Everyone at the table knew.
No one said it out loud, of course.
That would be impolite.
But the air was heavy with the unspoken truth:
It was most likely Aeirik.
The second son.
The prodigy.
The one currently studying blood magic at the Royal Academy of the Elion Empire.
And Kael? Kael was the magicless one.
Expendable.
Forgettable.
An unfortunate inconvenience born into the wrong bloodline.
Kael watched them all—his illustrious family—with quiet detachment.
They avoided his gaze, eyes politely focused on their plates, or the chandeliers, or anywhere but him.
Because saying it out loud—acknowledging that Aeirik might've tried to kill his own brother just to eliminate competition for inheritance—meant facing an ugly truth.
And nobles were allergic to ugly truths.
Of course they wouldn't risk tarnishing Aeirik's future.
Not for a magicless son.
It was already clear whose side the Duke would take.
And sure enough, the words arrived like a cold slap from tradition:
"When your brother returns," the Duke said, voice devoid of hesitation,
"Just apologize. Close the matter."
Kael smiled.
Not bitterly.
Not sarcastically.
Just smiled.
The kind of smile that made people question if you were about to pull out a knife or a monologue.
Selene, standing behind him, sighed.
She didn't look shocked.
Of course she wasn't.
She was a product of this world.
A world where power was everything, and affection was just a currency people forgot to mint for the poor.
Her master had been poisoned by his own brother.
And now, he was being told to apologize for it.
Because the other brother had more mana and better connections.
Selene closed her eyes for a moment and thought,
Yes. That tracks.
Kael raised his wine glass with all the ceremony of a toast, then paused mid-air.
"Apologize, huh?" Kael said softly.
He glanced at the empty chair—Aeirik's future throne at the table.
Then back at the Duke.
His tone remained calm.
Almost amused.
"Should I bring him a fruit basket, too?"
Silence.
The Duke didn't laugh.
Veyran didn't blink.
The Duchess adjusted her earring like it was a nervous tick passed down through noble bloodlines.
Behind Kael, Selene's expression didn't move, but her soul quietly backed toward the door.
I'm going to die in this house, she thought,
Probably from secondhand trauma.
The Duke's voice landed like a sword on marble.
Cold. Irrefutable.
"Just apologize. Close the matter.
He will definitely challenge you to a duel otherwise."
Kael exhaled, slow and bitter.
From Kaelion's memories—tucked somewhere between etiquette drills and noble gaslighting—he knew exactly what those words meant.
A duel wasn't a tantrum with swords.
It was sacred.
Archaic.
Stupid.
The kind of thing that made grown men believe stabbing each other in the name of a god made them honorable.
A divine tradition, blessed by Thalrik—the War God, who apparently had nothing better to do than watch entitled aristocrats settle disputes with gratuitous violence.
To nobles, a duel wasn't brutality.
It was truth.
It was law.
It was… efficiency.
Kael, who'd spent his previous life in a world where disputes were settled with contracts, lawyers, and mild online harassment, could barely keep a straight face.
So, if I stab someone well enough, I'm right?
Is that how this works?
Am I gonna need a sword or just better aim?
His mind spun faster now, gears grinding.
If I apologize…
My image shatters.
I'll be branded a coward—Plan A, winning this duchy through diplomacy?
Gone.
Plan B... well, Plan B doesn't care about appearances.
'Mass murder' has no room for shame.
Kael looked up, smile almost pleasant.
"I will not apologize."
The room froze.
The Duke's brow lifted—one imperious arch that said:
Child, you've chosen death.
All eyes locked on Kael.
Selene's soul returned just long enough to consider fleeing again.
Even the wine in Veyran's glass looked tense.
Kael knew it was reckless.
Stupid, even.
But he couldn't back down now—not in front of this audience.
He just needed time.
As sacred duels only worked between magicians of the same rank.
Right now, Kael was a "magicless disgrace."
But if he could learn just one Rank 1 spell before Aeirik returned…
Then the challenge could proceed by restricting Aerik.
And the outcome?
Well—if Kael won, he wouldn't just be proven right about his brother having poisoned him…
He was divinely right.
Thalrik-approved.
Signed, sealed, and sanctified by the god of war himself.
"A miracle," he could say.
I mean if I do manage to learn a spell by then…
I can just say the God of War himself blessed me to expose the lie.
A divine miracle! Instant reputation buff!'
The gods have chosen me.
Sorry Aerik, maybe next life.
Kael's inner grin sharpened.
I can work with this.
I just need to learn a spell… get slightly competent… survive being poisoned again… and avoid dying in a sword duel against a blood mage trained by an imperial academy.
Easy.
He let out a small chuckle.
Then another.
"Haha—ha—ha—cough cough—"
Selene leaned in, alarmed.
"Master?!"
Kael waved her off, wiping a tear.
"I'm fine. Just… choking on destiny."
The Duke's laugh came without warning—booming, rough, and disturbingly entertained.
"Very well, boy.
Let's see what you can do."
Veyran didn't laugh.
He just muttered under his breath,
"Idiot."
Their mother, ever the portrait of restraint, gently swirled her wine and shook her head, disappointed but not surprised.
Selene, meanwhile, stared at her master with the weary look of someone who'd accidentally boarded the wrong train and was now headed straight for hell—with complimentary seating.
***
The duke didn't look up from his desk as Renold entered.
The office was dimly lit, shadows pooling around the tall shelves lined with ledgers and aged scrolls.
A single lamp burned beside a tower of parchment, casting the duke's expression in flickering gold.
"You called, master?"
Renold asked, standing stiffly with his hands behind his back.
The duke didn't lift his eyes from the parchment.
He just murmured,
"You were right.
He's changed completely."
He dipped the quill again, scribbled something with cold precision.
"That hollow look… gone.
Now, he's got will in his eyes."
Renold stood straight but clenched his jaw.
"I think it's because of Lana's death. And… and…"
'And that damn promise...'
Not like he'd say it out loud; he still got tormented enough just thinking about it.
The duke paused mid-sentence, quill hovering above parchment, ink slowly pooling at its tip.
His eyes narrowed.
"…He's changed, all right," he muttered, more to himself than Renold.
"But why… why do I feel killing intent from him?"
Renold made a noise that could only be described as a dying hiccup.
His spine stiffened like a plank, then snapped into chaos as he choked on absolutely nothing, tripped over his own boots, and crashed to the ground on his rear with a dramatic thump.
"W-WHAT?!"
Renold stared at the duke as if he'd just suggested the family cat was secretly a spy.
"I—I mean, in the whole western province—no, screw that—in the whole kingdom?!
Who would dare—who even can think about killing you?
Besides, like, the King or that creepy old bastard from the Academy who eats raw mana crystals for breakfast?!"
The duke just stared, deadpan.
He sighed, clearly used to dealing with his overly dramatic butler.
"Even I can't understand it.
If he wanted to be heir, he'd have his killing intent aimed at Veyran.
But directing it straight at me means only one thing."
Renold finally got up, brushing off his pants.
"What's that?"
The duke's eyes darkened.
"His ambition is to become duke—directly."
Renold gasped, eyes wide.
Suddenly, the duke burst out laughing—a deep, unsettling sound that echoed through the room.
"Interesting. Very interesting," he said, like a madman savoring a new game.
Renold just stood there, thinking,
'This whole family's gone off the deep end.'
Renold glanced up, hesitant.
"Master, shouldn't we also pay attention?
I mean, spying on him..."
The duke chuckled, shaking his head.
"What do you think I am?
A duke and rank 4 magician afraid of a brat who can't even master a rank 1 spell?"
He waved dismissively.
"Just do your own work. Let him scramble — we'll see who comes out on top."