As the group walked through the swelling roar of the crowd, Margola kept waving, his body swaying between exhilaration and joy. His wide eyes scanned the faces, catching flickers of delight and shadows of triumph. He wasn't exactly smiling, but laughter hovered on his lips, like a child about to burst out laughing—if only someone dared to tickle him. Yet, a voice cut through the tightly packed bodies and interwoven chants. It wasn't an ordinary voice—it felt like a weight crashing down on everyone. Three figures emerged from the crowd, their appearance enough to redraw the expressions on every face.
They moved with steady, confident strides, as people instinctively made way for them—not because they were asked, but because dread knew how to speak to the body without sound. They were knights, but unlike any others. On either side walked two tall warriors clad in silver armor, polished to reflect the light harshly. Their helmets obscured their faces, yet the sharpness of their features seemed to pierce through. Their eyes scanned the crowd without blinking, and their hands rested on their sword hilts—not drawn, but ready for anything.
Between them walked a woman, shorter in stature, but she needed no height to command awe. Her presence was overpowering. She was encased head to toe in pure golden armor that hid every part of her. Her helmet was a masterpiece in itself, gleaming like a star, but it was the eyes behind it that were the true weapon—piercing, unflinching, stabbing without movement. They didn't gaze at faces, but beneath them—into intentions and the secrets lodged in hearts.
The moment they appeared, Ace needed only a blink to recognize them. He'd seen them before, on his return from his first mission, standing at the town's gate. The trio stopped a few meters from the adventurers. Margola raised his hand in greeting, and his voice followed—a measured tone, soft-edged but devoid of warmth:
"Well, well… Commander Teresa, leader of the Royal Knights! What an honor. I didn't expect to see you here… in this distant town."
His words were like a dagger wrapped in velvet, a courtesy so practiced it could only fool the naïve. The cold stiffness in his features and a subtle twitch of his brow betrayed the truth—the admiration was only a veil, hiding something else. His eyes remained locked on the knight, unblinking. He continued, his tone quieter but edged with a veiled sharpness:
"How can we be of assistance?"
A heavy silence settled before her voice emerged—not loud, not faint, but evenly delivered and utterly dry:
"I heard you plan to kill the Rotwood Tree Beast."
At that instant, a brief flicker passed through Margola's eyes. It wasn't fear, nor surprise—something deeper, a confirmation of a suspicion long held. His eyes narrowed, not out of caution, but with the precision of a hunter spotting a prey finally revealing itself.
"That's correct," he replied evenly, tilting his head as though trying to see her face from another angle, to read the hidden details behind her helm. After a pause, he added:
"Is there a problem?"
With a loud, commanding voice filled with resolve, the knight replied as though reading a decree in a court of justice. Her tone left no room for improvisation or doubt:
"I ask you to refrain from killing that creature."
Several seconds passed. Shock rippled through the crowd. Faces shifted between disbelief and outrage. Trembling whispers rose like smoke. Nervous glances were exchanged, eyes searching for reasons behind the request.
Among those present, a few still believed in the knights' reputation. To them, her words were not betrayal but a noble warning. Perhaps she was trying to save the lives of the adventurers. But Margola gave no time for that belief to take root.
"Why?" he asked, his voice dripping with innocence as it sliced through the silence. "Why don't you want us to kill the beast?"
She did not hide behind ornate language, nor did she evade the question like most officials might. She looked directly into his eyes, as if searching for something there, then answered, her voice unembellished:
"Killing the beast is not just a victory… it's a threat to the kingdom's national security. Its disappearance would expose the Green Plains. Harsh as they are, they serve as a natural barrier. If the beast dies, fear dies with it—and with fear, balance. This place would become an open corridor, a blind gap, for those waiting to strike. That creature's presence ensures a geographical stability that cannot be tampered with."
Her words landed like stones in the ears of the townsfolk. Their silence was no longer due to awe, but comprehension. The veil of truth had been pulled back—a truth like fire, not giving warmth to all. Quickly, the silence began to erode, as if crushed by the weight of what had been said. Whispers leaked first, faintly, then built up like a hiss before a storm. Faces reddened, fists clenched, eyes filled with smoldering fury. Their murmurs resembled the rumble of a volcano, announcing itself only when ready to erupt.
"National security"—the phrase passed between tongues like a bitter joke. How could someone who hadn't lived on this land, who hadn't choked on its seasonally poisoned air, who hadn't spent nights counting the breaths of feverish children—how could she speak of balance and peace? How could she ask them, year after year, to endure suffering so that the powerful could remain undisturbed?
Voices suddenly rose, steeped in merciless anger—a chaotic mix of pain, bitter sarcasm, and raw fury. It was as if every chest burst open at once, after years of suffocating silence. Faces twisted into portraits of rage and disgust. Their eyes glowed with a dark fire, their brows soaked in sweat. Bulging veins pulsed with emotion. From within the sea of voices, an old man's hoarse cry broke through—as if his throat hadn't spoken in years, but now erupted with a question:
"Is the kingdom's safety more important than our children's lives?!"
His words struck like an arrow, unerring. His voice trembled but did not break:
"How many more of us must be devoured by these diseases to keep your balance intact?!"
Then, from the crowd, a half-human woman stepped forward—thin, as though time had carved her bones. She raised her hand and shouted:
"If the kingdom truly cares—let it send its knights to the borders! Why are we asked to die in silence? Why are we the sacrifices while they sit behind their high walls?!"
Her voice wasn't just protest—it was a slap to every act of neglect and collusion. In this eruption of public fury, where every gaze brimmed with tears or flame, Margola stood silently. Like a spectator who knew exactly when to step into the light, he didn't move, but his eyes watched with quiet excitement. This was no surprise to him. It was the harvest of seeds he had sown—of doubts whispered, of stories planted. Every tale and murmur had been a brick in the volcano now exploding.
He knew rage wasn't born in a day—it had to be raised like a small beast until it could bite. The crowd wasn't spontaneous—it was a wave he had drawn to confront a power beyond his reach. He hadn't gathered them to listen—but to shout, to demand, to shatter fear. Amid this storm, Teresa stood firm. Her eyes remained focused, but something inside her shook. She didn't flinch or retreat, but she felt the ground shift beneath her. The authority she'd long wrapped herself in was crumbling with every cry, every look.
And then, as though the stage had prepared itself for the final act, Margola stepped forward at last. His steps were slow, as if each one declared a revolt. He stood close to the commander, in the heart of the scene, where all eyes and lights missed nothing. He raised his hand slowly, asking for silence, then spoke with a voice tinged in feigned, yet convincing sorrow:
"With all due respect, my lady… I cannot comply with your request."
He paused, letting silence bend to his words, then continued, his voice deepening:
"The lives of these people… their comfort… their safety… matter more to me than any political consideration. These people… they are the kingdom. Protecting them is essential—even for a simple adventurer like me. If border security is necessary, let the kingdom build a base there, send its knights, post guards… and take full responsibility, as it should!"
These were not just words—they were a call to awaken. The crowd surged with them. Cheers erupted, not polite applause, but fierce, thunderous clamor. Tears gleamed in some eyes—not just from sorrow, but from hope, or old frustration finally given voice. Curses slipped from lips, aimed at names known only as titles in official books.
Margola stared at Teresa. His eyes were like twin blades, and his words chosen like a sniper selects his shot. His voice rose, sharp and final—as if he meant to wound, not persuade:
"If you're concerned about the authority behind this mission, allow me to remind you—it's not a personal venture. It's an official assignment from a noble of the realm… Marquis Farros himself. Are we to refuse a direct order from the crown? Would we be accused of insubordination for obeying?"
At the mention of Marquis Farros, the air trembled like the sound of a war horn at the start of battle. Eyes questioned, heads turned, seeking answers not yet spoken. Who was this man? Why did his name carry such weight? Was this more than just a simple dispute?
Whispers began again. Then questions, as those who had once visited the capital spoke—first hesitantly, then with growing confidence. They spoke of a man rarely seen, but often mentioned—in corridors, on docks, in tavern tales. His influence, his reputation, his shadow longer than any other official's.
"He's not an ordinary noble…" said one man, his eyes glowing with a kind of reverence, as if describing a star he had glimpsed before anyone else. Faces leaned closer, whispers merged, and all other sounds faded, as if even time paused to listen.
"Marquis Farros," the man continued, voice steadying, "only appeared a few years ago. He didn't need decades to earn his place. His nobility wasn't in his title or blood—it was in what he did with his own hands, what his spirit carved into the soil of this kingdom."
Among the listeners, some began adding fragments of stories passed down by word of mouth, completing the image of a man they had never seen, yet who resembled no one. One of them claimed that this noble name had been associated with perilous missions—purging campaigns in plague-ridden lands, expeditions where silver-ranked adventurers were dispatched. Who had funded these campaigns? Not the Crown, but Faros himself, from his own wealth, without a trace of pride on his face, as if what he had done was merely the least one could offer to the people.