuit. He couldn’t even afford to look back to check if the sound of arrows piercing the air was mingling with the wind, nor could he contemplate the possibility of dying right there—all he could do was run!

Despite his pampered upbringing, Yitzfa’s stamina was surprisingly better than he or Shivers had anticipated. Shivers’ weeks of scouting at night proved crucial as they bypassed the farmsteads. Though it was a longer route, the darkness helped them successfully make it to the woods that had begun sprouting new shoots. However, the light from the torches behind them pursued them relentlessly. Whether by Lestrop’s will or not, it seemed the mansion’s people were determined not to let these audacious men escape this night.

Yitzfa’s throat was too dry to speak. He wanted to yell for a stop, to say he could run no more, but Shivers never looked back, his silhouette harsh and severe in the moonlight.

But that severe demeanor didn’t last long. Shivers kindly slowed down, and when he finally turned around, Yitzfa’s ghostly pale face gave him a startle.

The man who had been dressed up with lace and silk like a porcelain doll by the ladies of the town just days ago now looked utterly disheveled, gasping like a dying fish.

Shivers knew he wasn’t used to running like this, but…

“We can’t stop yet,” he said, helping Yitzfa catch his breath. “We haven’t shaken off our pursuers, and we are still in Lestrop’s territory.”

Yitzfa pushed him away, bending over and supporting himself on his knees. His whole body was trembling.

“But we don’t need to keep running ourselves.” Shivers’s tone returned to its usual gentleness, soothingly pulling him along. “We’ll ride horses.”

Where are the horses?

Yitzfa refused to move, too dry in the mouth and throat to speak, just staring reproachfully with wide eyes.

“It’s just ahead, not far,” Shivers coaxed. “We really can’t stop. Those with torches are just a small group. We ran into the woods, so they’re probably using hunting dogs. We made it to the river, and they’ll have horsemen. Only by mounting a horse and leaving this area—away from the manor and the city—are we truly safe.”

Realizing Yitzfa could run no further, Shivers simply slung his arm over his shoulder and half-carried, half-dragged him along, still managing a decent pace. He hadn’t lied. After less than ten minutes of moving, they emerged from the woods to a small hill where a chestnut horse was quietly tethered to an apple tree. The area was silent, with no one else in sight.

Yitzfa thought he heard Shivers chuckle, but before he could listen closely, he was hoisted onto the horse. Despite the long, chaotic escape, Shivers looked hardly fatigued as he shook the reins and turned the horse into the deep night.

“You look so smug because you taught that guy a lesson, huh?” The Duke sat in a handwoven rattan chair, watching workers and servants on the dock busy like ants. The rabbit-headed shopkeeper stood by his side, leaning against the ship’s railing as he smoked.

Unlike the old smoker, who was engulfed in smoke, his smoking posture was elegant. Occasionally, he would exhale a cloud of smoke. The overly round shape of the smoke rings playfully revealed his good mood.

“You have to admit, Eugene did well.” The rabbit-headed shopkeeper turned away from the railing. One hand rested on it as he glanced at the Duke. “Was it when you were beating him up outside the green forest mine that you discovered his knack for tactics, and decided to send him to support Shivers?”

Dwight ignored the jest, slowly folding the letter in his hand.

Though unspoken, he agreed that Eugene had indeed performed exceptionally well this time.

Initially, the illiterate, petty thief seemed to have no talents beyond perceptiveness and was barely useful as a footman. But as they delved deeper into Doran, his adaptability, linguistic talent, and ability to judge situations sharply became increasingly apparent.

Besides his innate talent, his humble origins and years of living at the bottom had also shaped him; even Rabbit Head said he didn’t know Eugene could use his parting gift so effectively.

In their only brief meeting in the city, knowing roughly of Shivers’ plan, Eugene gave the knight all the useful gadgets he thought necessary: a detachable crossbow, smoke bombs for escape, and paralyzing potions. These proved quite effective afterwards.

But more valuable than such analysis and response was the rapport he built with others during the journey. According to Shivers’ description, they had only agreed beforehand that Eugene would prepare an escape boat and that they would meet at a secret location by the river outside the city after the moonrise to flee together.

Without knowing that Yitzfa would also join this action, Eugene had set up a double safety for Shivers—the chestnut horse.

They had never discussed it, neither the horse nor the place it was tethered, but peculiarly, without much chance to communicate, Eugene had accurately judged that Shivers might need that horse, and Shivers, for no apparent reason, felt Eugene would prepare the horse, even down to the apple tree where it was tied.

And it was indeed that horse that enabled Shivers to promptly take an utterly exhausted Yitzfa away from the pursuers, reaching the river where the three successfully met and continued downstream. If all went well, by the time the Duke received the report, they would be nearing the border of the Mokwen Kingdom, about to take the route through Lababata to meet up with them.

In the report that arrived ahead of them, Shivers also mentioned a detail: On the boat, the three had a deep conversation. Yitzfa said that due to limited time, after Lestrop and others were led away by Shivers, he had only managed to briefly look through each room. There were indeed valuable items in the round study, including early records of the manor’s dealings with a witch apothecarist and some letters, but parts involving potion formulas had been deliberately destroyed, and it was unclear if there were more secure hidden chambers deeper within the manor.

Yitzfa hadn’t handed this information to Shivers but intended to take it back to the Fox family for further study, though he agreed to let Shivers transcribe a copy to take with him.

This member of the Fox family was bolder than anyone had anticipated. He had indeed set a fire in those rooms. The content of his shouts as he rolled and scrambled past was no lie, but at the time, no one knew he was playing a double game.

And this action further confirmed the previous suspicions about the Fox family—that even within the Black Gold Families, their stance on the Holy Grail was probably not unified. Otherwise, Yitzfa’s primary goal should have been to gather as much information as possible, not to spend precious reconnaissance time starting a fire.

Just based on this, Shivers believed that Yitzfa himself wasn’t in favor of the Holy Grail’s advent. As for the reasons, perhaps Yitzfa also felt the Holy Grail was a sacrilege, unfit for the world; perhaps the Fox family’s lineage couldn’t produce the Holy Grail, and for competitive balance, they didn’t want other families to successfully obtain the Holy Grail; or perhaps both reasons applied.

“The witch apothecarist…” Dwight repeated softly, his fingers pressing the edge of the paper, smoothing out a sharp corner. Gradually, he shaped a tiny paper turtle in his hand.

From the decorations deep within the manor and the information they had brought out, Lestrop and the Tifa group’s methods to replicate the Holy Grail were nothing but potion formulas obtained from mages, regardless of whatever foundational theories they believed in.

Charlie understood why he was focusing on this word.

Magical potions differed from ordinary potions not only in ingredients and price but also in characteristics.

Potions with magical properties couldn’t hide this fact. They might taste unusual or have strange colors. High-grade magical potions also had various attention-grabbing appearances—they might change color, sparkle, or even make sounds, making it very difficult to surreptitiously induce someone to ingest them.

So, to find out whether Lestrop had also experimented on himself, one simply needed to confirm with Priscilla herself whether she had ingested any magical potions before becoming pregnant to make an initial judgment.

“Priscilla has been suspicious and cautious of the Earl for a long time. I believe she wouldn’t have willingly ingested any concoctions given by her husband, so it’s very likely that the child isn’t affected.”

“Better this way,” Dwight said with distaste. “Tifa had better pull himself together, or else I’ll have to go settle the account myself.”

“Ah, about that.” Charlie blinked as if he seemed to remember something. “I think the King will likely be successful because the Earl got injured.”

Dwight turned to look at him.

Charlie pulled out a dip pen from his jacket pocket. Since his other hand was holding a pipe, he could only draw a simple magical array on the paper turtle resting in Dwight’s palm with one hand. He mischievously added two peppercorn-sized eyes, then put away the pen, picked up the paper turtle, and threw it over the ship’s railing. The two watched as it seemed to come to life upon hitting the water, wriggling its body before quickly diving beneath the surface and disappearing.

This was the “Deep Sea Courier”, a magic spell improvised by the rabbit-headed shopkeeper. It was a variant of the “Gray Sentinel”, specialized in diving. It tirelessly swam towards the deepest part of the water until the paper dissolved. If touched by a creature (like being swallowed by a big fish), it will dissolve quickly without a trace.

In other words, it was pretty much only useful for disposing of evidence.

After finishing this, Charlie finally said in a relaxed tone, “Shivers scratched Lestrop, and he’s sure he drew blood. The dagger he used was given by Shiloh to Eugene when he was leaving, and we did a bit of work on it—processed it if you will.”

“Poison?” Dwight straightened up a bit with interest.

Charlie waved his hand. “Poison isn’t so easy to concoct. The potent ones mostly require venomous creatures for processing, and the cost is too high. I can’t afford it.”

Perhaps it was the Duke’s scornful gaze burning into him that the rabbit-headed shopkeeper quickly added, “Besides, using poison isn’t a good idea for nobles, especially royals, who have been trained from a young age to build up a tolerance to toxins, right?”

That was indeed true. The Duke, having undergone such training until adulthood, grudgingly accepted his face-saving comment. “So what did you do?”

“I also applied a bit of medicine to the blade, similar to the paralyzing potion on the crossbows, but with improved effects.”

The rabbit-headed shopkeeper was a person with broad ideas, never satisfied with a single research result.

Just like the Gray Sentinel, whether it was magic or potions, he liked to continually modify and create a series, and the paralyzing potion was no different.

The potion applied to the crossbow took effect instantly and lasted for 3-5 hours, leaving no harm to the body after recovery.

The potion on the dagger, however, was modified from this base. The paralysis didn’t take effect immediately but randomly—activating at some point within 6 hours, automatically recovering, and then becoming effective again.

Compared to the straightforward immediate paralysis, the latter was more cunning: When it took effect and then automatically recovered, it would give the impression of the body’s toxin resistance purifying itself, and then the victim would be unguarded against a subsequent paralysis.

More importantly, the rabbit-headed shopkeeper insisted on making only potions, not poisons. Hence, the paralyzing potion didn’t actually harm the body and was immune to various antidotes. Those affected could only endure it, unable to cure it.

After explaining his pharmaceutical philosophy, the Duke looked at him, and he at the Duke.

“Lestrop is going back because Tifa’s army is surrounding the manor,” Dwight said. “He might rest and command from the rear after the ambush, but once he feels recovered, he’ll definitely go to the front line.”

The reason was none other than his opponent, Tifa.

Years of resentment and non-acceptance would make it unbearable for Lestrop not to personally defeat Tifa’s army, unless he was caught off-guard from behind a second time, in which case he would definitely join the battlefield.

And in battle, where swords had no eyes and situations changed in an instant, a moment’s distraction could be fatal, not to mention sudden full-body stiffness?

Dwight suddenly felt very pleased, standing up from the rattan chair.

He always thought the rabbit-headed shopkeeper’s research was more playful than practical, but this time it played a serious and very satisfying role.

The rabbit-headed shopkeeper watched as the Duke approached him—raising his hand holding the pipe, he then bowed his head and took a puff.

He actually smokes?

Charlie thought somewhat dazedly, then watched as the other man turned and blew a smoke ring at him, shaped just as round as the one he had made not long before.

The smoke ring didn’t come at his cheek with frivolity like a libertine but wavered towards his ears. It was as if it had touched the hair of his ear but also as if it hadn’t, then it dissipated into the air.

“Well done,” Dwight said to him.

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The author has something to say:

Dwight: That “Gray Sentinel” of yours…

Charlie: Impressive, right? Stealthy as a ghost.

Dwight: The idea of using biomimicry is interesting, but there’s room for improvement. Can’t you fold an eagle or a cheetah instead?

Charlie: Ah, what’s fun in all that fighting and killing? My greatest wish is for world peace! Don’t you like birds? Then I’ll teach you something else. How about a little turtle or a mouse?

Dwight: ……

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<<< || Table of Contents || >>>

Author: 冬瓜茶仙人 / Winter Melon Tea Immortal

Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/

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Chapter 94

Shivers moved forward slowly, sticking close to the stone wall, breathing very slowly.

After those men entered the room, it became difficult to hear any movement, but if it were just servants or ordinary guards, they could be dealt with cautiously…

A warm yellow glow emanated from behind the partially closed door, strikingly beautiful against the cold, damp stone stairs and walls, like a candle in the night drawing moths with its heat.

From the crack in the door, Shivers couldn’t see if anyone was inside the whole room, but he noticed another door frame on the wall directly opposite the main entrance.

Had those men entered another room through here?

Shivers stood in front of the door, about to reach out, when the deep red walnut door suddenly opened from inside!

He was startled and instinctively stepped back. Before his heel hit the ground, a fierce sword strike came slashing down from above—if he hadn’t dodged in time, his skull might have been cracked open.

This was a move typically used by someone tall or a cavalryman, and it just so happened that Shivers commanded a whole cavalry troop. His body reacted before his brain, sidestepping and crouching slightly to raise his elbow and block the heavy slash, accompanied by the crisp sound of breaking wood.

Both combatants narrowed their eyes.

Lestrop was surprised that this sneaky intruder had such skills. He didn’t look like a scout that a useless man like Tifa could have trained, while Shivers was unprepared for Lestrop’s presence here.

Flesh and blood couldn’t withstand steel blades. What allowed him to successfully block that strike was the crossbow component that had been disassembled and strapped to his forearm after completing its mission. Luckily, he was accustomed to being orderly. Without that small part, it might have been his forearm bone that cracked.

Lestrop missed his strike and paused only for a second before thrusting his sword again, but Shivers moved faster, darting forward at a strange angle. The silver light in his hand reached Lestrop before the sword tip, forcing Lestrop to also dodge sideways. The move was a feint. Shivers slipped through the gap and entered the room.

Lestrop was instantly alarmed. He had intended to deliver a fatal blow to the unwary intruder, but not only did Shivers evade him, he also managed to get inside the room where the situation was reversed. The items in the room hadn’t been moved. Whether it was precious herbal spices or enchanted glassware, all were fragile, making him reluctant to damage them.

Shivers clearly understood this too. Before Lestrop could follow him inside, he kicked over a bookshelf. The items on it clattered to the floor, and a strange-smelling powder spilled from a cracked bottle, scattering everywhere.

Lestrop lunged like a lion with bristling mane, swinging his sword at him. Just then, a man from another room, hearing the noise, opened the door to check. He was grabbed by Shivers by the wall and hurled at Lestrop like a shot put. The servant, unaccustomed to such long swords, staggered and knelt down in fright, narrowly avoiding Lestrop’s sword, but a small piece of his ear was sliced off, causing him to cry out in pain.

Shivers, with only a dagger in hand, had almost no chance against a longsword, but his goal wasn’t to engage directly. Seeing two more men dressed as servants run out from a suite, he decisively disengaged and dashed back towards the door. Lestrop, much taller and bulkier, was less agile. He instinctively reached out to stop him but missed. Infuriated, he drew his sword and gave chase.

The narrow stone staircase, originally designed for secrecy, now limited Lestrop, who was accustomed to long swords. Out of caution, he never parted with his weapon, but in such confined spaces, he couldn’t fully wield his sword. Several servants, reacting to the chase, also crowded behind him in the dark corridor.

Shivers took the stairs two at a time with Lestrop close behind—despite his large frame, the Earl wasn’t slow and, being more familiar with the terrain, Shivers found it hard to shake him off.

The spiral staircase led upwards. Shivers ran like a lean wolf, speeding across the fields. The air blowing past his cheeks pierced the stagnant air of the washroom.

Once out of the narrow space, Lestrop’s long sword could significantly close the distance between them. Shivers, without looking back, threw a small, round object. It rolled right under Lestrop’s foot as he stepped out of the corridor. He immediately sidestepped to avoid it.

However, the anticipated explosion didn’t occur. Instead, the peculiar little ball lay harmlessly on the ground. After a silent half-second between man and sphere, a thick white smoke suddenly burst out with a loud bang, engulfing the exit of the secret passage with an acrid smell. Realizing it was just a diversion, Lestrop held his breath and dashed through the smoke—Shivers had already fled down the stone corridor and might escape through the back door into the bushes if he didn’t enter the main house.

Fortunately, Lady Luck was still on his side. Due to unfamiliarity with the terrain, the other chose the other side of the mansion, scattering several maids with trays and causing a commotion.

As he chased, Lestrop yelled at the maids, still confused about what was happening. “Get Murray—no, have Foley catch him!”

His captain of the guard, Murray, was highly skilled in combat, but even in his anger, Lestrop retained a shred of rationality. Murray was at the front line against the King’s army, and it wouldn’t be wise to pull his reliable lieutenant from his post just for a rat.

Lestrop wouldn’t let a proxy truly command any threatening armed force, but since the intruder had gone upstairs, locking the door and gathering the estate’s usual enforcers to surround and capture him was just a matter of time… No, he wanted to personally strangle this little thief who dared to spy on his secrets as a rehearsal before killing Tifa.

At this moment, Lestrop was a far cry from the courteous and wealthy Earl, who had cared deeply for his wife in the capital. On the second floor, Shivers was blocked by three servants. He stopped, glanced back, and met Lestrop’s bloodshot eyes.

Shiver wasn’t intimidated by Lestrop’s fearsome expression, but it terrified the servant facing Shivers. The man in the middle panicked, shifting his gaze away from Shivers, only to be floored by a heavy, quick punch from the man before him, struggling to rise.

Two men lunged at Shivers, but one was swept off his feet by Shivers’ low sweep, as if he was struck hard on the leg with an iron rod. Losing his balance, he fell while the other, seeing only a blur, screamed in pain, clutching his bleeding face.

At this moment, Shivers demonstrated a strength that belied his appearance—lifting the man he had knocked down, he threw him down the carpeted staircase, rolling to Lestrop’s feet.

Lestrop halted, not even glancing at the man, his eyes coldly fixed on Shivers.

“Who are you?” he asked.

If Shivers weren’t seen as an enemy, Lestrop might have left his body intact out of respect for his audacity, courage, and arrogance.

Unfortunately, such a man should be facing him on the battlefield, not sneaking into his estate like a thief.

Shivers responded with a defiant smile.

“Is that your secret, Lestrop?” he asked, not answering the question. “You never put down your sword, yet you hide long in the shadowy labs, trying to harness innocent people’s power for a strength that isn’t yours.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re so arrogant, trusting no one, breaking the necks of those who defy you or fail to meet your expectations, yet you can only reach your frail ambitions through them…”

“I said shut up!”

Lestrop shouted, his chest heaving with rage.

The estate’s steward, Foley, arrived with a team of guards in uniform, but Lestrop motioned for them not to approach and stepped onto the staircase himself.

“I wanted to leave you a whole corpse as a reward for your lone infiltration, but since you spoke out of turn, I’ve changed my mind,” Lestrop said slowly. “Did you also learn how to handle those who anger me? I will chop off their heads and mount them on spears, letting their blood stain the wood red.”

He stared unblinkingly at the man standing on the stairs, trying to gauge something from his expression, which showed no fear but only heightened excitement as Lestrop approached.

He recognized that look. It was that of a man born for battle, one he had seen on his deceased father’s face.

But this man wasn’t as wise as his father, choosing a dead end for himself.

In the confined space of the chamber, his build and weapons were limited, reducing his chances of victory, but he had run to the spacious main house. Even without Foley’s help, he couldn’t withstand Lestrop’s longsword with just a dagger.

“Foolish,” Lestrop said, raising his sword—his speed increased in the relatively open space, but Shivers was prepared, sidestepping the blade’s edge. The wooden banister beside him sparked as it was cleaved, sending splinters flying.

Though the disadvantage in weapon length couldn’t be compensated immediately, Shivers, fearless and relentless, didn’t back down but instead seized the moment when his sword got stuck in the banister, stepping forward with a big stride and swinging his elbow. Lestrop had to lean back to dodge, and still, the overly sharp tip of the blade left a shallow cut on his jaw, barely missing his throat.

“The fool here is you,” Shivers said, his actions sharp and swift, his smile growing wider. “Who said I came alone?”

Lestrop paused.

“I thought something was off,” Shivers said maliciously, lowering his voice. “Don’t you cherish what’s in the secret chamber?”

As if to prove his point, someone burst in, rolling and scrambling. “It’s smoking! There’s a fire deep in the stone chamber! The corridors are filled with smoke—”

Lestrop’s face went pale, and almost without thinking, he made a decision. “Flynn!”

As if waiting for the command, the plump middle-aged man led the guards and the servants present in a charge, while Lestrop himself leaped down the stairs, decisively abandoning Shivers.

In his heart, no intruder could compare to the secret chamber he had devoted years to.

Seeing him turn, Shivers didn’t hesitate either. He turned and ran. Probably trying to gain favor in front of the Earl, everyone chased vigorously—one servant even outpaced the guards to reach out to Shivers.

Flynn was delighted. “Catch him!”

As soon as he spoke, the middle-aged man saw Shivers, without looking back, grab the servant, pull him forward, and increase his speed, quickly passing through the corridor to the second-floor balcony.

Everyone was confused by this sudden turn of events. Another servant, also at the front, uncertainly looked back and asked, “Isn’t this the same person who just sounded the alarm?”

Did they have this person in their manor?

“They’re accomplices!” Flynn shouted in frustration. “Notify the archers—”

It was already too late.

For the sake of aesthetics, balconies weren’t made with any unsightly defenses—a common understanding on the continent. The watchtowers on either side of the residence couldn’t hear the indoor shouting in time, and by the time everyone else reached the balcony and the watchtowers shot their arrows, all that was left under the balcony was a rope, swaying in the breeze created by the arrows.

---

The author has something to say:

Does the prop used by Shivers look familiar?

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<<< || Table of Contents || >>>

Author: 冬瓜茶仙人 / Winter Melon Tea Immortal

Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/

---

Chapter 93

Yitzfa had once explained the existence of the Holy Grail, but the more detailed his explanation, the more it seemed that the efforts of those outside the Black Gold Families bloodline were both futile and bizarre.

It had long been common for the Black Gold Families to maintain a united front of silence to outsiders, but there were no secrets that time didn’t reveal, no matter how harshly their disclosure was prohibited. Over time, secrets were inevitably eroded, much like a stone wall that appeared solid but slowly crumbled.

Shivers understood that once the existence of the Holy Grail was made public, it wouldn’t just be a few kingdoms in the southwestern part of the Doran continent that would be affected. Families with the legendary bloodline would also become common prey, elevated to sacrificial status on altars, unless they preemptively fulfilled the ambitions of people like Lestrop.

However, no historical records existed of such events, and given Yitzfa’s ambiguous stance, Shivers felt that this at least suggested that even within the families themselves, there was no consensus about the Holy Grail. Perhaps it was this balance of power that allowed the secret to remain dormant for centuries until it was recently glimpsed by outsiders.

Thorn Manor might just be a microcosm of the attempts by various parties on the continent to replicate the legend, but the thought that each step of their exploration was built on the futile efforts of skeletons made it unbearably infuriating.

As they suspected, the room at the end was indeed a communal washroom, with large stone slabs stacked to the ceiling. Directly opposite the entrance, a stained-glass window made of three colors formed a rose pattern but didn’t actually serve any practical purposes for ventilation or lighting. It seemed to exist solely for decoration.

The washroom wasn’t large. The rectangular space was rigidly divided into two rows, with five small shower stalls, all with closed doors. After checking each one and finding no one inside, they confirmed the room was empty.

But the voices had definitely disappeared here.

As a historic dwelling of the Dwight family, Brandenburg had numerous hidden mechanisms and secret chambers refined over generations. Shivers was even more convinced that this washroom was a secret transit hub of the mansion.

It was a pity that Erica wasn’t here. Even generations of Dwight family heads probably couldn’t claim to know more about Brandenburg’s secrets than the steward. As the steward’s daughter, Erica had a deeper understanding of architecture than anyone in the Knights Order. Compared to a real castle, the mechanisms of this mansion wouldn’t be too complicated, but they lacked the time for a detailed exploration.

Yitzfa disliked the damp and gloomy environment and wasn’t keen on using his brain in areas that didn’t interest him. However, he felt it inappropriate to let his companion do all the meticulous searching of taps and brick joints alone, so he too wandered around somewhat aimlessly—initially just to show an “I’m also trying” attitude, but he did end up noticing some interesting things.

“Those rows of rooms in the corridor have door locks, right?” he suddenly asked quietly.

Shivers, who was closely examining a row of gargoyles on the wall, wasn’t paying attention to what Yitzfa was saying. “Hm?”

He turned around to see Yitzfa lightly examining the row of compartments along the wall, each fitted with a flap door. They had briefly checked them earlier. Aside from toilets, there was nothing else inside. But with Yitzfa’s comment, Shivers noticed something unusual.

From the main door to the compartments inside, none of the doors were fitted with locks.

Yitzfa stood straight, exhaled, and met Shivers’s slightly puzzled gaze, saying softly, “This is to ward off witches.”

He knew Shivers came from a good background and might not know much about this, so he explained gently, “It’s a rural superstition, usually not practiced by respectable noble families—people believe that witches smear themselves with oils at night to slip through keyholes and window cracks to perform harmful magic, and common thief deterrents are ineffective against them.”

“Not installing locks has two implications… One possibility is that they might be on friendly terms with a witch as a gesture of goodwill. The other is to prevent witches from entering, not fitting doors with locks or windows but instead applying holy water or placing sacred objects on windowsills and thresholds.”

Shivers frowned slightly. “That’s not quite the witches I’ve heard about.”

Real witches probably wouldn’t rely on oily methods to slip through keyholes. Not to mention the likes of Elena from the legends, even the witch in Mistress Daisy’s castle, who used powerful spatial magic—door locks were redundant to her, let alone doors themselves.

“So it’s a rural tale. Many ordinary girls have been accused of being witches based on various absurd theories. This has nothing to do with the genuine witches who wield magic.” Yitzfa mused for a moment. “Lestrop, coming from a royal lineage, wouldn’t likely believe in such rumors. If this setup is meant as a tribute, the research origin in the manor is probably related to witches, and the mechanism for the secret room’s entrance might also be connected. There are many totems associated with witches—cats, crows, rats could all be possibilities, but there’s too little decor here to suggest anything specific.”

As he finished speaking, both their gazes coincidentally focused on the only decorative piece in the room: the stained glass window.

Shivers pondered.

Totems…

He hadn’t mentioned to Yitzfa about Mistress Daisy’s castle. If this washroom was indeed related to the enwalled witch—

Yitzfa watched as Shivers approached the window, adjusting a piece of colored glass. It was indeed movable. He quickly shifted the pieces, focusing on the relatively sparse blue glass, slowly forming the shape of a book.

Once the last piece was in place, they held their breath, but the expected mechanism noise didn’t occur.

Yitzfa was disappointed. “Not this one?”

“No.” Shivers quickly turned him around to face the other way, letting him see the back of the door, where a dark, arched hole had appeared in the stone wall at some point.

“There are too many,” a slightly hoarse voice said. “I don’t think it’s necessary.”

“That’s the Master’s will,” another voice, younger but more stern, interrupted.

“Alright, just in case,” the last man said peaceably. “Just count. The Master will win.”

“Right, those tired cavalry won’t expect we’ve buried so many iron thorns ahead… Just wait.”

“What about the little ones from the other day?”

“They were sent to Elwick, but they’re too young. Not sure if they’ll survive.”

After a brief silence, several men walked into a very small room, so cramped that several adults could hardly stand. The man in front led with a large ring of keys, unlocking a door. Light immediately poured out, illuminating their surroundings, which looked like a small foyer with a round hand-woven rug on the floor.

Compared to the dark, narrow corridor, the room beyond was like another world—several lamps were on. In front of smooth, wooden paneled walls stood tall bookshelves, not filled with books but various shaped glass jars and delicate tools for refining herbs and spices. An elegant wooden table held a small writing desk, a color-coordinated shell chair was draped with a blanket, several polished floor candle holders stood in the corner, and a lute leaned against the wall.

Anyone seeing this room for the first time would think it belonged to a city clerk or a college professor—someone with long hair, spectacles on the nose, and a precise way of speaking.

But the tall man standing by the table wasn’t of that sort. Upon seeing him in the room, several men were so shocked that they dared not utter a word.

“Ma-Master.” The leader, with brown hair, bravely saluted him. “Mr. Foley has ordered us to come down to count and pack the medicine bottles.”

He bowed his body, not knowing why he dared not speak the latter part of his sentence, as if once spoken, it would curse the other party to surely fail and then pack up and flee.

It was rather inauspicious.

The man’s hawk-like gaze swept over them, and he responded with a very indifferent “hmm”.

The men felt as if they had been pardoned and didn’t dare to lift their heads as they maintained their bow and moved to a compartment by the bookshelves.

No matter how many times he saw it, the sight of these servants cowering always displeased Lestrop.

As the Earl of Mokwen, whether guards or attendants, everyone in his residence in the south was strictly disciplined and highly qualified—a stark contrast to the servants in this remote mountain manor.

This wasn’t only because he had to act low-key here, unable to openly develop his manpower, but also because this estate was left to him by his mother, and her family line had long since declined.

If it weren’t for its proximity to Ropappas City—close enough to that castle—he wouldn’t have chosen to focus his research here, far from his fief and too close to the royal capital.

Thinking of the royal capital, Lestrop’s face grew even more somber.

He and Tifa had long infiltrated each other with spies, but based on his understanding of his brother’s character, this conflict shouldn’t have come so soon, and the timing now was particularly inconvenient, adding to his irritation.

Tifa had always been snooping around here. He was likely startled by the appearance of the Lantern Bearers during winter, making him believe that the Holy Grail had indeed been successfully conceived here, prompting him to finally make his move.

Lestrop knew that Tifa had planned to use his birthday, when all the nobles gathered in the capital, to confront him, possibly imprison or even kill him, so he preemptively eliminated two of his most favored women, causing chaos. Unfortunately, Christine was accidentally involved, leading to a series of unplanned incidents that revealed the King’s murderous intent, yet here in the manor, he encountered another bottleneck…

He sat in the shell chair, his fatigue from traveling all night not hindering his thoughts. His fingers rhythmically tapped on the armrest.

He knew what Tifa was afraid of.

Indeed, not just Tifa, even he himself had thought they were close to success. As far as he knew, it had been over twenty years since the last appearance of the Lantern Bearers. These ghost-like immortals could bypass marshes and dense forests, ignoring spatial barriers in pursuit of the Holy Grail, but who could have expected this to be a false alarm?!

Though the Lantern Bearers eventually vanished, and the child didn’t survive, Lestrop firmly believed he had found the right direction to modify that mad woman’s potion, and no longer thought it necessary to rely on the former witch, who had lost her self-awareness.

As an Earl, he wasn’t interested in the little tricks played by the mad woman’s maid who took over the estate. The Southern Lord didn’t need a partially real, partially fantastical castle, and those seemingly delicate but actually illusion-corrupted girls didn’t meet his criteria, so he consciously ignored that research origin—but when he received reports of the castle’s collapse, he still felt somewhat uneasy.

He looked up at the materials and equipment on the bookshelf. All were moved untouched from that mad woman’s castle. The out-of-control spatial magic didn’t affect non-living materials. He was sure he had fully taken over the witch’s research on the Holy Grail and pushed it forward significantly, but it was still too slow.

He couldn’t wait, nor could Tifa, so the King finally, without any justification, sent troops to attack the manor, aiming to seize what he imagined was the key to controlling the world.

Absolutely ridiculous!

Even if the Holy Grail truly manifested, the weakling that Tifa was would only tremble under the iron hoofs of the Empire. He was unfit to wear the crown, let alone be the master of the world.

Lestrop was fully prepared, but Foley was a timid and cautious man, trembling as he managed the manor for so many years. Seeing the war about to start, he immediately thought of transferring the real treasures in the estate, which was understandable…

Lestrop disregarded the servants and came down alone to check on his valuables. Since Foley had already arranged manpower, it was time for him to go to the front lines.

Lestrop stood up and walked to the door. Suddenly, at the turn of the stone staircase behind the hall, there seemed to be a flicker of light, so fast it seemed like an illusion.

He stopped, turned back to look at the potion room where several male servants were, and squinted his eyes.

Although he had collaborated with a witch, he didn’t believe in magic, nor had he ever relied on the power of a mage to set up any surveillance or alarm systems in the estate, because he believed that keen perception and strong physical strength were more effective in helping him control the situation.

Like now, hadn’t he just noticed the rat that was carelessly let in by a negligent servant?

---

<<< || Table of Contents || >>>

Author: 冬瓜茶仙人 / Winter Melon Tea Immortal

Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/

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Chapter 92

Under normal circumstances, a luxurious mansion was more refined, comfortable, and warm than a castle built with bare stones, but this rule didn’t apply here.

The first time Shivers entered the farmhouse near this place, he chose not to enter the mansion itself out of caution. It was only now, as he ventured deeper, that he realized this large house seemed to be split into two parts from the inside. With a central line as the axis, the right side featured tapestries, chandeliers, and stained glass windows in red, green, and blue—a conventional structure. Shivers believed that if he followed the wooden peach-tip arched corridor forward, he would see an exquisite front porch, hallways with warm-toned mahogany closets and handrails, and a meticulously decorated living room, smoking room, and dining room, perhaps even including a small stage with a screen for band performances during banquets.

However, the other side was starkly different, characterized by cold hardness, with black metal doors set into stone walls, and hallways adorned with various stone-carved guardian beasts, appearing damp and chilly.

As intruders who were unwelcome to the light, they unanimously chose the left side without much thought or discussion. Such overly austere, opaque interior decor was highly unusual for a manor like this. The all-stone walls and nearly undecorated spaces reminded Yitzfa and Shivers of something entirely not residential, more like a secretive, closed-off monastery.

This type of overly ascetic architectural style wasn’t very common in Pennigra, but it wasn’t entirely extinct: they were usually built in remote rural areas, away from bustling populations, to accommodate zealous hermits or, during outbreaks of infectious diseases, to serve as quarantine sites for the infected.

Unlike the noisy and chaotic farmhouse, the mansion, unaware of a breached watchtower, remained orderly. The anxiety from below didn’t permeate the thick stone walls to affect the people inside. In the corridors and staircases that connected various spaces, maids in uniform dark dresses occasionally passed by in pairs or trios, not talking to each other and showing little sign of anxiety, though occasionally a steward would pass through the corridors in a serious manner, carrying or holding some wrapped items.

Shivers’ brow twitched as he pressed down on Yitzfa, who was trying to peek at what they were carrying.

Their overly tattered attire didn’t attract much attention in the farmhouse, but it was very conspicuous inside the mansion. Fortunately, the internal security forces were fewer than he had expected.

Yitzfa, held back by Shivers and unable to speak out, still managed to gesture frantically. Shivers ignored him and patiently waited until two men pushing carts appeared in their line of sight, then threw something that emitted a faint sound, extinguishing the sole light illuminating the corridor.

Everything happened very quickly.

Yitzfa’s eyes hadn’t even fully adjusted to the darkness when a bundle of hastily rolled-up clothes was stuffed into his arms—likely belonging to one of the unfortunate cart-pushers.

The person’s actions were incredibly fast—he couldn’t understand how in a few minutes of darkness, someone could manage to knock down two people, strip off their clothes, roll them up like garments, and stuff them into a cart—steps that even in broad daylight he would find challenging to accomplish.

“What’s in the cart?” Yitzfa asked quietly, trying to discern the front and back of the clothes in the pitch dark.

Shivers was silent, quickly putting on a coat and then pulling Yitzfa, hastily stripping off his torn robe.

“Oh my,” Yitzfa said, “What are you doing? Now’s not the time to be getting touchy…”

The Knight Commander stuffed his head through the neckline, swiftly dressing him like a preschool child.

By the time the lights were lit again, the two had barely changed clothes in less than thirty seconds. A maid, lifting her skirt, appeared at the end of the corridor—just relit, the light wasn’t yet bright enough, and she was more focused on the floor. She politely nodded to the two men, who courteously made way for her to pass, then walked by them.

As if confirming their suspicions, the further they walked, the more the structure resembled a penitentiary. In the long corridor, there were three narrow doors on each side, some slightly open, others locked.

“Just these tablecloths.” Shivers gently closed the door, careful not to make a sound, but the rusty metal still emitted a few faint creaks, particularly clear in the quiet space.

They randomly chose a door in the middle on the left, slightly ajar. The cold air inside told the visitors that the room wasn’t frequented. Thus, Shivers and Yitzfa also pushed the cart containing the two unconscious servants inside—along with them, the small room was nearly full.

Yitzfa took a moment to realize Shivers had just answered his question from a few minutes ago about what was in the cart.

It must be said, the timing was perfect. The cart, originally just a frame, was neatly covered with tablecloths to hide the two unfortunate knocked-out servants, successfully deceiving anyone who looked. If they had been a little slower, he might have had to rudely deal with the woman who appeared afterward.

Yitzfa pulled out a matchbox from somewhere, lighting up a small area by his hand. Shivers watched as he quickly shook out a tablecloth with one hand, inspected each piece of what seemed to him ordinary green embroidered tablecloths, then glanced at a few silver plates in the corner of the cart.

To avoid drawing unnecessary attention, Yitzfa quickly snuffed out the light with a snap.

“Lestrop has indeed returned,” he said in the dark.

Before Tifa’s guards and the Southern Lord arrived, they had hidden in the farmhouse’s storeroom, only able to guess from the frantic farmers what was happening outside the manor. Only now did Yitzfa confirm that the true master of the manor, Lestrop, had indeed arrived.

“How so?” asked Shivers.

“The tablecloths are all clean, no stains,” Yitzfa briefly summarized. “There are two fruit silver plates and a covered dessert plate by the feet of that unconscious gentleman, mostly intact except for some slight enamel wear on the edges, not easily noticed without close inspection.”

This was the basic preparation any trained steward would make upon the return of the master, irrespective of whether the house owner was fastidious or not.

This also related to the route they chose. On the more habitable right side, it was probably in complete disarray now. The maids must follow the steward to reorganize all the tableware, decorations, and bed linens, while the servants were responsible for checking chandeliers, dismantling curtains, and disposing of discarded furniture—they had just caught two unlucky ones transporting tablecloths, probably trying to take a shortcut through less crowded areas, only to be knocked out.

Shivers raised an eyebrow, somewhat surprised that Yitzfa actually made some sense. He didn’t want to judge by appearances, but Yitzfa had indeed always seemed more interested in rolling in perfumes than doing serious work. That he could analyze the situation accurately without adding chaos at such a time made Shivers revise his opinion of him.

“This place doesn’t seem like it’s lived in year-round, more like a confinement… solitary cell.” Yitzfa, having gradually adapted to the darkness, could vaguely make out the simple furnishings in the narrow room: a single bed, a wooden bedside table with something on it—perhaps a candlestick—and a stool barely qualifying as a chair.

“This environment isn’t suitable for pregnant women,” Shivers analyzed. “For the sake of the fetus, the manor would take proper care of them. This place is probably used to punish and brainwash those who are uncooperative or to house those who have lost their utility.”

He was reluctant to call it a cell, not only because building something resembling a dungeon within a dwelling was somewhat over the line, but also because standing in this narrow, boxy space made him more acutely aware of the suffering that innocent people, manipulated and even killed by the estate over the years, must have endured.

Lestrop certainly didn’t return to check on sheets and utensils. Rather, the manor, located halfway up the hill and somewhat distant from the foothills’ farmhouse, couldn’t be updated in real time about what was happening on the periphery, which was why the panic hadn’t spread around the manor.

“What are the chances that Lestrop would personally appear at the front line when the fighting starts?” Yitzfa suddenly asked.

“More than half,” Shivers conservatively replied. “The manor isn’t a castle. A siege wouldn’t last very long.”

“Living areas on the right, solitary cells on the left…” Yitzfa pondered for a moment.

Logically, people tend to keep valuable items within a somewhat private line of sight, such as in bedrooms or study room secret compartments, suggesting they might need to head right.

But the division of the mansion was quite extreme. Residential and almost non-existent guest (except necessary visitors like doctors) functions were concentrated on the right, while the left side featured the cold setting of a penitentiary, indicating that this end was less willing to be scrutinized.

Their time was limited. Even if the potion on the arrowheads could keep the two soldiers on the watchtower rigid until sunrise, those rotating and patrolling would notice something wrong, and there were also the two missing servants. Regardless of how stealthily and carefully they moved, they couldn’t afford to spend too much time analyzing.

“This corridor allows you to see straight to the end,” Yitzfa noted. “Only six rooms and four doors at the end, which have no bolts or locks. It’s probably a communal washroom. We should quickly check this area while it’s not crowded. If we find nothing, we’ll try to blend into the right side, getting into either a study or bedroom.”

This was a relatively safe method.

But his companion didn’t quite agree.

“That’s not efficient,” Shivers stated. “We’re limited on time, with little room for error. Lestrop will only be distracted by the battle temporarily. Once he turns his attention back to the manor, with his status and control, we’ll be like two moles trapped in a flooded burrow, forced to surface.”

Yitzfa looked up at him. The room had no windows, and the only light source was the dim corridor light seeping under the door, allowing him only to see a vague outline of the man standing in the center of the room. Yet, oddly, his eyes shone unnaturally bright in this environment—bright like a bonfire on a winter’s night.

Something was a bit off.

Yitzfa observed him closely to ensure nothing strange had happened to him, such as being possessed by some ancient grievance in this chilly place. But thinking back, even before they had infiltrated the manor, some of his actions had already seemed somewhat unfamiliar to him.

For instance, his responses to Yitzfa’s flirtatious behavior while hiding in the storeroom, his excitement when aiming at the two archers on the tower, and his current mental state, which differed from his usual gentle and cautious demeanor, all made him feel like he was meeting this man for the first time.

…How interesting.

Yitzfa blinked. “So, what are you planning to do?”

“Besides Lestrop, there must be someone else who manages the estate affairs in his absence. We’ll just ask him directly,” Shivers said without hesitation, not noticing his expression was more excited than serious.

What he meant by asking was not a polite knock followed by a face-to-face conversation at a tea table, but it appeared he was prepared for a more forceful approach.

The second or third in command at the manor wouldn’t be as easy to handle as the servants pushing the carts of tablecloths, always surrounded by aides. But the Knight Commander didn’t see this as a problem. The only issue was finding a place to hide Yitzfa—who could get hurt just by bumping into a wall or sharp furniture edge—before taking action.

“So, we…” Yitzfa started, but was suddenly silenced by a hand over his mouth.

Shivers quickly moved him to the side, pressing against the wall next to the door, careful to avoid angles that might reveal their shadows to anyone in the corridor.

Yitzfa’s eyes widened, completely unaware that someone had approached outside.

Each room’s metal door had a small, hinged flap that seemed designed for passing food or small items. They crouched slowly against the wall, and Shivers lifted a crack just enough to see the heel of the last person walking past the door.

They listened attentively. There was no sound of the flaps being moved or locks being opened on either side, suggesting the person had entered directly into the large room at the end of the corridor.

But given the external structure of the mansion, the room at the end of this left-wing corridor was already at the edge of the building. Unless the person was silently holding a secret meeting inside, they must have moved elsewhere through that room.

A secret room.

The word flashed through Shivers’s mind.

Just then, a warm, light tickling sensation passed through his palm. Looking down, he saw his right hand still covering Yitzfa’s mouth. Yitzfa, taking advantage of the posture, said something into his palm, prompting Shivers to quickly remove his hand.

“No need to choose anymore.” Yitzfa seemed unbothered by having his mouth covered, turning his head to repeat what he’d just said, his eyes squinting with a smile. If this expression were on a slightly less attractive face, it might have seemed somewhat sinister, but coming from Yitzfa, it carried a mischievous charm that was hard to be angry at.

---

<<< || Table of Contents || >>>

Author: 冬瓜茶仙人 / Winter Melon Tea Immortal

Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/

---

Chapter 91

“Did you know in advance that Lestrop would make a move against Tifa?” Shivers asked in a lowered voice.

Yitzfa and he were standing in a wooden cabinet, just over three feet apart. The cramped space meant their bodies were only a fraction of a fist’s width. The smell of poor-quality pine mixed with the musty scent of aged wool made it hard to resist sneezing without great willpower.

Upon hearing the question, Yitzfa blinked and suddenly reached out to touch Shivers’s abdominals.

Shivers: “???”

If not for the tight space and his vivid memory that they were supposed to be hiding, he might have reflexively fought back against Yitzfa.

Being taller than Yitzfa, from his angle, all he could see was the soft top of his head and a perky nose.

“Nice physique,” Yitzfa commented, irrelevantly. “It’s evidence of strict training without slacking off.”

Shivers helplessly asked, “What do you mean?”

“Lestrop is the same.” Yitzfa’s voice was almost a whisper. “He’s twenty-seven this year, already an Earl, and is married. There hasn’t been any major warfare on Mokwen’s borders in recent years.”

Shivers immediately understood his point—Lestrop wasn’t a King, but he had rich lands and a gentle wife. At least on the surface, he had lived comfortably for a long time, yet he still maintained a tall figure, was full of energy, and had a sharp look. Anyone who saw him wouldn’t doubt that if he took up a sword and mounted a horse, the Earl would still be the valiant prince of years past.

In contrast, the brother who sat on the throne, though of a similar age, already had a slack and swollen face, and beneath the royal robes, there was a sense of being overwhelmed.

This was certainly related to their characters. Even when the old king was still ruling, Tifa wasn’t a warmonger. His study of horsemanship and combat, aside from following Mokwen’s tradition of martial rule, was more about currying favor with the old king.

That’s why Lestrop was once the favored one. Such people weren’t easily corrupted by fine wine and bed curtains. They pursued only power and strength.

Even after his brother took the throne, he never slacked off, which only meant his gaze had never left the palace.

No wonder Tifa became more and more restless day by day. Being watched by a sharp opponent like a hawk, anyone would reach their limit.

“Although the Holy Grail trials haven’t yet succeeded, Tifa has noticed the existence of the manor and has made several probes… Lestrop has always been more dominant than Tifa, and as a counterattack and warning, he “dealt with” several of Tifa’s mistresses.”

Unlike Lestrop, who preferred traditional noble women, Tifa, as the first to introduce Mokwen’s flamboyant and splendid style, leaned towards passionate and bold women of lower status, especially with the advent of the flying box, allowing him to pick from beauties from all over—those known for their beauty, aside from the socialites in upper circles, were mostly famous courtesans.

Shivers remembered the early days in Doran, the scandalous murders occasionally seen in the morning paper by the Duke, and the vicious incident Eugene witnessed in the back alleys of Syriacochi.

Those innocent women who died were all pregnant… Lestrop was intentionally selecting mistresses who had successfully conceived, provoking the King in an extremely cruel manner.

Thus, Tifa, unable to endure any longer, first confined Christine, the Queen rumored to be entangled with the Earl, and then, during Lestrop’s trip to White Bridge with his wife, he made his move on the manor. The attack at the Lababata border was also hard to completely dissociate from the King.

Whether it was Christine or another pawn placed in the royal city, Lestrop received news midway and secretly hurried back.

Even if unrelated to this royal struggle, Shivers still understood why the old king favored Lestrop. So far in this fraternal conflict, except for the matter of succession, Lestrop had almost always had the upper hand over Tifa.

But perhaps because of this, the old king ultimately chose Tifa over Lestrop.

In dealing with Tifa’s women, Lestrop showed unnecessary cruelty, which, while coldness might be a necessary quality for a ruler, cruelty wasn’t.

“Tifa’s military sense is inferior to Lestrop’s. After succeeding, he spent years integrating the royal army, which is why he didn’t kill Lestrop outright back then and only suppressed him with the title of Earl.”

“Do you think he’s ready now?” Yitzfa chuckled barely audibly. “Ready to be the final victor.”

“I’m not sure about that.” Shivers also spoke in a barely audible volume. “But one thing’s for sure. I’m not ready to be touched by a man in a cabinet for so long.”

Yitzfa’s hand was still resting on his abdomen.

“Ah, sorry,” Yitzfa looked down and said without any hint of apology.

Shivers understood that as a Fox, even if one didn’t need to scurry around like a lower-class worker, familiarity with the romantic realm was common, and there were even rumors that the higher one’s status in this family, the more pleasurable secrets one held—secrets generally unseen by ordinary people. To them, the boundaries of physical contact may be different from those of ordinary people.

The Knight Commander considered himself an ordinary person. His mind might be clear, but his body could easily be misunderstood.

So, he changed the subject. “Tifa will not personally step onto the battlefield, but once the conflict erupts, he will not be safe in the royal city either.”

Lestrop wouldn’t let him stay away from the flames of war, sitting in the palace controlling everything. Rather, having come this far, he must also have made arrangements in the royal city.

At that moment, a muffled commotion came from outside, and the two immediately stopped talking, instinctively slowing their breathing.

Their chosen hiding place was a storage room in the farmhouse, used for storing useless items that the general farming household had no right to touch. Most of it was outdated, moldy flour and hunting gear from years ago—considered trash by the mansion’s people but not something the farmers could easily handle.

Thus, they were in a rarely visited storage room.

The battle would likely take place on the periphery of the farmhouse, with women and children gathered in places like the mill that had water reserves, and labor and combat forces moving to the front lines, creating a few temporary vacuums in the farmhouse.

Shivers listened intently for a while. The noise outside didn’t reach their storage room but seemed to be next door—in the place where communal iron tools were stored, chaotic footsteps and shouts intermingled.

His spirits lifted.

Since hiding in this cabinet, his sense of time had become strangely blurred. They had no other contacts, and it was difficult to know what was happening outside, so he specifically chose this storage room for its proximity to the iron tools next door.

The manor was guarded by a small armed force, and Lestrop’s return would also bring soldiers. If they needed to open the iron tool warehouse under these circumstances, it meant that ordinary farmers were also being armed for battle.

The scale of the battle was larger than the manor had anticipated, and it had already begun.

He nudged Yitzfa, and the two held their breath, waiting for the noise outside to gradually subside before gently pushing open the cabinet door and moving aside several half-person-tall wooden racks used as cover.

This was pre-planned. The storeroom was a visual dead spot in the early stages of the conflict, and almost no one would come here. However, as the situation evolved, it was uncertain if someone might take advantage of the chaos to “shear the Lord’s wool”—in the eyes of the farmhands, this storeroom might contain many treasures they had never seen, posing a risk of exposure if they hid there for too long.

Yitzfa tightened his slightly loose belt. The clothes he was wearing weren’t his, but rather tattered disguises Shivers had scrounged up from somewhere. Though they had been washed in advance, he still thought they smelled of stinking cheese.

Shivers was dressed even more shabbily and had dyed his bright blonde hair a nondescript dark brown. Bending his back to alter his posture, he looked completely different from the handsome traveler hotly discussed by the ladies in town.

“This color is really ugly,” Yitzfa critically said. “What kind of dye is this? Can it be washed out?”

Shivers adjusted the wrinkled hem of his garment. Blending into crowds was something Eugene was quite good at, and Shivers had learned many tricks from him.

“We’ll just go out the door,” he said quickly, ignoring Yitzfa’s comment about his hair color. “There’s no need to avoid the crowd. In chaotic situations, the more you blend into the crowd, the less noticeable you are. Be quick once you spot the target. Don’t stop along the way and show no signs of guilt on your face. If someone suspects and stops you, take the initiative and scold them fiercely.”

Yitzfa nodded.

Though he always appeared nonchalant, he knew when to be serious.

“Take this.” Shivers pulled out a large basket from the storeroom and filled it with what might be blankets or shawls, piled high enough to cover the lower half of his face without overly obstructing his vision.

“Follow closely behind me—if someone respectable-looking stops us, say that the Lord of the Manor kindly sent us to deliver blankets to the women and children hiding at the mill. If they are dressed like us, say the Lord ordered us to move things from the storeroom to the manor.” Shivers also shouldered a wicker basket and, after ensuring there was little activity outside, gently pushed open the door. “Let’s go.”

It was the first time the farm had been this chaotic.

The moon had risen high in the sky, and torches blazed around the barn and at the troughs. Some women, clutching children who didn’t understand what was happening, ran towards the gathering places, while more people ran back and forth on the usually quiet paths, shouting loudly, their faces unnaturally flushed by the firelight.

Most people knew what was happening: the manor was under attack, the Lord was leading soldiers in defense at the periphery, and the elderly, with some authority in the farmhouse, directed them to scatter and hide, reassuring everyone in hushed tones that there would be no problem and that the men would soon drive back the intruders.

Only a very few bold individuals who had been outside before murmured that a fully armed troop had arrived, with shields so identical and shiny from a distance that they hardly looked like the rabble the elders described.

More like some kind of regular army.

But they were just law-abiding farmers, most of whom had never left the farm or entered a city. Why would a regular army come to attack them?

Although they dared not voice this question aloud, many still stole glances towards the majestic manor on the hillside before quickly averting their eyes.

With their status, they had no way of knowing the true identity of the Lord inside the manor.

Only when suddenly faced with a crisis did many realize that, from birth to death, they and their forebears, even their descendants, belonged to the farm yet knew so little about their own home.

Until someone came knocking, they didn’t know why.

This confusion heightened everyone’s fear, and many instinctively ran to their relatives and friends at the designated shelters. Apart from those armed, few took the road up the hill, which led to the manor and had once been a path many young people aspired to follow.

This greatly facilitated Shivers and Yitzfa’s mission. Civilians who had never experienced war wouldn’t notice anyone moving in a different direction in their panic. They encountered little scrutiny and soon reached the outskirts of the manor.

However, the defenses here were much stricter than at the farm. All doors and windows were tightly shut from the inside, and the watchtowers were brightly lit by fire, ensuring not even a fox could approach the manor through the bushes.

Shivers and Yitzfa discarded their baskets and disguises in the shadows and observed their surroundings from a distance.

“One guard each at the left and right of the main door, one at the back,” the Knight Commander said. “We’ll enter through the back door.”

Yitzfa pointed to the two archers on the watchtower near the back door. “How are we going to get in?”

“Just knock them down,” Shivers said succinctly, his attention focused on the two men above.

The watchtower was fortified, and attacking from the ground wasn’t only visually challenging but also limited the strength of any arrows—beyond the archers’ line of sight, the arrows wouldn’t reach, and if they adjusted for the range of the arrows, they’d be spotted by the two men on the tower and turned into pincushions.

Although he thought Shivers’s serious demeanor was quite handsome, Yitzfa still thought his statement was obvious.

But the next second, he saw Shivers, like a mage, pulling several strange parts from various places on his clothes and starting to assemble them right there.

“What’s that?” Yitzfa squatted down to watch his movements.

“A crossbow,” Shivers replied without looking up, quickly fitting the parts into place. “A friend made it… Easy to assemble and disassemble, with a range and power greater than those above.”

After assembling it, he suddenly remembered something and said to Yitzfa, “He also made a smaller hand crossbow that doesn’t require much strength to use. That one would suit you well.”

Yitzfa let out a long “Oh,” and then watched as Shivers pulled out a strange gray-white spherical object.

“I guess, this is also made by your friend?” he said.

Shivers didn’t answer but just grinned and stood up straight in the shadow of the hedge, suddenly throwing his arm up. There was a popping sound in the distant bushes, and a conspicuous puff of smoke appeared.

But Shivers didn’t pay attention to that direction. Yitzfa, following Shivers’s gaze, looked up to see both archers raising their bows and leaning over the railing of the watchtower, half their bodies sticking out.

Shivers raised the crossbow, accurately targeting their silhouettes.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said briskly.

---

The author has something to say:

Charlie: Is there a rank difference in the Knight Order?

Shiloh: Apart from the captain, everyone is the same.

Charlie: Then why is Hasting the one who takes over Shivers’ duties when he’s away, rather than Hall or any other knight?

Shiloh: I haven’t thought about that… Maybe because Hasting is most like the captain?

Eugene: ??? In what way? They’re different in appearance, personality, and how they treat people.

Shiloh: The way he gets uncontrollably excited during battle is quite similar.

Hasting: Wait, when did I become a pervert?

Hall: You didn’t know about your own nickname?

Hasting: What nickname?!!

Shiloh: The captain is usually very gentlemanly but turns into a bad guy when fighting. You usually have no expression, but you smile when fighting. The difference is so big it can only be described as perverted.

Charlie: Huh, I really want to know how perverted they get during a fight.

Hall: Don’t worry, Hasting, only the enemies see your perverted side. It doesn’t affect how women see you.

Hasting: Can you guys stop repeating the word ‘perverted’?

---

<<< || Table of Contents || >>>

Author: 冬瓜茶仙人 / Winter Melon Tea Immortal

Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/

---

Chapter 90

Before taking action, Shivers sent a report to the Duke, recounting in as much detail as possible the history of the Holy Grail and the elusive rules that many desperately sought, as told by Yitzfa.

1. The Holy Grail originates from the Black Gold Family.
2. The Holy Grail is more like a recessive genetic disease. As time passes, many may inherit this bloodline, but only one person truly awakens at a time.
3. There cannot be two Holy Grails in the world at the same time—as long as the person with this forbidden bloodline is awakened and continues to breathe, a second Holy Grail cannot appear.
4. Only the Lamp Bearers can verify the authenticity of the Holy Grail, but it cannot be commanded.

This meant that whether it was the castle witch embedded in the wall due to magical backlash or the present forces represented by the Mokwen royal family of the various Doran nations, their cruel efforts were in vain—only the Black Gold Families could give birth to the Holy Grail. However, these forces that had spread across the continent were regarded as unworthy by the nobility for centuries.

They may covet the wealth in the Black Gold’s hands and even rely on their familial abilities, but overall, dignified nobles wouldn’t tolerate any association with a Black Gold Family, let alone intermarriage.

This was probably an instinctual caution and agreement among all nobles, regardless of their rank, much like how they would instinctively frown and avoid rats, united in closing the channels through which the major Black Gold Families might gain noble status through their surnames.

Therefore, Yitzfa mockingly criticized the actions of the Mokwen royal family. Dwight noticed that in his later conversations with Shivers, he disdainfully referred to them by name.

A King and an Earl, born noble, attempted to combine this glory with legend to create an entity both obedient to them and capable of overturning the continent, believing they were on the right path, not realizing that their proud noble lineage was precisely what ensured their failure.

Oh, the irony.

Shivers also wrote: Although people often discuss the Black Gold Families together, they are actually relatively independent. They may interact occasionally, but they aren’t the natural allies as rumors suggest, and there is even some opposition between them.

At present, we don’t know the stance of other Black Gold Families. Speaking of Yitzfa alone, the Fox family has an ambiguous attitude towards the Holy Grail. He used the words “seize or destroy”, but these two statements are somewhat contradictory. I lean towards one of them being Yitzfa’s own opinion.

Dwight noticed that the Knight Commander didn’t make a preliminary judgment on which statement was Yitzfa’s own opinion for the Duke’s reference as usual, indicating that Yitzfa’s words and actions made it difficult to judge.

At the same time, Yitzfa said the Holy Grail comes from a Black Gold Family but didn’t specify which one. This may belong to a higher level of classified information. Even though Shivers explicitly mentioned that he could buy the information, Yitzfa still avoided this question.

There were four existing Black Gold Families: Fox, Wolf, Monkey, and Lion. Apart from Wolf and Monkey, the other two families had always been distinct and non-interfering, with their family bases far apart. The claim that they were once one family hundreds of years ago didn’t hold, and the instances of intermarriage in the past two hundred years were too few to count, with no shared bloodlines.

Therefore, Shivers was more inclined to believe that the Holy Grail would only come from one or two of these families.

If it was one, it was very likely the Lion family, which tended to be reclusive and lived in the high mountain ice plains. If it was two, then the relatively frequent interactions between the Wolf and Monkey families make them likely candidates.

“Which one do you think it is?” he asked.

The rabbit-headed shopkeeper looked serious. “I think the Knight Commander is very reliable, and I agree with all his opinions.”

Unexpectedly, this blatantly cheeky attitude didn’t anger the Duke. He just glanced at him and then nonchalantly returned his gaze to the letter.

This made Charlie somewhat uncomfortable.

Not just because of the reply, but also because it reflected a recent change in the Duke—the Duke of Brandenburg’s demeanor had visibly become more reserved. He was seldom provoked by his intentional or unintentional teasing anymore, and more often than not, he reacted like he did just now: not angry, but without any other emotional response.

In the polite language of the nobility, this was tolerance.

In the rabbit-headed shopkeeper’s words, it was the look one gives a fool.

No one would argue with a fool.

What unsettled him was exactly this point. Given the Duke’s character, any perfunctory behavior and concealment shouldn’t be so easily forgiven. The only explanation was that the Duke had seen through his reluctance to engage in discussions about the Holy Grail.

Perhaps he had also begun to doubt his own identity.

So, the more Dwight knew, the less he could afford to speak carelessly—the young Duke’s talent for analysis and deduction was alarmingly sharp, and Charlie didn’t want to test how much he had guessed.

If possible, Charlie hoped that everything about the Holy Grail would be buried forever, but people kept digging, and with more investigators, secrets would one day no longer be secrets.

But it must never be revealed through his own words, so playing the fool was his only option.

And for some reason, the Duke now tacitly allowed his pretense.

The two men, each with different thoughts, had achieved a strange, temporary balance.

“Shivers is bringing Yitzfa to the estate.” Dwight continued reading the letter, furrowing his brow slightly. “According to the timing, Lestrop should have already arrived.”

Perhaps they had already started fighting.

“What are you planning to do with this brother-in-law?” The rabbit-headed shopkeeper asked deliberately pettily, and sure enough, he was met with a sidelong glance from the Duke.

Knowing many details, Dwight disliked the term “brother-in-law” even more. He preferred to call him “a shameless thief”.

He had removed the originally blooming Lemenian rose but hadn’t provided the necessary care, causing everyone at Brandenburg to be frustrated.

“Tifa’s personal troops should have also arrived. Whichever dies, I’ll open a good bottle of wine,” Dwight said lazily. “If both die, I’ll ask Mokwen for war.”

He would conquer this kingdom for Priscilla to raise his little nephew.

That’s what he said, but while Lestrop might personally fight, Tifa was unlikely to leave the royal city easily—if he were so belligerent, rumors wouldn’t still be circulating in the capital about the old king favoring Lestrop as his successor.

Dwight remained skeptical about whether Tifa, the coward, truly had the guts to confront his brother with weapons. But regardless of the outcome, someone would be severely weakened.

If Tifa managed to kill Lestrop and eliminate the southern lord, using the name of the Mokwen Empire to exert pressure, that fertile territory would definitely not fall into others’ hands.

As for the Earl’s title… even if Priscilla couldn’t claim it immediately, as a widow already pregnant, it wasn’t impossible to advance further with proper manipulation.

It would be even better if Lestrop managed to seize power by killing Tifa in a single stroke. Taking his life while he was weakened after battle, and with the remaining royal relatives being useless hedonists, it wouldn’t be difficult for Priscilla, with her capabilities, to take control of the kingdom.

By then, with Lemena covertly supporting Mokwen to lie low for a few years and stabilize the situation, he was confident that he could collaborate with his sister to thrust his nephew into the struggle for the Doran Empire.

It simply couldn’t be more delightful.

“Tifa won’t enter the battlefield,” the rabbit-headed shopkeeper reminded him. “Unless the conflict escalates, and Lestrop counterattacks the royal city…”

Dwight looked up at him, and upon meeting his gaze, Charlie suddenly stopped.

Something felt off.

Lestrop rushed back to the manor, and Priscilla headed towards White Bridge—she was almost there, while Tifa was in Syriacochi, the royal city, perhaps waiting to reap and take over his brother’s ambition.

What had he overlooked?

Pleased by the rabbit-headed shopkeeper’s rare, puzzled expression, the Duke cheerfully hinted, “Tifa doesn’t need to be on the battlefield, but that doesn’t mean he’s safe.”

Charlie quickly calculated in his mind that the conflict between the brothers was fundamentally due to years of discord and conflicts of interest. If there were a third or fourth party involved in the battle, they must also be stakeholders.

Who else could be involved in their interests? Duke Baylor? No, he had investigated this person, who spent half of the year bedridden with illness and had no offspring to date.

Most of the old king’s sons were dead, and the princesses who married abroad rarely returned to the country. It was unlikely that they would intervene in this turmoil. Who else could there be?

The implication in Dwight’s words was clear: “he” referred to Tifa, meaning that it was very likely that person shared interests with Lestrop.

Charlie widened his eyes, looked at Dwight, and uncertainly uttered a name. “Christine?”

Tifa’s queen, Lestrop’s lover.

Would she stir up trouble in the royal city at this critical juncture?

Dwight didn’t speak, but his expression was subtle. Charlie stared at his light-colored eyes for a while and finally remembered what he had overlooked.

Another ambitious Dwight, Priscilla.

Charlie had forgotten that before their meeting in Lababata, this Countess hadn’t anticipated that her brother, the Duke of Brandenburg, was still within Doran’s borders.

That is, she hadn’t considered leveraging Lemena’s power. Charlie had thought her confidence stemmed from her years accumulated in Mokwen, enough to protect herself.

Thinking about it now, he probably underestimated this Dwight.

“Tifa and Christine each had their own attachments before their marriage. Christine, needless to say, almost everyone knew she had been involved with Lestrop. In comparison, Tifa’s scandal was more discreet, more taboo, and thus more talked about.” Charlie slowly recalled. “There were rumors in the palace that he fancied Countess Priscilla, partly because she bore a strong resemblance to his deceased sister, Princess Riley.”

Such rumors, even newcomers like them had heard. Priscilla, having lived in Mokwen for several years, couldn’t possibly be unaware.

She might know more, knowing the specific similarities between Princess Riley and herself, whether it was hair color, physique, or appearance…

Humans were a contradictory species.

Christine might not love Tifa, but being the Queen, everyone knew her husband’s heart had never leaned towards her, which still could make her feel humiliated.

Priscilla knew about Lestrop’s secret dealings with her, but she never lost her composure, especially in the eyes of everyone in the royal city. She was always seen as a gentle, kind Countess, blissfully protected by her husband. The King’s special treatment also surprised her, but she naively never explored the reasons behind it.

Her happy demeanor could easily sting Christine. The two men in her life were distracted by Priscilla—especially Lestrop, who, no matter what private vows they shared, was for the most part a considerate husband to his wife.

Priscilla had planted a splinter in her heart.

In the long game of mutual testing, Tifa and Lestrop’s tolerance for each other had reached a critical point. Priscilla secretly learned that Lestrop, through the use of high-level mercenaries, had killed several women Tifa had been experimenting on, and Tifa’s continued tolerance made him increasingly uncontrollable. The last time, an assassin infiltrated the king’s bedroom.

Lestrop crossed the line.

From this loss of control, Priscilla judged that the brothers were about to turn against each other, and just as Tifa’s recent favorite mistress became a casualty, she sent a girl, who was long selected and not very stunning but resembled Princess Riley more than she did, to the king’s side before leaving Syriacochi.

Tifa knew who the real killer was but still allowed the Senate to accuse Christine, letting her carry the murder suspicion, while Priscilla adeptly played the role of a lavish noble lady, casually mentioning to her husband that this year’s Wolf auction featured a very rare astrologer, rumored to interpret all secrets hidden in the stars, true or not.

Lestrop was indeed moved and, despite the royal city’s buzzing gossip, insisted on leaving for White Bridge.

Just at this time, a girl who resembled the late Princess Riley by seven parts was openly brought into the royal palace by the King, receiving his undivided attention and even making the murder in the bedroom seem less significant.

For a moment, Christine seemed to be forgotten by everyone.

And the splinter had finally grown into a thorn bush.

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