"My lord, this is bad! Lord Dolitt has offended an important person, and they need you to handle it."
"Damn it."
Akart cursed loudly, kicked the reporting soldier aside, left the tent, and headed outside the camp.
The pale-faced noble glanced at the Plainclothes Swordsman and left the tent.
"My lord, may I ask what brings you here?" Akart came outside the tent, looked at the group before him, lowered his stance, and spoke humbly.
"I have someone—or rather, a slave—inside your camp."
Velin glanced at the viscount before him. His strength was unremarkable, merely High-Silver, enough to meet the threshold for a viscount.
However, his foundation was unstable and his face aged. He had clearly used some other method to forcibly raise his strength, and this was likely his limit.
"Please wait a moment. I'll bring him to you right away."
Akart might lack strength himself, but his ability to read people was exceptional. After offering an apology, he returned to the camp.
After entering the tent, Akart's expression instantly darkened. Looking at his illegitimate son, he bitterly regretted not strangling him to death back then.
The Plainclothes Swordsman met his father's gaze without the slightest fear.
His mother had merely been an ordinary human woman. She had died of illness when he was fifteen, and from that moment onward, he had nothing left to care about. The last trace of attachment he felt toward the Anglite Family had vanished as well.
Over the following ten years, he presented himself as taciturn and withdrawn, becoming a marginal figure within Anglite territory.
Why had he been treated like merchandise and put up for sale in the commercial camp at the exorbitant price of ten thousand Gold Coins? It was all because of a chance encounter ten years ago.
After burying