Five days after the operation to rescue Enzo, Enzo emerged from a mid-range hotel in Berreley, dressed in neat fine cotton clothes, a wide belt of low-grade Magic Beast hide around his waist, a light, elegant nobleman's rapier at his side, and a broad-brimmed hat with a black swan feather tucked into it. He strode out with powerful steps.
He had stayed here for two days and three nights, and the hotel staff had already come to recognize this young master Ente Malte—a distant relative of some fallen noble family from some obscure little city in Irt Province, the eastern province of the Gallic Empire.
By the particular self-satisfied mindset of Berreley's citizens, Enzo was now the very picture of a country bumpkin, relying on a noble relative to come to the imperial capital in search of a path to soaring success.
Yet whether it was the hotel owner or the waiters, none of them thought much of Enzo's prospects.
There were no shortage of native-born, down-and-out nobles in Berreley. They had racked their brains trying to climb upward, yet could never find a way forward. Could a country bumpkin from some remote eastern province really find a path to make something of himself?
Over the past two days, Enzo had heard quite a few rumors, but he did not care in the slightest.
In the Imperial Army's report, he was already an Imperial hero who had led his soldiers in a valiant fight, only to perish unfortunately. He had no sons or daughters, no father or mother; they had even saved a considerable sum in pension payments. He had become one of the countless unlucky souls listed as having died in the Imperial Army's files. In another half month, no one would remember him anymore.
Under Arthur's hand, even