Light poured through the crystal carriage window, creating a gorgeous and colorful display. Nobles adored such vibrant hues—the window’s crystal panes, hand-polished by Capital artisans, refracted light into a dazzling array through subtle angles that did not obstruct vision.

  A viper-shaped dagger halted just an inch from Arno’s nose. The middle-aged man’s arm, exposed to the sunlight, smoked as if scalded by boiling oil. He jerked it back, regarding Arno with calm eyes. Without the life-or-death struggle of moments past, no one would have taken this ordinary-looking man for a heartless assassin. The fame of Shadow Dancers was built on a mountain of corpses; mercy was not in their nature.

  Cursed and abandoned by the gods, they had dwelled in darkness for millennia, fearing it, embracing it, and eventually merging with it.

  The Shadow Dancer examined his arm, where cracked skin writhed with black shadows, the burn-like wounds healing slowly. He pulled a small, metallic hand crossbow from his coat. The bolt, only the length of a palm, rested in the crossbow’s groove. Arno’s scalp tingled—there was no room to dodge in the cramped carriage. He swung his dagger in a backhand arc, the sharp blade slicing through the sunlight, leaving a breathtaking silver trail.

  The man reached out and seized Arno’s wrist, as calm as if performing a trivial task, despite the young man before him being a Golden Noble of the Orlando Empire. He raised his left hand, the crossbow’s arrowhead matte and devoid of reflection, exuding the same terror as a coiled scorpion. Just as he prepared to pull the trigger to complete his mission, the corner of his eye caught sight of the bronze ring on Arno’s index finger.

  In an instant, Arno’s emotions churned—anger, regret, remorse, fury, calm… time seemed to slow to a crawl. He struggled to control his body, his mind a blank, as if some mysterious force were interfering with his every action. His left hand opened, palm facing the man, and he uttered a few syllables…

  Outside the carriage, the Black Clerics, having failed to breach the carriage for so long, had finally lost patience. As time ticked by, they could vaguely sense the commotion approaching in the distance. If they could not subdue this knight soon, the assassination would end in failure. Failure was not uncommon in the Black Clerics’ long history of missions, but what truly worried them was that they had alerted their target, meaning any future attempts would be infinitely more difficult.

  “Sloth!”

  “Blindness!”

  “Weakness!”

  “Fear!”

  Each Black Cleric was proficient in a single curse spell, designed to weaken enemies to the utmost. But the more powerful and effective the curse, the greater the price to pay. After successfully cursing Blair, the eyes of all four Clerics dimmed, their vision clouded and dull. Curses were a double-edged sword; they would not pay such a heavy price unless absolutely necessary.

  Watching Blair finally unable to lift his hated longsword, his eyes losing focus and rolling wildly, his body trembling with fear as he took a staggered step back, the four Black Clerics knew their opportunity had come. Four rapiers thrust straight into Blair’s body, blood streaming down the slender blades. Blair’s face contorted with rage, and a faint, visible aura began to escape from his pores, causing the Clerics’ hearts to sink.

  They tried to withdraw their rapiers—they would not budge!

  This is bad!

  All veterans of many missions, they immediately released the hilts and lurched backward. In that instant, Blair let out a furious roar, the air itself rippling from the force of it. The four Clerics felt their bodies freeze in place, as if nailed to the spot. A brilliant sword light suddenly erupted, and the entire world seemed to drain of color, leaving only the slow-moving yet inescapable blade in their vision!

  The flash of light came and went in an instant. Blair’s eyes cleared, and he stood there, savoring the moment. He slowly raised his longsword, gave it a sharp flick, and the remaining blood on the blade splattered to the ground, kicking up dust and forming blood droplets coated in dirt. He pulled a Blackfire sheepskin from his bosom and, as gently as if caressing a lover, began to wipe the sword blade inch by inch.

  In that moment, the four Black Clerics no longer existed in his eyes.

  The Clerics’ eyes slowly lost their luster, and their bodies began to split apart at the waist, blood spraying into the air like vibrant flowers blooming in the brilliant sunlight.

  Blair suddenly gave a silly chuckle—he had never expected that at the eleventh hour, he would break through the barrier of Level 5 knight and successfully advance to Level 6. From this moment on, he could officially call himself a noble, even if it was the lowest rank.

  The divide between Level 5 and Level 6 knights was a significant one. Beyond Level 5, battle aura could be projected externally, and many advanced combat techniques became accessible. The technique he had just used was one provided by the Arno family—Flash Roundslash: channeling battle aura to enhance the body, breaking through human limits in an instant to strike a sword slash too fast for the eye to follow.

  Just then, the carriage lurched violently, the entire carriage compartment bouncing as the frightened horses neighed and bolted forward. Blair paused for a moment, then broke into a run, catching up to the carriage, grabbing the rear lamp, and flipping himself onto the roof. He steadied his body, leaned down, and peered through the window to see Arno sitting inside, calmly straightening his clothes. Scratching his head, he quickly pulled on the reins, soothing the horses to reduce their speed.

  Through the small holes between the driver’s seat and the carriage compartment, he asked, “My lord, what happened just now?”

  Arno’s voice was firm and composed. “Nothing. Keep going.”

  Truly nothing?

  The sudden burst of aura from Arno had made Blair’s heart feel as if it were being squeezed by a giant hand. Since Arno did not wish to elaborate, he did not press further, his stiff expression softening into a foolish grin. “My lord, I’ve reached Level 6.”

  “Oh?!” Arno’s eyebrow raised. “That’s excellent. Once I’ve finished handling my current affairs, I’ll accompany you to the Capital for the Level 6 knight certification.”

  Successfully passing the Level 6 knight certification would earn Blair a title and military rank, and the empire would also grant him a baronet title, encouraging more powerful individuals to register and be certified officially. The purpose of this was simple: to bind such powerful individuals to the empire with benefits and privileges, ensuring they would loyalize to the empire when needed.

  The rest of the journey was silent. As the carriage approached the gates of Pramisburg, several soldiers stepped forward to block their path. “Everyone in the carriage, come down for inspection!”

  Arno pushed aside the dark curtain on the carriage window and glanced outside. The soldiers provocatively lifted their chins, ignoring Arno’s attempt to rely on his noble status.

  Still reeling from the recent assassination attempt, Arno’s anger burned like a volcanic eruption, temporarily held in check by his reason. Now, facing this provocation, he could no longer contain it.

  He opened the carriage door and stepped down, wearing a smile as gentle as spring wind, his hands hanging at his sides, right forearm slightly raised and crossed at the waist, every inch the epitome of noble grace and upbringing. Blair, his face flushed with shame and anger, cursed loudly as he stood beside Arno. “You bastards! How dare you stop the Lord Mayor’s carriage? Do you want to die?”

  The soldiers entered the carriage and rummaged through it, one of them spitting loudly on the ground, deliberately trying to disgust Arno. After climbing down, one of them pointed at Blair and demanded, “Why do you have wounds? Did you commit a crime?”

  Blair was about to retort when Arno raised his hand to stop him.

  He took a glove made of white killer whale leather from his pocket and dropped it on the ground.

  The soldiers looked confused at the glove, which was worth several years of their wages, unsure of what the city lord was doing. Blair, however, grinned sinisterly.

  “The Orlando Empire Code stipulates that when a noble issues a duel challenge to a commoner, the commoner may not refuse.” With a clang, Blair drew his longsword and held it in his hand. “Draw your swords, bastards!”

  The soldiers were now truly stunned. They had not acted on their own accord—who in their right mind would provoke a city lord, an imperial noble? It was like an old man eating arsenic, courting death! But they had followed orders from above, and as bullies accustomed to tyrannizing in Pramisburg, they were not overly fearful, especially with someone backing them. Besides, their actions were technically above reproach: with smoke columns visible in the distance, they claimed to be preventing impostors from sneaking into the city, a pretext that even the pickiest critic could not fault.

  But they had not expected the city lord to play by no rules—why drop a glove?

  Kent, hiding in the gateway arch, quickly shuffled out, wearing a greasy smile and a stupid look on his face. “Oh, my lord, it’s all a misunderstanding, a misunderstanding!”