Chapter 10

Ironwood Keep. The Lord's Bedroom.

The morning sun had barely crested the horizon when Charlo was roused from sleep. Lawrence burst into the room, his usual composure replaced by flushed urgency.

"My Lord! Urgent report from the coast!"

"Speak. Has the construction team hit bedrock again?" Charlo rubbed the sleep from his eyes, sitting up.

"No, My Lord. They fished someone out of the sea," Lawrence said, catching his breath. "A mage. Knight John reported that the pressure he felt from her was terrifying—he said it eclipsed even Miss Freya or Miss Alice at their peak!"

"A High-Rank Mage?" Charlo frowned, his mind instantly shifting to tactical analysis.

"Confirmed," Lawrence nodded gravely. "Doctor Jones attempted to treat her. He reports that his mana structure collapsed the moment it touched her skin due to sheer magical density. He estimates she is at least an Eighth-Rank entity."

Charlo threw the covers off and stood up abruptly. "Did anyone get a name? Is she a spy from the Empire?"

"She gave only a first name—Clyris. No surname, no title, and she didn't mention her nationality," Lawrence replied.

"Clyris..." Charlo tested the name on his tongue. It sounded familiar, yet distant. "Prepare my horse immediately. I'm going to see her myself. And tell Davis to gear up—we might be walking into a lion's den."

______________________

The Fishing Village.

"Haa..."

In the spare room of a fisherman's rough-hewn cottage, Clyris sat on the edge of the straw bed, exhaling a breath of turbid air.

After a night of meditation, she had recovered a fraction of her strength—just enough to suppress the lethal injuries tearing at her insides. Although she couldn't heal them completely, she had successfully expelled Sword Saint Wade's lingering "Sword Intent," stopping the continuous spiritual bleeding that had been draining her life force.

Creeaaaak—

The wooden door groaned on rusted hinges.

"Who goes there?!" Clyris barked, her eyes snapping toward the entrance with the sharpness of a blade.

A timid little girl stood in the doorway, flinching at Clyris's harsh, imperious tone. Still, she gathered her courage and stepped inside, carrying a steaming bowl with trembling hands.

"S-Sister... are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?" she asked in a small voice.

Clyris looked the girl up and down. Short, thin, dressed in rough, patched linen clothes—obviously a commoner's child.

But she was different from the commoners in Clyris's memories. Her skin was a healthy, sun-kissed wheat color, not the gray pallor of malnutrition. Her cheeks were full.

More importantly, although her eyes held a hint of shyness, they were mostly filled with curiosity.

Since when do commoners dare to look at supernatural beings directly?

"Are you... not afraid of me?" Clyris asked, her guard remaining up.

Back when Clyris was a powerless commoner herself, she wouldn't have dared to "offend" a noble with such a direct gaze. In the old world, if a Lord was in a bad mood, such a look could be interpreted as insolence, punishable by the whip.

"Um... a little bit," the girl admitted, nodding. "But Mom and Dad said Big Sister is a great mage, so I wanted to come see!"

"Heh." Clyris let out a soft, dry chuckle. "Well, now you've seen me. What do you think?"

"Hmm..." The girl tapped her chin with a finger. "Let me think... Big Sister feels very powerful!"

"Oh?" Clyris tilted her head. Does this mortal child have the ability to see through my disguise? "What do you mean?"

"It's just... you feel like the Lord! Looking at Big Sister is like looking at Lord Charlo!" the girl explained, struggling for a comparison.

"Is that so... And what is that in your hand?"

Being compared to a rural country bumpkin annoyed Clyris slightly, but she didn't take it out on the child. Instead, her attention shifted to the bowl the girl was holding.

It wasn't wood. It wasn't iron. It wasn't the dull, porous clay of the peasantry.

It was white as snow, smooth as jade, and glossy under the sunlight. It was an object of exquisite, impossible beauty that absolutely did not belong in a fisherman's hut.

"Ah! This is a Porcelain Bowl!"

"Porcelain... bowl?" Clyris was confused. The word was foreign to her.

"I don't really know either!" The girl stuck out her tongue playfully. "We didn't have such nice things before. But after the Lord came, his factories made them for us to use! He says everyone should have clean dishes."

"Ah, Big Sister, do you want to drink? It won't taste good if it gets cold!"

Clyris took the bowl, marveling at its weightlessness and smooth texture. To her surprise, amidst the vegetable broth, she saw shimmering droplets of fat and chunks of actual meat.

"This..." Clyris hesitated, looking at the girl. "Is your family... wealthy merchants?"

In this world, commoners rarely tasted meat once a year. In her childhood memories, meat was a luxury reserved for the High Holy Days, and even then, getting a bite of gristle was considered a blessing.

"No..." The girl shook her head. "Before the Lord came, we just fished like everyone else. But after Lord Charlo arrived, everything changed. He is building a port here, and he hired Dad and the other adults. The Lord not only pays high wages in silver but also distributes meat rations every three days! Dad always brings it back home, so we have a little bit saved up."

"Is... that so?"

Clyris couldn't believe her ears.

A Lord conscripting commoners? Normal.

Paying wages? Rare, but some eccentric nobles did it.

But giving meat every three days? To laborers?

Where did this philanthropist come from? Is this Lord a Saint of the Church? No, even the Church hoards its wealth.

Although Clyris didn't strictly need to eat to survive, she didn't refuse. She drank half the soup in one breath, then handed the bowl back. "I've had enough. You drink the rest."

"Thank you, Big Sister!" The girl's eyes crinkled into crescents as she smiled, finishing the soup in a few gulps before turning to leave.

"Wait!" Clyris called out. "What is your name?"

"I'm Anna! What about you, Big Sister?"

"Clyris. My name is Clyris."

After Anna left, Clyris sat on the bed to continue her meditation. But her focus was broken. The oddities of this place—the fearless commoners, the miraculous white pottery, the abundance of food—made her genuinely curious about this "Charlo."

Late Afternoon.

A sharp, rhythmic knock sounded at Clyris's door.

"Is Miss Clyris in?" A strange, young male voice came from outside. It was polite, but carried an undertone of authority.

"Who is it?" She lifted her eyelids, her voice cold.

"I am the Lord of this territory, Charlo de Rose. I heard a guest of high standing was staying here, so I came to visit."

The Lord? What a coincidence. She was just analyzing his handiwork.

"Enter."

The wooden door opened, and a man walked in.

He wore polished silver armor under a grey cloak, carrying himself with a commanding, martial air. He was tall, with a face that spoke of determination rather than lineage.

Clyris looked at him, ready to gauge his strength.

However, the moment Charlo saw her face, he froze.

His expression went blank. The polite smile vanished. His face rapidly drained of all color, turning as pale as the porcelain bowl she had held earlier. His pupils dilated, and his lips trembled.

Fear. Absolute, recognizing fear.

Seeing this reaction, Clyris's heart sank.

Exposed.

Even a Lord in this remote backwater recognizes the face of the Demon Lord?

It was a pity. She had wanted to lay low here, perhaps understand the secrets of this territory. But her identity couldn't be leaked this soon. The Saints were still hunting her.

He has to die.

Internally sighing at the misfortune, Clyris began to silently gather her mana. She prepared to erase this interesting Lord from existence before he could speak a single word.