The Nobility at its Best

To say nothing of the ship guards. For the hundreds of foreign nobles on the scene, 6,000 qraftas represented a sum their entire houses couldn't part with. However, that 18 years old youth tossed them as if they were mere trash. What was wealth? This was wealth. And instantly guards and nobles alike mistook Kilian for a high-ranking noble.

Or well, almost. As he crossed the stairs leading into the ship, a voice thundered from Kilian's back.

"Halt!" A senior ship guard raced across the stairs to catch up to Kilian's step, while two others that stood at the other end snapped out of their torpor and descended to block his path.

"My lord, this is no way to handle formalities. Please come with us for the identity che-" The senior ship guard began, and stretched out his hand toward Kilian. Why did a mere guard dare block perceived high nobility's path?

Haircut. Having dealt with nobility scions for more than a decade, a simple glance at Kilian's knotted dreadlocks enabled the guard to see that a high-ranking noble Kilian was not. To say nothing of high nobility, even low nobility wouldn't sport what the world saw as the unwritten commoner id. Most likely, the youth was some twilight child sponsored by a high ranking noble—or so the guard thought.

Therefore, until they received the approval of the one inside, he dared not let him. But as the guard's hand neared Kilian's shoulder, a small but unshakable female hand grabbed his wrist, and dreadful killing intent slammed him from the side. Unable to finish his words, the guard shivered uncontrollably, not even daring to face the owner of that hand—to face Lena.

Not that he needed to, with the bestial pressure locking him, he didn't doubt that the tiniest misstep would result in his demise. Instantly, cold sweat soaked his face.

"Kilian zu Verden, lord of Ostria. Feel free to use the banknotes to check my master's fingerprints and identity. But though twilight child he may be, to say nothing of laying hands on him, imperial laws don't allow you to stand within one meter of his presence without his verbal consent.

Since you saw fit to break the law, we must break your hand," Lena stated in such a chilling tone that the guard felt the ice creep on his heart and stifle him from the inside.

*Crack*

The black forearm guard protecting the man's arm held no worth under Lena's grip. Her palms sank past them and into the man's flesh, crushing his bones in a resounding, snapping sound.

"AAAAAAAARGH!" He howled in grief, but barely had his screams begun that Lena hurled him across the air, to tumble down the stairs. Groveling before the mighty, condescending to the low. With a glance, Lena could see the type of man they were dealing with.

His very scent sickened her.

Undisturbed, Kilian carried on his way, and this time, none dared stop him. The three thus crossed the stairs and stepped into the luxurious ship. With 320 cabins at its disposal, all the size of a presidential suite, to say that the ship lacked space was no different from insulting the prospective passengers' intellectual quotient.

Of course, to those inside, that mattered not. Waving his ticket, Kilian produced dark-blue magical lights that led the way toward the matching cabin. The tickets served as both guides and keys. Therefore, the three had no need for a steward's escort. But as they reached his cabin, Kilian turned to face his girls, and extended their tickets toward them.

"Here are your tickets. I picked neighboring cabins. Have a good night," Kilian began in a serious tone, making the startled two blink beneath their cloaks.

"Joking, I'm joking. I wouldn't abandon you to lonely nights void of pounding after such a troublesome day. Come, Come. Good to know you have your priorities clear," he pursued, causing black lines to stretch the two's foreheads. It was in moments like these, that Jezebel firmly believed that were it not for Klaus, Kilian could have been quite the troll.

The cabin's door opened, and the three dove in, eager to relieve a stressful night with a steamy romp.

…

Meanwhile, the nobles admitted to the ship gathered in a presidential-suite-like cabin, to enjoy high-end wine and the company of their peers.

"Hahahaha, the inferior clowns truly believed we had spots open for them? What a joke, if not for his highness gathering us for a bit of entertainment, we'd be long gone," a scornful imperial noble chortled, pulling guffaws from his peers.

"You can't blame the fools, the likes of them tend to think that their meager qualifications as nobles make them our equals. The shamelessness of the oafs!" Another one pursued, and again, bursts of laughter followed. For the imperial aristocracy, especially those noble houses at the summit of the Arcadian Empire, the foreign aristocrats were nothing more than oafs. Below the ducal level, none of them had the qualification to breathe their air.

On the scene, all were direct descendants of imperial dukes or above. Even the foreign royals would have to treat them with courtesy, to say nothing of measly counts.

"When the Duke of Kars awakens, I hope you can hold the same speech before him," a more cynical imperial noble jested, and instantly silence dropped on the scene. If before, even foreign dukes couldn't command much respect from those youths, Klaus' meteoric rise changed the playing field.

Under the gaze of the Duke of Kars, to say nothing of them, even the nine princes could only swallow their pride. Needless to say, news of his coma brought them tremendous relief, and all hoped that he'd never awaken.

"Talking about von Karsten, his callousness truly makes a man's heart shiver. Even his imperial majesty can't possibly compare.

Your eldest son and heir is fehl-tainted, so you burn him at the stake. Fine, but your second son and only remaining heir forces himself on an iniquitous barmaid, and you have him flogged to death? How unreasonable.

I wonder why he's not been given the father of the year award yet," the cynical noble pursued, reminding his peers of the events that occured about a month after Kilian's death. Indeed, his half-brother, Florens von Karsten, had also been made an example of—flogged to death for one misdeed too many.

"You misunderstand. Kars' law forbids its nobles from damaging functional parts of the economy. Why does Kars possess one of the empire's strongest economies? Because von Karsten has always made it his priority.

Noble or commoner, in Kars, those two words hold no value before the duchy's overall welfare.

That Florens was quite the fool, why did he have to mess up the bar? In broad daylight at that? Such an heir is better off dead," the one around which all gathered, a nobleman in his twenties, stated without an ounce of emotion. And while his exceedingly feminine looks could make many look down on him, his striking amber eyes silenced contempt before it rose.

And how could they not, when they reminded the bystanders that von Skoll blood stood before them?

At that time, the androgynous youth received a briefing of Kilian's entrance, and his eyes arched in surprise.

"Oh? A viscount's twilight child? This is either the sign of unlawful governance, outside help, or of an emerging power. Never mind, if he can pay the fees, he's worth befriending. As for that guard, execute him. More than two decades in his post, yet he still commits such a basic blunder? He might as well stop breathing," the youth commanded, and instantly, the senior ship guard was taken out for execution.

A life lived in vain, a death none would mourn.

The von Skoll youth's eyes then shifted back on his "peers," sweeping them with a smile contrasting with the contempt buried in his heart.

"And here they are, the heirs of the great houses, the future of the realm. Heaven blesses Arcadia for the might of house von Skoll, for if we had to rely on this sorry lot, the empire would have long since collapsed from internal and external threats. Your imperial majesty, may you soon return," Tristan von Skoll, heir of Erlom, inwardly said.