Behind the annex of Leontheim Palace.
“Hey—did you hear the news?”
“What now?”
During lunch, the knights savored their break, relaxing and talking. Naturally, where people gather, rumors swirl—and where rumors gather, there are always gossipmongers. Even within the order, a few of them were known for their curiosity. One such brother spoke up to Greg, the self-proclaimed Captain of the Knightly Pair.
“She apparently ordered some nutritious treats to boost our strength from the kitchen…”
“They say she’s such a kind lady she wants to share them with the attendants too.”
Greg, unbothered, sighed. His comrade clicked his tongue and wagged his finger at Greg.
“Blessed with none of that awareness, huh?”
“Oh? Yet you noticed the finger trembling—is your awareness that sharp?” Greg’s threat made the man quickly retract his finger into a fist.
He wished the man would just shut up, but it seemed impossible.
“So what do you think it means?”
Greg, bored, chose to ignore him. He'd rather finish his lunch and take a nap. Yet the chatter didn't stop—the man clearly didn't care what Greg thought.
“It means—she’s actually coming to meet us!”
Greg's comrades, previously feigning indifference, suddenly leaned in, their eyes wide.
“So… what happens next? Is it confirmed? When? Tomorrow? The day after?”
“Hold on—team, calm down.” The gossipmonger flashed a grin as he spoke up.
“It must’ve been our capture of that rat that impressed her, don’t you think?”
“That’s true. I heard the Grand Consort planned the operation herself.”
Facing a knife threat without flinching, arresting the thief with calm decisiveness—they all knew, instinctively, who she was. She was the famous beauty from the Valentine bloodline.
‘Wow, the other-blooded aristocrat we’ve only heard of.’
Even wild Cedric spoke of it—how refined and regal one’s blood could make them. She embodied the same grace.
When the rat was caught, she had shown no strong reaction. She merely stood quietly, surveying the scene. Not a single word.
But none among them would dare speak without her permission.
Her noble composure naturally made those present bow their heads.
“The lady… supposed to be our Consort…”
“I know. She was unbelievably beautiful.”
In the capital, all women were beautiful, they said—and after that day, Iris became the Knightly Order’s hottest topic.
Though Leontheim’s knights were the military center of the North, and among the most visible to both peasants and northern nobles, none compared to her.
Her round forehead framed a slender nose. Her double-lidded eyes added an enigmatic grace to her round gaze. Unlike northern folk, her fair cheek glowed with a hint of rose.
But most impressive was
her posture
.
As if she had been born standing tall, her delicate frame and poised carriage emitted an ethereal aura like that of a white crane’s feather.
Turning to the knight beside him, Greg thought:
“If we meet her properly… I must tell her how breathtaking she truly is.”
But someone’s voice shattered that hope.
“Would that be so—or is the Grand Duke forbidding it?”
It was Greg. His tone was resentful yet resigned.
One of them should’ve denied it, but no one dared—because Greg’s words didn’t seem false.
“Is that so?”
“I honestly don’t even know if that was her tonight. They were holding each other so closely.”
Being introduced to the Consort should be an honor for knights—a sign the Duke trusted them.
Yet weeks had passed and they still hadn’t met her. No one said it out loud. But in their hearts:
“Maybe we’re not worthy.”
The Leontheim Knights—skilled in martial prowess, but lacking in
prestige
.
Before the territory became a Duchy, their reputation was raw: “loutish, grubby mercenaries.”
They’d been a small elite force cobbled together to defend the forsaken land of Leontheim—not official paladins of the Empire.
It was only after the territory’s ducal elevation that they became an
Order
.
“Once they were invisible, but now suddenly they’re calling themselves the ‘Knightly Order’?”
“Ridiculous.”
Their disdain mirrored that of the citizens of Leontheim, who viewed the Emperor’s appointed knights with growing contempt.
And then, the young master appeared.
Cedric Leontheim.
They still couldn’t forget it—
The moment that boy, cast out and exiled to this desolate land after losing his parents, had single-handedly subdued the entire knight corps.
"What is your purpose?"
"Did you not swear to protect this land? And yet, to me… am I not the intruder?"
"Then you should have driven me out."
The knights had no words in the face of Cedric’s cold interrogation. They could only bow their heads.
Cedric was the one truly capable of defending this land—not false protectors like them, but a real one.
A cultivator who had reached a realm they could not even perceive.
The rightful master of this province.
And they—knights in name—were no more than paper shields, unable to protect him.
"Vice-Captain! Where are you going?"
"To become worthy of my master."
Their vice-captain, once their leader, had begun leaving on solo expeditions after Cedric’s arrival.
Each time he returned, stronger than before—yet he never once bested Cedric.
"We must grow stronger."
In this way, Cedric's presence continually forced their cultivation forward—yet paradoxically, it also solidified the distance between them.
He became a towering mountain they could only look up to, never reach.
The mood quickly turned heavy. In the corner, a few of the junior knights timidly raised their hands.
“But… she came from House Valentine, didn’t she? Surely she’s held a sword before.”
“Yes! Wouldn’t she be curious about us too?”
Having never witnessed Cedric’s overwhelming might firsthand, the younger ones carried far less pressure.
Looking into their eager, hopeful eyes, the older knights sighed.
Normally, they would’ve at least forced a smile for these bright juniors, but not on
this
subject.
“No, no way. Not a chance.”
“When did the Vice-Captain come last? Was it a few months ago?”
“He was crushed completely and had to return again, wasn’t it?”
“Now that you mention it… isn’t the new lady the second daughter of the Valentine house?”
At that offhand comment, a few who remembered nodded slowly.
“What about it?”
“Well… I don’t know much about nobles, but…”
After scratching his head once, the knight hesitantly added,
“I thought I’d heard somewhere she was the only one in the Valentine line born without talent.”
“I’ve heard that too. Pretty well-known among the capital’s knights, I think.”
The holy knights stationed near the capital were notorious for their loose lips.
It was often said the fastest way to hear the latest gossip was to visit the taverns where they gathered.
“If that’s true, then she probably doesn’t even know what kind of sword this is.”
At that comment, the other knights nodded.
Not every noble girl could handle a sword. Among those of noble birth, very few showed interest in martial arts.
Now that the room had finally gone quiet, Greg struck the final nail into the coffin by tapping his blade a few times.
“Exactly. She probably wouldn’t even recognize what kind of sword this is.”
“From the performance of the steel, I’d say it’s Kielga Forge’s old Bastard Sword—no. 56.”
…Huh?
Who said that?
A sudden fragrance of violets drifted through the air.
Greg turned his head—and violet hair swayed just inches from his face.
The lady he’d only ever seen from afar… now stood right beside him, her face radiant, composed, and terribly close.
“It’s a fine sword—masterfully made.”
Thunk.
The precious bread roll Greg had been holding fell to the ground, rolling through the mud.
Iris gave an awkward smile as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Apologies. I didn’t mean to startle anyone by arriving so suddenly.”
At her words, several knights stood abruptly, as if something had struck their chests.
Is that truly her?
What was such a noble being doing in a humble place like this?
“A-ah, no—!”
Just as they fumbled to offer her proper welcome, a broad back blocked their path.
Greg.
“What brings you here, my lady?”
His voice was cold, and his expression matched.
The knights preparing to make space flinched, slapping Greg’s shoulder in panic.
What’s with this guy?!
But they understood the reason.
Greg respected Cedric deeply—bordering on reverence.
He wouldn’t act on anything his master hadn’t explicitly allowed.
Not even greet the new lady.
After all, they’d never received a word or signal from Cedric himself.
They’d failed to earn the approval of their original master—how could they face his chosen consort?
“Vincent suggested a welcome banquet this evening. But I… was too curious, so I came ahead.”
Behind his back, Greg’s clenched fists had turned white.
I am unworthy.
He had made her come to them herself.
“This is not a place a lady such as yourself should tread.”
Those words made Greg feel wretched—and filled him with guilt.
But sadly, Iris had no cultivation art that let her read hearts.
Does… does he dislike me?
Though the sharpness of his tone might’ve made her shrink back, Iris held her posture firm.
“I have wielded the sword.”
She did not accept his judgment that this was not a place for her.
It wasn’t about rank or title.
She, too, had once lived by the sword.
She, too, had been a warrior.
“I know,” Greg said. And the response she received was indifferent—like it didn’t matter whether she knew or not.
A chill crept into the depths of her heart.
“What’s the point of trying? If your strength never improves, it’s just stubbornness—not effort.”
“Lady Iris, a cultivator? Honestly, she has no skill. Her only gift is her bloodline.”
Yes. This had always been her place in the world.
Biting her lip at the familiar sensation, she realized—
She’d been foolish enough to think everyone would welcome her.
Even if Cedric had granted permission, it didn’t mean they shared his thoughts.
“I know.”
Like back in the Valentine Clan, she had the authority to discipline them with her status. Even Greg’s demeanor still left some room for doubt.
But Iris, after much contemplation, lifted her head. Her sky-colored eyes shimmered, clear and resolute.
In the past, such words would’ve crushed her spirit, made her abandon the path.
But not anymore. She would no longer forsake her dao heart.
“I won’t deny it. I’m a dull root. But never once have I wielded the sword without sincerity.”
Cedric had once told her—
When their blades crossed, he could feel how deeply she loved the sword.
That it was okay to treasure something—and to speak that truth aloud.
“It was rude of me to come so unannounced. I know that.”
With a faint, bitter smile, Iris lowered her head slightly.
She hadn’t expected much.
It was just that back in Valentine, she’d never had a chance to truly converse with the cultivators of the guard corps.
So perhaps she’d gotten her hopes up.
Even if the people of Leontheim were kind, not all of them would welcome her unconditionally.
“Then I’ll excuse myself. I’ll return later—through the proper rites.”
They couldn’t see her expression as she turned away.
And yet—
“Why does she look so sorrowful?”
That receding figure, vanishing like one far too used to rejection, left a pang in their hearts.
As if…
They had made a grave mistake—though they couldn’t name it.
The other cultivators quickly came to Iris’s defense.
“Hey, Greg. That was way out of line.”
“I agree! There was no need to speak so harshly.”
Criticism poured over Greg’s back like a cold tide. His comrades, who’d been frozen in silence, were now rebuking him openly.
Still staring blankly at Iris, Greg suddenly realized—too late—
“She was being considerate of me.”
Unlike himself, who had clung to sect protocol and devotion to his lord, she had tried to understand his heart.
“Grand Consort!”
He called out to her, voice ringing with urgency. Iris, startled, turned around.
Greg drew the sword from his waist and held it out to her.
“This blade—why do you consider it a peerless treasure?”
The Kiel Family’s No. 56 Bastard Sword.
The final work released by Master Kiel, once a famed blade-forger—crafted not for nobles, but for commoners.
Swordsmanship was never meant to be the domain of aristocrats alone.
Under that creed, the 56th Bastard Sword was forged.
Yet it was ignored by nobles who believed only long, heavy swords were worthy of being called true blades.
They wouldn’t even glance at it.
But
she
had called it a “divine weapon.”
Iris blinked a few times in surprise at the question, then replied in a calm, measured tone.
“A long and heavy sword can be hard to wield for someone who hasn’t trained their qi vessel.”
Indeed, that had always been the biggest reason common folk couldn’t draw near to sword cultivation.
Unlike other martial paths, it had poor accessibility.
“The 56th Bastard Sword is noticeably lighter than most blades and allows one to learn many different sword arts. I believe it’s ideal for beginners.”
It was a textbook answer.
And for Greg, it was enough.
But Iris added a single remark more.
“That slogan Master Kiel left behind—it suits this sword perfectly. That’s why I call it a peerless weapon.”
Greg pressed his lips tightly together as if he’d been struck speechless.
Then asked again, quietly:
“Then… do you know what happened to that family?”
“…It was a tragedy. Didn’t the former Emperor destroy them for supplying weapons to the people and inciting rebellion?”
Greg finally dropped his head.
Silence fell between them for a long moment. Iris waited patiently, giving him space to gather his emotions.
“…I will visit the Grand Consort to offer my proper greetings later.”
“I’ll be expecting you.”
“But still…”
When Greg finally raised his head, tears rimmed his eyes—filled with remorse… and gratitude.