Mamon Leonar, a knight of the marquisate of House Leonar and a member of the King's Guard, sat in the baron's drawing room, staring blankly at the ceiling. His eyes were dull and vacant. He felt hollow inside.

"... Father, am I doing the right thing?"

His father, Marquis Leonar, had always told him the same thing.

["Whatever the circumstances, act honorably, with nothing to be ashamed of. That is what it means to be a knight of House Leonar."]

Mamon had engraved those words deep in his heart. That teaching had become his creed, and he had lived by it all his life.

Lately, things had been different. He had done quite a few shameful things. All because of royal orders.

The king's disposition had changed considerably of late. A man with no interest in politics had suddenly begun behaving like a crafty old political veteran, plotting and scheming against the nobles.

As a knight of the King's Guard, Mamon had no choice but to take part in those schemes. To obey his king, he had been forced to set aside his convictions.

Today was no different. Though a knight, Mamon had laid a trap like a hunter. He had personally forged the shackles that would bind the Watcher of the Abyss. His quarry had nowhere to run. He would choke the life out of his opponent without swinging his sword once.

Such methods were utterly unbefitting a knight who bore the name Leonar. Mamon let out a troubled groan.

As he wrestled with his conscience, a knock came at the door. It opened, and Yohan entered in formal attire.

"Thank you for waiting, Sir Mamon."

Mamon snapped out of his daze and immediately composed his expression. He could not let Yohan see his inner conflict. His voice was stiff.

"It is His Majesty who is waiting, not I. Let us depart at once."

He swept his gaze over Yohan from head to toe. Their eyes met, and a strange feeling came over him.

Something about Yohan's presence had changed. More precisely, the gravitas surrounding him had vanished entirely.

Only a short while ago, Mamon had certainly felt a measure of respect for him. Every time their eyes met, an inexplicable reverence had welled up within him. Young though Yohan was, his bearing had been entirely worthy of a head of house and the Watcher of the Abyss.

Now it was different. The Yohan before him was nothing more than an ordinary little boy. His expression was certainly solemn, but his eyes had no depth.

He seemed like a different person from moments before. The same appearance, but an entirely different being. Mamon sensed it instinctively.

Yohan spoke calmly.

"Very well. I cannot be any more discourteous to His Majesty. Let us go."

He left the drawing room. Watching his retreating back, Mamon murmured,

"... He used Berdan, just as expected."

That Yohan was an impostor. Mamon was certain of it.

* * *

Hidden within his power, Night Immersion, Maphel’tan had been observing everything. He had overheard the exchange between the false Yohan and Sir Mamon, catching every subtle shift in the knight's expression.

Mamon knew that the Yohan before him was Berdan. Maphel’tan clicked his tongue in the darkness.

'So it was a trap after all.'

He now had a rough picture of what was happening. The king had deliberately handed Berdan over to Yohan and was maneuvering him into using the man.

Why on earth was the king doing this? He could not be certain, but he could make a guess.

The king was trying to shackle the Watcher of the Abyss. He would probably pressure House Miyatro on the grounds that Yohan had dared send an impostor in answer to a royal invitation. The moment the false Yohan was exposed, the real one would have to pay for making a mockery of the royal family.

He would probably receive no actual punishment. Instead, he would surely pay for his offense with political shackles. The king had revealed his political ambitions, and the Watcher of the Abyss was the most useful piece on the current political board.

That raised one question. How could the king be sure Yohan would use Berdan?

Actually, that was the wrong question. The king was not sure of anything. He was merely testing Yohan.

First, he had planted the suspicion that a trap lay in wait. Once Yohan took the bait, he would surely respond in some way.

If Yohan found the nighttime summons to the palace suspicious and used Berdan, the king would use that as a pretext to shackle him. Conversely, if Yohan went in person, either suspecting nothing or having seen through the entire plan, the king would presumably try to coax him away from the aristocratic faction or recruit him.

In short, it suited the king if Yohan fell into the trap, but he lost nothing if Yohan did not.

Yohan, however, had only one option. He became a Demon at night. He had no choice but to use Berdan. Regardless of the king's plans, he had to step into the trap.

Maphel’tan clicked his tongue.

'... What a fucking mess.'

If this continued, House Miyatro would fall into the king's grasp the moment the false Yohan entered the palace. He could not let things unfold that way.

Nor could he lie low and bide his time. Maphel’tan had always lived racing against the clock. He had no time to spare for politics. He needed a solution right now.

His mind raced. Someone's face immediately came to him.

'Ilea.'

A conversation with her flashed through his mind.

["I developed this spell using Belzarak's hallucinations. Convincing, isn't it?"]

Ilea had developed a spell to cover up Third Prince Gawain's disappearance. Her creation could imitate its subject perfectly.

At first glance, it resembled the power Mimic, but there was one difference. No one else could forcibly dispel Ilea's magic. Whereas Berdan's power ceased functioning if someone tore off his facial skin, Ilea's spell could be dispelled only by the user's own will.

Maphel’tan needed Ilea's power immediately. He had to bring her to the royal capital. Flying at full speed, he could reach the Count's domain in roughly an hour.

He picked up a piece of paper and hastily scribbled something down. Then, from within the darkness, he slipped the note into the false Yohan's hand.

───Buy time. As much as you can.

The false Yohan bowed his head slightly toward empty air. He was already Maphel’tan's thrall.

Maphel’tan immediately left the mansion. Concealing himself with Night Immersion, he sped through the skies over the capital.

The holy barrier surrounding the entire city briefly blocked his way, but it posed no great problem. He was no longer a subadult Demon. He was a horned spirit with two whole horns, and the Twelfth Apostle of the End. He could easily tear through a weakened barrier like this.

He ripped open the barrier and raced through the darkness.

* * *

At Staviana Castle in the Staviana demesne, the Count was drinking black tea after dinner. Its delicate yet rich fragrance spread through the dining room.

Seated across from him, Ilea savored the aroma.

"It smells wonderful, Father."

She had officially become his adopted daughter. Ilea de Staviana. She was now a daughter of the most powerful house in the kingdom.

The Count spoke.

"The taste is another matter. On your first sip, you will find it nothing but astringent. A sharpness hidden beneath a sweet fragrance. Rather like first love, perhaps."

He was very fond of comparisons and topics involving love. Over the past week or so, he and Ilea had talked at length, mostly about matters related to love.

Ilea did not dislike the subject. Quite the opposite: she found it fascinating. It felt like giving concrete form to something abstract, an elusive unknown. In a way, it resembled learning magic.

She took a sip of tea.

"... It certainly is a little—no, very astringent. It's nothing like that sweet fragrance."

The Count chuckled.

"Isn't your relationship with Sir Yohan much the same? The closer you get to him, the more the fragrance fades, leaving only the sharpness."

Ilea slowly nodded. Whenever she showed her feelings, Yohan always disappointed her. The sweetness vanished, and bitterness filled its place. She often ended up sulking.

She sighed.

"You're right. I have no idea what to do."

The Count smiled gently.

"Even this bitterness is part of black tea's charm. Savor it slowly, and in time you will taste the sweetness. Love is no different. Even the bitterness is part of learning about love. Do not lose heart. Keep knocking at your beloved's heart. But you must not be impatient. Both the art of tea and love require you to take your time."

Ilea gazed at her tea, then took another sip. It was still bitter.

"It's difficult. I still don't quite understand."

The Count smiled, deepening his wrinkles.

"Of course. It takes a great deal of time and effort."

Ilea mulled over his words. In short, his advice was simple: take your time.

That did not suit her temperament. Whenever she wanted something, she had always worked to obtain it as quickly as possible. She found his advice hard to accept.

Still, she intended to keep it in mind. The Count was remarkably intelligent for a human, and love was a subject he had studied all his life.

She smiled softly.

"I'll take your words to heart and do my best, Father."

The Count nodded.

"Before that, conquer this black tea. The art of tea is fundamental to social life."

Ilea had been studying aristocratic etiquette and had already mastered most of it. She learned extraordinarily quickly. Indeed, she would not seem the least bit out of place among noble young ladies. All that remained was to refine her palate a little.

She raised her teacup.

"I'll keep trying."

As she brought it to her lips, her brows drew together slightly. It was not because of the taste. Her senses had detected a presence.

The Count chuckled.

"It must still taste astringent. Let us stop here for today."

Ilea's eyes curved in a smile.

"I think we'd better. It seems we have a guest."

The Count looked puzzled.

"What brought that on? A guest at this hour?"

No sooner had he finished speaking than something pitch-black flashed past his eyes.

CRASH!

Only afterward did the sound of shattering glass reach him. A blast of wind swept through, sending his white hair flying in all directions. The tableware lay smashed to pieces.

The Count stared straight ahead, expressionless. Ilea had vanished. In her place lay a single note.

He read it.

───I'm taking Ilea for a while.

He looked at the opposite window. Its glass had been completely shattered.

"... Hmm."

At that moment, a large force of soldiers burst into the dining room.

"Your Excellency! Are you unharmed?!"

"Are you all right?!"

"What on earth happened?!"

An uproar filled the room. The Count spoke without expression.

"A guest merely stopped by. There is no need for a fuss. You are all dismissed."

The night breeze rushed through the broken window. Gazing into the darkness, the Count leisurely raised his teacup to his lips. The soldiers merely exchanged uncertain glances.