For social gatherings such as this, it was only natural that those driven by greed and necessity would gather together.

Where ambition pooled, the foul stench of lies, deceit, and quiet manipulation inevitably seeped into the air, clinging unseen yet unmistakable.

"People from the center really can't hide their hunger for money…" a low voice muttered.

"Indeed…"

From one of the far corners of the grand ballroom—just beside the second-floor balcony—a man observed the scene below with an unreadable expression.

Nobles laughed behind gloved hands, merchants exchanged smiles sharpened with calculation, and partners spun across the dance floor as if every step were part of some unspoken negotiation.

His grayish silver hair and eyes marked him as a man of advanced age, yet nothing about his presence felt frail or diminished.

His back was straight, his stance solid—like an old war banner that had weathered countless storms but still refused to fall.

Rather than a noble basking in luxury, he resembled a veteran general temporarily wearing courtly clothes.

Count Roverick Astadil of the North calmly lifted the glass of wine in his hand and took a measured sip.

Standing beside him was his personal attendant, Klaus, a tall man with sharp eyes that constantly scanned the crowd below.

Unlike his lord, Klaus's curiosity was plain to see; his brows were raised slightly as he watched the spectacle unfold.

As northerners, neither of them was accustomed to such lavish customs of the central empire.

For Klaus especially—who had rarely left the harsh lands of the North, let alone set foot in Lumen Academy—this gathering felt unreal, almost excessive.

Gold, music, laughter… it all felt too warm.

Too soft.

Although Roverick had wanted to avoid coming to Lumen altogether, circumstances had forced his hand.

Personal reasons—ones far more pressing than politics or courtesy—had made his presence unavoidable.

After a brief silence, Klaus spoke again, lowering his voice.

"By the way, my lord… are you certain we should simply wait here?"

The count turned his gaze toward him, eyes calm and steady.

For a moment, Klaus felt as though he were being assessed like a soldier awaiting orders.

"Yes," Roverick replied plainly, giving a short nod.

"They will come to us."

His eyes returned to the ballroom below, sharp and patient—like a hunter who had already chosen where to stand, knowing full well that the prey would eventually wander into range.

Though this time, he would likely be the one considered prey.

Under normal circumstances, even if he despised such gatherings, maintaining social dignity and weaving connections was simply part of a noble's duty.

A territory that could not sustain itself through sheer resources and manpower alone had no choice but to rely on alliances, favors, and the invisible threads of influence.

Whether one liked it or not, money was what kept the world afloat—and those who turned their backs on it often found themselves sinking first.

But tonight was not about that.

For the Count, this was no ordinary visit.

The reason he had come all the way to Lumen Academy was simple in purpose, yet painfully complicated in execution—to meet the Emperor himself.

As the vanguard against the monster waves ravaging the empire's northern frontier, Roverick had been bleeding men week after week.

Monster incursions in the North were nothing new; they were a grim constant his people had long grown accustomed to.

However, this time something was different—deeply, unsettlingly so.

The waves were growing more frequent.

The monsters were stronger.

And worst of all, they were appearing with alarming coordination.

There was no doubt in his mind anymore.

A dungeon break had occurred.

Clearing such a catastrophe should have been the empire's highest priority.

Left unchecked, it would only escalate, birthing monsters that would spill farther south with each passing month.

Yet with the forces currently under his command, there was no chance Roverick could resolve it alone.

His soldiers were exhausted, his supplies strained, and his losses had already crossed the threshold of what could be considered acceptable.

That was why he had sent request after request to the capital, pleading not for luxury or recognition—but for reinforcements.

The Emperor had responded, at least on paper.

The Grand Duke had been instructed to "make a move."

Yet beyond maintaining the current situation—holding the line, delaying the inevitable—the Grand Duke had done little of substance.

No decisive campaign. No dungeon purge. No real commitment to ending the threat at its source.

In other words, nothing that would actually solve the problem.

Roverick's grip tightened slightly around his wine glass.

If this continued, the North would break first.

Of course, the count wasn't an idiot.

The Grand Duke was known as the strongest swordsman on the entire continent.

Clearing S-rank—and even SSS-rank—dungeons was not something that would give him any real trouble.

If he truly wished to, the duke could march north alone and erase the dungeon break by himself.

In fact, his mere presence near the borders had already deterred countless weaker monsters from even approaching his territory.

And that was exactly what made the situation feel wrong.

The last time Roverick had spoken with the Grand Duke, the man had been clear.

He claimed to be stationed there to prevent the monster waves from spreading and had even expressed concern for the North and its people.

His words had sounded sincere, almost reassuring.

Yet actions spoke louder than words.

Despite all that strength, despite all that authority, the Grand Duke had made no decisive move.

That alone made things suspicious.

It was clear to Roverick now that aiding the North was not the Grand Duke's true mission.

The Emperor had sent him there for another purpose entirely—one that had nothing to do with saving northern villages or easing the burden on exhausted soldiers.

Naturally, Roverick could have confronted the Grand Duke and demanded answers.

But even he knew there were limits.

What passed between the Emperor and the Grand Duke was not something a count, no matter how important his post, was allowed to know.

Within the empire, it was an unspoken rule—orders from the throne stayed sealed between those two.

Still… that did not mean Roverick was completely out of options.

And as shameful as it felt to admit, his last remaining hope relied on chance.

This academy.

This gathering.

If there was even a small opportunity to meet the Emperor here, then he had no choice but to seize it.

"My lord… I know it's a bit shameful of me to say this, but wouldn't it be better if we negotiated with the nobles closer to our territory instead of dealing with these central… people?" Klaus muttered, his gaze flicking briefly toward the lively crowd below.

"Mind your words, Klaus," Roverick said calmly, though there was a sharp edge beneath the surface.

"P-please forgive my rudeness…"

The count took another measured sip of his wine before answering.

"That option is not without merit. However, do you truly believe those neighboring lords would help us out of goodwill?"

Klaus fell silent.

"At best they would bleed us dry with unreasonable demands—supplies, troops, influence, land—anything they could extract. And at worst, they would refuse outright, using the same excuse they always do." His eyes narrowed. "That the Grand Duke has already been dispatched to the North."

"…Then what choice do we have?" Klaus asked quietly.

"Even if it costs us our heads," Roverick said without hesitation, "the Emperor is our only real chance."

Klaus's jaw tightened.

"We do not have the gold to hire third-party organizations, S-rank adventurer guilds, mercenary companies, mage towers—every one of them demands sums we simply do not possess anymore."

Klaus kept his tongue pressed firmly to the roof of his mouth, frustration boiling beneath the surface.

The count was right.

No matter how much he hated to admit it, their coffers were too empty to buy salvation.

Clearing the dungeon with hired forces was nothing more than a fantasy at this point.

That was why they were here.

This gathering.

At the very least, Roverick hoped to establish connections—any connections—that might offer a path forward, even if his true goal was an audience with the Emperor himself.

Yet as Klaus looked over the sea of smiling faces, forced laughter, and polished words laced with hidden intent, his discomfort only deepened.

The way they spoke.

The way they smiled.

The way their eyes constantly measured worth.

He disliked every bit of it.

Perhaps he really was just a stubborn old man—but that did not make this place any less repulsive to him.

Thankfully, dealing with that crowd wasn't his only option.

By sheer chance—or perhaps fate—a very significant opportunity had been handed to him just yesterday, delivered in the form of a single letter.

A letter bearing the seal of imperial royalty.

It was the only reason Count Roverick Astadil had endured coming to this place.

"Count Roverick Astadil."

At the sound of the clear, composed voice calling his name, Roverick immediately turned. His aged eyes widened, genuine surprise flashing across his face.

He had heard countless descriptions of her beauty—how she was said to resemble a goddess descended from the heavens—but even knowing that, he couldn't fully hide his shock when he saw her standing there in person.

He quickly straightened himself and bowed deeply.

Klaus, who had been frozen in awe for a brief moment, hurriedly followed suit.

"I greet the star of the empire," Roverick said firmly. "Your Highness, Princess Snow."

Snow looked down at the two men with a calm, neutral gaze, her posture dignified yet unforced.

And then Roverick noticed the man standing just behind her.

Riley.

The moment his eyes fell on him, the count felt his breath hitch.

…Powerful.

The word echoed in his mind before he could stop it.

Unbeknownst to anyone present, Roverick had carried a secret ability his entire life—one he had never spoken of, not even to his closest aides.

He could appraise people.

Not with numbers or titles, but with instinct—an unshakable sense of what lay beneath the surface.

And the moment his gaze brushed past Riley, only one thing screamed at him.

Authority.

Almost absolute.

It wasn't the pressure of a strong warrior, nor the sharp presence of a high-ranking noble.

It was something far heavier.

Something closer to divinity.

For the first time in years, the Count of the North felt a chill run down his spine.

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