Count Greywood

The top-floor study of Count Greywood's manor was warm enough to make anyone drowsy.

Expensive smokeless silver charcoal burned in the fireplace. Its dark red flames licked the hearth without a trace of soot. It was a world away from the distant Eternal Night Wall.

Count Greywood stood with his hands behind his back before a vast floor-to-ceiling crystal window. In the distance, thick smoke billowed above the Royal Capital's central square.

A towering White-Gold Sacred Flame had set half the district ablaze. The Augustine Lineage's estate had once stood there.

Now the Church's judgment troops marched with torches, burning a noble name that had endured for centuries to white ash.

The count's hands slowly clenched inside his sleeves, the veins rising on their backs.

The Augustine Lineage was finished.

All because its heir, Roland, had lost his nerve at the Eternal Night Wall and tried to desert his post.

The Most Holy Church's wrath never fell on a deserter alone. It held his entire bloodline accountable.

The count closed his eyes and drew a deep breath of the study's incense-laden air.

For more than a decade, the Graymist Defense Line had been bitterly cold, but its situation had remained in a delicate balance.

To the Royal Capital's powerful families, it had been the perfect dumping ground.

They could send the relatives who had lost their family power struggles there, earn a fine reputation for defending humanity's borders, and leave those failures to fend for themselves. Everyone benefited.

The Greywood Lineage had done the same.

But every powerful family had miscalculated.

After last year's crushing defeat, the Most Holy Church's desire to control the Tear Knight Defense Line had surged to a terrifying extreme.

Even so, Count Greywood had not expected the Church's blade to fall so swiftly.

The Augustine Lineage had endured for centuries and possessed deep foundations, yet it had not even been granted a token trial.

It had been uprooted in broad daylight.

Such undisguised brutality meant only one thing.

The situation on the Eternal Night Wall's front line was far worse than the battle reports released by the Council of Deliberation.

The powerful figures seated beside the Holy City's Source Furnace no longer cared about appearances. They meant to use bloodshed to force the secular crown to commit its last reserves.

Just how bad, then, had things become in the Graymist Defense Zone?

A chill crept through the count.

When the last requisition order from the front had reached his desk, he had casually assigned a few hundred serfs already near death and thrown in a shipment of rusty scrap iron.

By his reckoning, it would be a miracle if the illegitimate son sent to die for the family survived until this year's Blood Moon Season.

Sending real elites into that death trap had seemed like nothing but a waste.

His only prayer had been that the son who was usually as silent as a shadow would die without causing trouble.

He must not be as foolish as Roland and cross the Church, dragging the whole family into the abyss.

"My lord, a letter from Master Shien." The old butler silently pushed open the heavy Oak Door and approached the count, holding a letter tube in both hands.

The seal was broken, and the parchment was spread across the broad mahogany desk.

The count's brow tightened almost imperceptibly. He had expected a desperate plea for help, or perhaps a notice of death.

But there was not a word of pleading on the page. Before him lay a list of demanded supplies that amounted to extortion.

At the end of the letter was a passage that made no attempt at courtesy.

"News of Augustine's judgment must have reached the Royal Capital by now. If my defenses collapse beneath the Blood Moon... this Refined Steel and Holy Silver won't be saving an illegitimate son's life. They'll be buying the heads of the entire family."

The threat reeked of blood, but the count did not overturn the desk in a rage. On the contrary, undisguised approval appeared in his eyes.

Like a true noble. He knows how to turn the blade the Church holds over everyone's heads against his own family.

The boy's instincts and judgment were more than ten times sharper than those of the legitimate-line fools who knew only how to throw their weight around.

"Father, if that boy's asking for more supplies, just send a few lame old soldiers to make up the numbers. Monsters will eat him sooner or later anyway. Why waste the family's gold?" his second son said flippantly beside him.

The smile vanished from the count's face. He snatched the letter from the desk and slapped it hard across his second son's face.

Smack! The rough parchment scraped his cheek, leaving a bright red mark.

"Idiot!" the count hissed. Grabbing his son by the collar, he dragged him to the window and pressed him against the cold crystal glass.

"Open those damned eyes and look at the flames outside!

"The Church's inquisitors are desperate for their next scapegoat—someone they can make an example of! Shien is the shield standing between this family and the chopping block!

"If he falls on that defensive line, you'll be the one stripped naked and hung in the square to burn to ash tomorrow!"

His second son went white as paper, his legs shaking uncontrollably.

"Get out." The count released him as though discarding trash. "Don't let me hear another stupid word from you."

His son stumbled out of the study. The heavy Oak Door closed again.

The count straightened his disordered cuffs and sat down behind the desk once more.

His anger quickly faded, and the composure of a high noble took its place.

Shien wanted supplies. Then supplies he would have.

The count's gaze returned to the astonishingly long list at the end of the letter.

The boy had asked for no gold or jewels. Everything on it could be used in war.

Three tons of Refined Steel ingots, raw Holy Silver ore, ten barrels of high-purity Alchemical Strong Acid and Bone-Eroding Venom...

He had even specifically requested a full set of alchemical equipment, including a Fine-Cast Black Iron Crucible and Rune Engraving Knives.

The bill would consume nearly a sixth of the Greywood Lineage's war reserves.

Under ordinary circumstances, if any subordinate noble had presented such a list, the count would have had him flayed.

But now he did not so much as frown.

If that defensive line stood between the family and destruction, he could not begrudge the investment.

Every bit of Refined Steel and Holy Silver on the list would go into the wagons.

He would even have the butler bring out that batch of exceptionally hard, long-stored steel from deep in the warehouses.

But when it came to personnel, the count pulled open a drawer and took out a thick roster of his fief.

He would never send the family's truly loyal elites to Blackpine Fief.

His quill swept down the roster, circling the names of veteran Knights who had shown signs of disloyalty to him.

He would have them all marked and loaded into troop wagons.

It would clear the troublemakers from his territory as neatly as taking out the trash, while satisfying Shien's demand for men. Two problems solved at once.

The pen stopped on one page, and the count's gaze slowly turned cold.

He could never truly trust an illegitimate son he had cast away like an unwanted dog.

A wolf cub that had tasted blood in the wilderness might turn and bite its master at any moment.

He wrote several more names on the parchment, ones known to few.

They belonged to spies and death-sworn agents he had personally trained.

They would enter Blackpine Fief as high-ranking reinforcements from the family. If Shien obeyed, they would be blades that slew monsters for their lord.

If the illegitimate son showed the slightest sign of building an army for himself, they would be ready to take control of the camp.

His decision made, the count drew out a sheet of gold-edged stationery.

He dipped his pen in thick ink. For the first time in fourteen years, he opened a letter to that illegitimate son with a formal address.

"To my proud blood, lord of Blackpine Fief, Sheen Greenwood."

Line after line of concessions and grants filled the page. At the end, he added a pointed reminder.

"The family's protection is the only root from which you can draw sustenance in the Long Night. Beneath the Blood Moon, may you always remember Greywood's glory and generosity."

The count removed the heavy Black Iron signet ring from his thumb and pressed it firmly into the sealing wax.

Finally, he handed the letter to the old butler, who had remained bowed at his side.