The Gourmet & Ecology Exploration Club.

Suspended during the brief vacation due to Marquis Vance’s terror incident, the club had officially resumed with the start of the second semester. However, the club president—Lucien—was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, the room was practically dominated by the protagonist party.

"Hehe."

Mariella sat in the corner of the room, a soft, highly uncharacteristic giggle escaping her lips. She was meticulously polishing the six-shot revolver with a silk handkerchief as if it were a sacred relic. She buffed the steel until it gleamed so brightly it reflected the afternoon sunlight, almost blinding anyone who looked directly at it.

"...Lucien, you know," Bordon muttered, leaning against the window frame and watching Mariella’s intense dedication. "He’s not really such a bad guy, is he?"

Sitting across the room, Kael remained completely silent.

During the vacation, in the immediate aftermath of the Marquis Vance incident, he and Lucien had fought. It hadn’t been a spar or a polite duel between cadets. It had been a bloody, brutal brawl.

Facing Lucien as a genuine enemy had been a terrifying wake-up call.

In our first clash, he didn’t even draw a weapon, Kael thought, staring blankly at his own hands. He just stepped inside my guard and drove a fist straight under my chin. I staggered, completely disoriented. And it only got worse from there.

Kael had honestly thought it would end quickly. He was the sword genius; Lucien was a frail marksman. But Lucien’s evasive maneuvers and ruthless pragmatism were so dizzying that Kael had seriously wondered if he was the one being toyed with. Lucien had fought like a cornered beast. His cadet uniform’s protective magic had been completely shredded, and his body was riddled with wounds from their previous battles, yet he hadn’t taken a single step back.

If it hadn’t been stopped, what would have happened?

Could he beat Lucien if they fought again?

No. The premise itself is entirely wrong, Kael realized, clenching his fists. Fighting him was... the wrong choice to begin with.

During the Marquis Vance terror incident, Lucien had done absolutely nothing wrong. In fact, he had saved countless lives while the rest of the capital’s defense forces were paralyzed. Kael, blinded by his own bruised pride and a misplaced sense of absolute justice, had turned his blade on the very guy who had just prevented a massacre.

"Kael? Are you even listening?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah." Kael snapped out of his daze, looking up.

Bordon looked at him and let out a knowing chuckle. "For real?"

"...No. Sorry. I was just lost in thought."

He didn’t say what he was thinking about, but Bordon already knew. Clara, who was busily writing club schedules on the chalkboard, knew. Elisha, quietly sipping her tea, knew. Even Mariella, loading empty casings into her revolver, knew.

’Cadet Lucien, huh.’ ’He’s thinking about Lucien again.’ ’It’s definitely about Lucien...’

Though they had only known Kael for just over half a year, the five of them understood each other as if it were fate. They all knew about the brutal fight between Kael and Lucien, and they had been patiently waiting for their leader to actually open up about it.

"...Um, you guys," Kael finally spoke, his voice dropping slightly.

Instantly, everyone perked up. Elisha set her teacup down. Clara stopped writing.

"About the Marquis Vance incident."

That day was practically a taboo subject for their party. It was the biggest, most catastrophic failure in their seventeen years of life, and they rarely brought it up. But right now, they all listened eagerly, as if they had been waiting for this exact moment.

"Actually, back then..." Kael began, his voice tight with regret.

How could they have known just how arduous the path would be to finally reach a genuine apology?

Drip. Drip. Drip.

He was walking through a damp, filthy sewer, his boots sloshing through ankle-deep grime.

But even the dark, suffocating air of the capital’s underbelly couldn’t compare to the heavy, oppressive mood of the robed man.

After winding through a maze of uncharted drainage paths, he finally reached the deepest, dead-end sector of the sewer. He raised a gloved fist and struck the damp stone wall in a specific, rhythmic sequence.

A hidden magical mechanism activated with a heavy grinding noise, temporarily diverting the flow of the sewage as a section of the stone floor began to slide open.

Without a moment of hesitation, the man jumped down into the darkness. As his boots hit the dry stone below, the passage sealed shut above him, and the foul water resumed its flow.

Of all the places in the Empire, it had to be here?

He had thought it a thousand times, but it truly was a filthy, miserable hideout. It would be a lie to say he had no complaints about operating beneath the very city that had destroyed his life.

But at least we have a hideout, he reminded himself, tightening his jaw. Right here, in the heart of the world. The capital of the Aurelian Empire.

He began to walk down the dimly lit, subterranean corridor.

I will persist. I will rebuild the Valemont Kingdom. I will fulfill our ancestors’ will.

The Aurelian Empire had crushed them. Fifteen years had passed since the dungeon outbreaks and the subsequent imperial conquests had wiped his nation off the map. Everyone on the continent believed the Valemont Kingdom was completely, irrevocably destroyed. They believed there were no survivors.

But they still existed.

He strode through the corridor without a shred of hesitation. This was the culmination of a decade spent living in hiding, desperately preserving their legacy.

At the end of the long corridor stood a heavy red door.

"...You are compromising our honor!" "...Honor does not reclaim lost thrones, Commander!"

Polite, but dangerously heated voices bled through the heavy wood. It was obvious who was arguing. The two absolute pillars of the Valemont Restoration Army: the Chancellor and the Knight Commander.

Those two are always fighting, he sighed inwardly. Their opinions never aligned. It’s time for me to step in.

He boldly pushed the red door open.

The argument ceased instantly. Inside the massive, hollowed-out underground chamber, hundreds of armed men and women immediately stood at attention.

"Welcome!" "The legitimate heir of the Valemont Kingdom!"

They say even a ruined noble family retains its pride for three generations. For an empire that had once sought to conquer the continent, that pride was unbreakable.

"We greet Prince Leon Valemont!"

After a decade of shadows, the scattered remnants of the Valemont Army—the commanders, the ministers, the loyalists—had finally gathered once again under the singular goal of restoring their fallen nation.

"All of you, be at ease," he commanded, his voice echoing with natural authority.

As Prince Leon pulled back the heavy fabric of his robe, glossy black hair, dark as raven feathers, cascaded down to his shoulders. His striking, aristocratic features were illuminated by the mana torches.

He was the true heir of Valemont. The only remaining imperial bloodline left on the continent.

(Or, at least, that is what they all fiercely believed. They were completely unaware that another royal of the Valemont family was currently alive and well, working as a maid in a certain marksman’s estate right above their heads.)

"...The deal has been made," Prince Leon announced, delivering news that was both joyous and deeply, fundamentally unsettling.

"Ohh!" "Finally!" "We are deeply grateful, Your Highness!"

Amidst the roaring cheers of his loyal vassals, Leon forcibly suppressed the urge to let his shoulders slump. He maintained a posture of absolute pride. For the dignity of a prince? Yes, partly. But mostly because he couldn’t let them see his absolute dread.

The terms of the contract he had just finalized were deeply troubling.

As expected, Leon thought, glancing at his war council. The Chancellor, who had aggressively pushed for this alliance, was smiling triumphantly. The Knight Commander, however, looked severely displeased, barely hiding his disgust.

Something is off about this, Leon admitted to himself. He desperately wanted to side with the Knight Commander’s honor. But it’s the Chancellor’s strategy. He is the top contributor keeping this army fed and armed. I have to trust him.

Taking a slow, deep breath, Prince Leon raised his hand, silencing the chamber.

"The Demon Cult has agreed to our terms," Leon declared, his voice hard. "They will launch a coordinated terror attack on the Imperial Academy."

Joining hands with demon worshippers. Was it morally right? Attacking an academy filled with young, unaware cadets felt like an unforgivable sin. Even as he spoke the words, Leon wrestled violently with his own doubts.

"Meanwhile, we will infiltrate the Academy grounds during the chaos for a pincer operation," Leon continued, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Seeing the sheer, desperate joy on his vassals’ faces, Leon felt the crushing weight of their expectations bearing down on his shoulders. He couldn’t stop now. The young Prince Leon had always felt like a burden, a nuisance they had to protect. Now, it was his turn to lead them.

"The opportunity we have awaited for fifteen years has finally come," the Chancellor stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with fanaticism. "The Emperor of Aurelian is frail. Princess Celestia and the Empire’s future pillars are currently isolated at the Imperial Academy, far away from the heavily fortified Imperial Palace. And the First Princess, Rumina, is nothing but a madwoman with no true political factions supporting her. If we strike now..."

The Chancellor looked around the room, his voice rising to a fever pitch.

"With the Aurelian Empire’s leadership decapitated... if we sever the Imperial bloodline here and now..."

For the people who had protected him like a fragile treasure since childhood, Leon drew his sword and held it high.

"The Valemont Empire will rise again."