F-Rank Soul Eater-Chapter 209: The Family of De los Elegidos. 2

Soren pulled the heavy handle, the door creaking open just enough to reveal the man standing in the hallway.

He was short, starch-stiff, and possessed a thin, needle-like mustache that looked as though it had been painted on with obsessive precision.

His skin was deeply tanned, contrasting sharply with a crisp, black charro-style suit adorned with subtle silver embroidery. He was impeccably clean, smelling faintly of cedar and expensive tobacco.

Soren offered a casual, practiced smile. "What can we do for you?"

The man bowed slightly, his movements mechanical. "I am Enrique, the humble majordomo for the noble Familia de los Elegidos. My masters have invited the Soulbound knights of the Imperial Academy to share a prestigious dinner with them this evening."

Soren’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes remained cold.

"That’s very kind, Enrique. But we’re actually quite tired. We brought our own rations, so we’re good for the night."

Enrique’s face darkened, his features tightening into a severe frown. He leaned in slightly, enunciating every syllable as if speaking to a dull child.

"The invitation of the noble House is not a suggestion, Seniór. It is a prestigious honor. To refuse would be... an unfortunate breach of etiquette."

Over Enrique’s shoulder, Soren’s gaze drifted to the end of the hallway. There, standing in a patch of shadow, was a tall man draped in flowing white robes.

He didn’t move, his arms crossed over his chest, but his scowl was visible even from a distance—a silent, looming threat.

"I see," Soren said, his voice dropping a an octave. "Give us just a second to get ready, then."

He shut the door firmly and turned to the room. "I don’t think we’re dodging this one, guys."

Polystar stepped forward, adjusting his cuffs. "We shouldn’t try to. An invitation from a noble house is a formal affair; refusing would give them a political reason to cause trouble. However," he glanced at the door, "we are still knights in training, and this town is far too suspicious. Keep your guards up. Also..." he paused briefly, "If the wine tastes like iron, don’t swallow."

The others nodded.

Soren reopened the door. "We accept the invitation. Lead the way."

Soren Cynthia and Polystar were led through the winding, cobbled streets to the center of the town.

There stood a sprawling estate that seemed to defy the ruined world outside its gates.

It was a massive hacienda-style manor, built of reinforced white stone with deep-set arched windows and a heavy, dark wood door that looked thick enough to stop a tank.

Here, the presence of the white-robed men was even more pronounced—they stood like statues at every corner, their faces hidden in the shadow of their hoods.

Stepping inside was like walking back into the Old World. The air was thick and intoxicating, smelling of roasted chilies, cumin, and expensive saffron.

Instantly, something stirred in Soren’s soul.

Chronovore.

That cocoon that had kept still all this while, had actually stirred.

And then Soren felt it return.

Hunger.

Not so much that it was overwhelming. But it was there nevertheless.

Soren swallowed calming it down. He would have to check on the cocoon at a later time.

He tried to distract his mind by looking around.

The interior of the place was a masterclass in preserved tradition: heavy velvet curtains of deep crimson, ornate portraits of stern-faced ancestors, and several acoustic guitars hanging on the walls, their polished wood gleaming under the warm chandelier light.

As Soren admired the craftsmanship of a nearby portrait, a voice boomed from the balcony overlooking the foyer.

"Welcome, knights of the Almace Empire, to my humble home."

The group looked up. A man stood at the railing, draped in a suit of blindingly white linen.

He carried a well-regulated smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes—dark, deep brown pools that seemed to calculate the value of everything they landed on.

His hair was partially bald and graying at the temples, matching a neatly trimmed gray mustache.

He looked every bit the patriarch of a dying world’s oasis.

"I am Don Alejandro de los Elegidos," he continued, descending the grand staircase with a slow, predatory grace. "It is not often we see the Emperor’s finest this far south. Especially accompanying our... long-home-away Saintess."

Soren felt the tension in the room spike. After all, the ’Saintess’ wasn’t just a nickname; it was a title that carried weight in this town.

As Soren struggled to find the right words to respond, Polystar smoothly moved to the front.

He performed a bow so precise and effortless it could only have been born from a lifetime of high-court lessons.

"The pleasure is ours, Don Alejandro," Polystar said, his voice ringing with a calm, practiced authority. "Though I must offer a small correction—we are not yet knights. We are mere cadets, knights in training of the Almace Academy. But your hospitality to humble students is noted."

Alejandro’s thick eyebrows knitted together for a fleeting second, his gaze sharpening as he re-evaluated the boy in front of him. "And who might you be, young master? You speak with the tongue of..."

"Pill Polystar, of House Polystar," he replied simply.

Alejandro let out a short, dry chuckle. "Ah! House Polystar. It is a delight to see our Saintess has made friends with such renowned people."

His eyes drifted past Polystar, scanning the group with a calculating squint. "But tell me... are you not supposed to be five? Why are there only three of you?"

"The journey was arduous," Polystar lied without a hint of hesitation. "Two of our companions required immediate rest to stabilize their Shade curses. We felt it best they recover in the quiet of the hotel room."

Alejandro nodded slowly, his expression shifting into one of practiced sympathy. "Oh, the suffering of a Soulbound warrior. Truly, it is a heavy burden."

He turned toward a large, ornate portrait hanging nearby. The man in the painting bore a striking resemblance to him, though with a much more predatory set to his jaw. "I remember watching my dear papa suffer his own Shade curse. It was... a tragedy to witness."

He reached out, stroking the frame with a hand heavy with gold rings and obsidian jewels.

A single, solitary tear escaped his eye. Before it could even hit his cheek, Enrique was there, extending a crisp white handkerchief with incredible speed.

Alejandro wiped the tear away, and in a heartbeat, the grief vanished.

He was back to his polished, smiling self. "But come! We must not let the appetite of our guests suffer. It is time to eat."

Soren could not help but watch... speechless.

It was as if his was seeing a renowned actor perform.

And not just Alejandro too.—Polystar was no different.

His speech pattern had drastically changed to fit the occasion.

Soren became secretly happy the noble noy had insisted on coming.

After all, a country side boy like him woukd gave been lost when it came to handling such a noble.

No.

He would have probably lost to the old man’s wits.

Soren decided to be extra careful. After all, this was much different from the courtroom.

Enrique, the butler, pulled back a set of massive double doors, revealing a dining hall that felt like a fever dream of the Old World.

The room was lush, draped in heavy silks and lit by hundreds of beeswax candles that cast a flickering, golden glow over the long mahogany table.

The spread was obscene. There were platters of roasted meats glazed in dark, spicy sauces, bowls of vibrant saffron rice, and baskets of fresh bread that smelled of real butter—a luxury almost unheard of in this bitter post apocalyptic world.

Soren looked at the feast and felt a knot of anger tighten in his chest. He thought of the woman with the purple gills he’d seen outside the gate, scavenging for rubbery meat from a rotting Eldritch corpse.

He thought of all the others mutated simply because they could not refuse hunger and had to dug into the corpses of Eldritch creatures for food.

Here, there was enough food to feed half the town for a week.

Soren was really not having a good impression of this noble man.

At the table, three figures were already seated.

Two men sat side-by-side, looking scarily identical—twins, likely—distinguishable only by their suits: one in blood-red, the other in midnight black.

But it was the third person that stopped Soren’s breath.

"Sophia?" he whispered.

She wasn’t in her black cadet tunic. Instead, she was draped in a flowing, virginal white gown, her blond hair pinned up with intricate silver combs.

Her face had been painted with subtle makeup, making her look less like a warrior and more like a porcelain doll.

"Sophia," Soren said again, a bit louder this time.

She didn’t look up. Her gaze remained fixed on the empty china plate in front of her, her expression was even more vacant now.

Cold.

Distant.

She acted as if Soren and the others were nothing more than shadows on the wall.

"Please, sit," Don Alejandro urged, gesturing to the empty chairs opposite the twins.

"There is much to discuss regarding the future of our ’Saintess’."

Soren and Polystar took the offer. However, Cynthia remained standing.

The chairs here were not exacy designed for her frame.

The only thing looking comfortable to sit on was the table itself.

Meanwhile, Polystar immediately reached for the vegetables on the table.

Even though he had showed sophistication only moments ago, he suddenly looked like a drowning man that had found water.

"Damn it. They don’t have carrots." He muttered.

(Author’s note: Can anyone guess where this is going yet? Cause, l really want to know your thoughts. Either ways, if you like sophia already, send powerstones. Thank you)