No feast without a trap

The Kent Marquis's Manor was like a giant beast startled awake, baring its fangs amid the swelling undercurrents.

Orders sped through encrypted channels into its vast network of influence.

In the private barracks behind the manor, the Black Crows knights, clad in gleaming full plate, silently readied their weapons. Spears stood like a forest, flashing coldly in the dim light, while the metallic scrape of armor spread through the murderous air like the whispers of death.

Meanwhile, in gang hideouts scattered throughout the city, thugs who normally looked savage and menacing had been ordered into tight-fitting suits and ties of various colors.

They twisted their necks awkwardly, trying to adjust to these restraints that symbolized "respectability," yet their eyes still gleamed with animal ferocity. Like hyenas on chains, they needed only a command from their master to tear any target apart.

A group of ambitious men led by Viscount Wilson, meanwhile, were like nocturnal cats prowling a bloodstained shore, their sensitive noses catching an unusual scent.

They hid in their mansions or clubs, waiting with both agitation and patience. They hoped to pick up a few scraps from the clash between the Kent Family and the mysterious visitor, yet stood ready to scatter at once and save themselves should a stronger "shark" break the surface and send the situation out of control.

His interest waning, Aaron Ball returned to the iron-clad cabin of his ship beneath the reverent and covetous gazes of countless hidden spies.

Inside the secret chamber, even the air seemed to have a metallic texture. Fine iron sand streamed between his fingers as though alive, sometimes gathering into a lifelike frog that hopped clumsily through the air, then silently breaking apart and reforming into an elegant crane poised to spread its wings and fly. Controlling metal had become as natural as breathing to him, an instinct embedded deep in his bones.

But he had never squandered this gift. Every second was spent on tedious, precise training as he raced to uncover the limits of his abilities.

His thoughts, however, had long since drifted toward broader, weightier matters. The Twelve Supreme Grade Blades... the Celestial Dragons entrenched at the pinnacle of the world, atop the Red Line... the inscrutable World Government and its instrument of violence, the Navy... These names rose and fell in his mind.

Through his Extrasensory Vision, the structure of this world presented a brutal picture: countless ordinary people wore heavy, invisible shackles, the "tubes draining their lifeblood" held firmly by the local nobles. Yet in the eyes of the World Government, these tyrannical nobles were merely puppets to be manipulated and replaced at any time. As for the seemingly righteous Navy, it was more like a powerful enforcer fitted with an ornate slave collar, fiercely guarding the unquestionable order laid down by its master.

And standing above it all, the mysterious being called "Imu" seemed to sit high above the clouds, regarding everything in the mortal world with an absolute, icy will and contempt.

What a shame... A somewhat weak thought flashed through his mind. If I knew the so-called "plot," perhaps I could seize opportunities for profit more precisely and avoid the risks.

But immediately afterward, he found this shortcut-seeking thought faintly ridiculous in a self-mocking way. The image of the gaunt woman in the dock district falling to her knees in terror appeared clearly before his eyes, along with the sharply sunken ribs of the child in her arms, plainly visible from malnutrition.

He fell silent and stopped thinking about those illusory shortcuts. Only the iron sand around him continued to surge and change, as ceaseless as the passage of time.

At noon, before the Kent Marquis's Manor's imposing iron gates, inlaid with a golden family crest.

Boer hovered half a foot above the ground, the hem of his well-tailored black overcoat fluttering in the breeze. A striking red tie hung at his neck, with a white shirt and black waistcoat beneath his coat, and his hands rested casually in its pockets.

The alloy combat boots on his feet reflected a cold white light in the sunshine. At that same leisurely pace, as though climbing invisible steps, he flew deeper into the manor.

Thatch followed behind him, wearing only a short white jacket on his upper body that exposed his muscular, bronze-colored arms, with neat black trousers below. His steps were steady as a mountain, and his sharp eyes swept their surroundings like those of the most loyal guard.

As he flew, Boer suddenly tilted his head with interest, his gaze passing over several apparently deserted watchtowers high in the manor, where deadly crossbows and firearms lay concealed.

He turned back and gave Thatch an almost playful smile that nevertheless chilled the heart, his voice carrying clearly to him. "I hope our thoroughly prepared marquis's performance today... will give me at least a little enjoyment."

A vast trap had already been laid throughout the manor. From the grand gates all the way to the banquet hall in its deepest reaches, fully armored knights stood on either side of the path like steel statues. They gripped coldly gleaming spears in silence, forming a suffocating corridor of metal.

Under their leaders' low-voiced rebukes, the gang enforcers tried hard to straighten their backs and stand in their assigned positions, attempting to look well trained, but their shifting eyes betrayed their tension and unease.

Marquis Kent sat upright in the seat of honor in the banquet hall, dressed in a sumptuous purple velvet formal suit, his chest covered in medals symbolizing power and achievement.

As he listened to the steady reports from his subordinates-"The target has entered the manor," "He is crossing the courtyard"-he felt as though all the blood in his body had been set alight, boiling and surging.

The long-absent excitement of controlling everything, of standing on the verge of a great leap for his family, seemed to make him twenty years younger in an instant. An excited flush even rose to his face. From this day forward, he cried inwardly, the Kent Family will reach unprecedented heights in my hands! I will write the history of the West Blue!

Boer and Thatch finally reached the enormous oak doors of the banquet hall, carved with intricate patterns.

His gaze passed over the pale attendants bowing beside the doors, past the two rows of heavily armored knights standing like an impregnable wall.

On a plane ordinary people could not perceive, Boer, for the first time, unleashed his vast, ocean-like Biological Magnetic Field completely and without restraint!

This invisible force combined with his extraordinary perception, and in an instant, the entire Kent Marquis's Manor, along with every living being within it, seemed to light up, appearing clearly in his "vision." It was a precise, three-dimensional holographic map composed of countless silvery-white points of light!

The next moment, his will stirred.

It was as though an enormous pair of invisible hands from the underworld, bearing an absolute will, had swept gently yet irresistibly across an unseen field of dandelions.

Thud... Clang!

Like toppling dominoes, from the servants attending the doors to the knights standing solemnly in the courtyard, then to the armed guards on alert inside the banquet hall and the gang leaders forcing themselves to stay calm... collisions, the metallic scrape of armor hitting the ground, and the dull thumps of collapsing bodies rang out one after another, without end!

There were no screams, no struggles. As though all strength and consciousness had been drained from them in an instant, their eyes went blank and they toppled stiffly to the ground, falling into deep unconsciousness.

By the time Marquis Kent's nephew Daniel, brimming with self-satisfaction and preparing to step forward and show his worth, also rolled his eyes back and collapsed without warning, foaming at the mouth, Boer and Thatch had already strolled up to the old man as though passing through deserted grounds.

"It seems... there was no need to make things so complicated." Boer looked at the absurd scene before him, like the final curtain of a play.

His gaze settled on Marquis Kent in the seat of honor, splendidly dressed but now deathly pale, rigid all over, and unable to utter a single word. In the tone of someone assessing a poor performance, he said softly, "Like some... third-rate ball."

He leaned forward slightly, drawing close to the old face filled with horror and disbelief, his voice outrageously calm. "Marquis, do you... have any other tricks left that might interest me a little?"

Without waiting for an answer, he seemed to lose interest in pursuing the question and straightened. "Never mind. Give me a list. Write down everyone you think should, and deserves to, accompany you on your final journey."

He paused, then added as though granting alms, "As one last bit of 'dignity' for your noble status, I will send that good-for-nothing son of yours safely to the East Blue and give him enough money to live out his days in comfort. What do you think of those terms?"

As he spoke, he even reached out and gently made a token adjustment to the marquis's collar, which was already perfectly straight and free of wrinkles.

Then he pointed at the unconscious Daniel on the floor and told Thatch, "He's yours."

Marquis Kent-Bar Kent, the old man who had held sway over Bernia for decades and toyed with political intrigue in the palm of his hand-now saw all his ambition, calculations, and pride utterly shattered before this absolute, incomprehensible power.

He closed his eyes in defeat, as though all his vitality had been drained away in an instant, and his once-straight back stooped.

He understood now. He understood completely.

Suppressing rebellious peasants, wiping out disobedient merchants, even scheming against other nobles... how clumsy, how laughable those methods he had mastered seemed before an absolute power that could decide the lives and deaths of hundreds in a single breath and treat a heavily armored army as nothing!

The kingdom was too remote, so remote that they had heard only fragments about such beings in the most absurd legends and drunken tavern talk. When such a being truly stood before them, every scheme and trick became a child's game.

After a long while, the old man's dry lips moved, and in an almost pleading tone, utterly stripped of his former authority, he said quietly:

"The money... don't give him too much at once... he won't be able to hold on to it. If possible... please, please arrange for someone to give him a portion... at intervals. Could you?"

At that moment, he was no longer the formidable marquis, only a pitiful father trying to arrange one final way out for his incapable son.

Just then, the allied nobles led by Roland, whom he had bound together through shared interests, finally "arrived late." They burst into the banquet hall to find people sprawled across the floor as though swept by an invisible storm, the white-haired youth hovering in the air and ruling over everything, and Marquis Kent, his face ashen, already resigned to his fate.

This bizarre situation, utterly beyond imagination, instantly left these self-proclaimed shrewd nobles at a loss, standing dumbstruck where they were.

Boer did not even spare them another glance, merely giving a calm instruction in Thatch and Roland's direction. "Clean up the loose ends."

He raised his head, his gaze seeming to pierce the ornate dome and look into the distance, a trace of fresh interest lifting the corner of his mouth. "Things here are finished," he said softly, as though talking to himself. "Then it's time to attend... another party."

As though answering his words-

"Kree!"

A shrill, piercing bird cry split the clouds, erupting like a thunderclap!

Immediately afterward, an enormous shadow swept overhead like a dark cloud, enveloping the entire Kent Marquis's Manor in an instant!

A gigantic golden eagle with a wingspan of over ten meters, every feather seeming forged from pure gold and reflecting dazzling light in the sun, swooped down with the bearing of a sovereign descending upon the world! Its peerless, fierce presence whipped up gusts of wind, sending the courtyard trees below swaying wildly!

Someone in the crowd let out a scream of utter terror, their voice distorted by fear:

"It's the 'Wings of the Kingdom'! The royal family's guardian, the weak king's last source of courage! The Zoan Bird-Bird Fruit, Model: Golden Eagle user-Locke Hohen!! He... he's actually here!"