The recruitment at the Hundred Blossoms Hall had ended.
But the waves it stirred had only just begun spreading beneath the surface of the Royal Capital.
In three days, the name Weilin Klein had gone from a laughingstock in noble salons to an enlightened lord discussed in hushed voices in the taverns of the Artisans' District.
"Merit points," "contribution determines status," "ability alone matters," "bloodline is only one kind of ability."
These ideas spread through the hundred-odd artisans and apprentices packing their bags to head south, scattered like seeds into every corner of the Royal Capital.
They were taking root.
In an alley across from Golden Cross Avenue, Tristan leaned against a damp wall, the shadow of his hood hiding his face completely.
He had spent three days there, silently observing.
During those three days, he had used every connection at his disposal to investigate the southern baron's past and present in exhaustive detail.
The results were even more astonishing than he had imagined.
The world Veylin described did not rely on bloodline; it valued only ability.
To Tristan, those words were not a slogan, but a reality already taking shape in the Gray Marsh Fief.
Tristan almost wondered whether the Gray Marsh Fief was still part of the Haiti Duchy-or even the human world.
In the human world, bloodline determined everything. That had become an iron law.
He was Marquis Lorenzo's second son. That identity should have been an honor, but to him, it was the heaviest of shackles.
Because he was "bloodless."
He was trapped in the gilded cage of the Marquis's Manor, full of knowledge he had nowhere to put to use.
And a lord like Veylin was exactly what he had been searching for: a stairway to freedom.
Tristan turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Now,