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Chapter 07
Figures. There’s no way a proper knight would come to a place where the finances are this utterly ruined.
There were only two ways to become a knight.
One was to pass a swordsmanship tournament or examination and earn the title.
The other was to be recognized by one’s own family and be granted a knighthood.
Through either of these two methods, one could receive the title of knight.
But the world always has its exceptions.
There was a way to receive a knighthood without going through either of those paths.
That was the so-called commissioned knight.
Simply put, it was when those who had money but were not nobles paid an enormous sum to a knight order to have their children enlisted, as a stepping stone toward becoming aristocrats.
When Cleora was alive, the Eisenbold family had not employed a single commissioned knight.
The reason was simple: they had never lacked money.
Other families, however, kept quite a few commissioned knights. Most of them were children of well-known merchant guilds.
Expanding one’s business connections wasn’t a bad thing, so it was only natural. Still, this kind of social climbing always created friction.
An inferiority complex, hypersensitivity, excessive defensiveness—
and yet, at the same time, a deep-seated contempt for commoners.
All of it was mixed together in the very scene Cleora was now facing.
“S-So what about it?”
“Nothing much… I was just thinking that even after all this time, human nature really doesn’t change.”
Seventy years ago or now—it wasn’t all that different.
Cleora let out a short, dry laugh. At that, the knights who had been watching her suddenly leapt to their feet, their faces flaring with anger.
“You’re laughing? You still don’t understand the situation you’re in?”
“Maybe we need to teach her a lesson before she comes to her senses.”
“What are you babbling about? Let’s just beat her first.”
The brown-eyed knight who had been shouting from the center rose from his seat.
Cleora stared at him with lifeless eyes as he slowly approached, sword still in its scabbard. She bit her lip.
These things are wolves? A passing mutt would be closer to a wolf than them.
They weren’t even dogs at this point—just small fry.
Mice puffed up to look big.
Cleora let out a quiet sigh. How had her family fallen this far?
She had never imagined she would see such a sight while she lived. Ignorance might have been bliss, but having seen it with her own eyes, the frustration was unavoidable.
“Don’t bother blaming me. If you want to resent something, blame that tongue of yours for spewing nonsense at a knight of the Eisenbold family.”
“You don’t need to worry about that.”
Cleora smiled faintly and lightly lifted the toes of her right foot—then stomped down.
Bang.
It was a short, light movement, yet the sound rang out with an unusually clear resonance, filling the entire room.
In that instant, the black shadow pooled at her feet rippled—and then slid away.
It wasn’t only Cleora’s shadow.
Every shadow in the room vanished.
The knights frowned, failing to grasp the sudden change, but even if they had noticed, it was already too late.
All that hardship, just to end up watching this farce…
Cleora let out a self-mocking chuckle and lifted her head.
The other knights, as if caught by the strange atmosphere, followed her gaze and looked up at the ceiling.
“Th-That…”
“What is that?”
The ceiling had been dyed pitch-black.
A dense darkness, like staring directly into the abyss—without a single trace of light.
It was the shadow Cleora had summoned.
The inherited art of the Eisenbold family, and the ultimate reason Cleora had been called the very essence of the house.
She wielded the family’s shadow legacy more perfectly than anyone else in its long history.
Her swordsmanship was already beyond imagination, but beneath shadows born of light, even Keleagos—the black mage—would have had to concede defeat.
Cleora smiled softly as she looked at the knights’ pale, shaken faces.
“The one you should blame…”
Jingle.
A bell-like sound rang out, and the shadows poured downward.
The small room was instantly dyed black, as though night itself had fallen, allowing not even the slightest glimmer of light.
“…is somewhere else.”
In the pitch darkness, the only thing that glowed was Cleora’s blood-red eyes.
Thud.
The door opened again.
The knights who crawled out one by one from the darkness looked as though half their souls had been torn away.
Squinting with dull eyes up at the clear sky, they turned their heads at the sound of footsteps behind them.
Cleora emerged last, closing the door. When she noticed the knights staring at her, she smiled.
It was a very clean, gentle smile—but the knights who faced it went deathly pale with fear.
“Don’t make faces like that. As long as you keep what I said, there won’t be any problems. Understood?”
“Y-Yes… no, understood.”
The knight who had been so arrogant just moments ago bowed his head hurriedly.
The corners of Cleora’s lips curved upward in a soft arc.
Lowering her gaze, she glanced at the shadows pooled beneath the knights’ feet.
They looked no different than usual, but to Cleora’s eyes, crimson pupils could be seen within them.
Shadow Infection.
One of the Eisenbold family’s secret arts, in which a shadow once absorbed was turned into one’s host.
If they disobeyed Cleora’s orders or rebelled, they would suffer unbearable pain—and in severe cases, death.
Normally, she wouldn’t have used such a technique. But without a clear grasp of the current situation inside Eisenbold, Cleora needed people who could serve as her eyes and ears.
These five suited her needs perfectly.
They were loud, noisy—and arrogant.
“Off you go. Ah—just in case, I’ll say this: if you happen to let something slip… you know what happens, right?”
At her bright, sweet smile, the five men’s faces turned ghostly white.
She waved her hand as if shooing away flies, and they hurriedly scattered.
Watching their retreating figures in silence, Cleora finally relaxed her stiff expression and let out a sigh.
Good. It still works.
After absorbing the wavering shadows in her hand and gathering her thoughts, Cleora turned to leave.
“Hm?”
That was when someone’s face entered her field of view.
“…?”
“….”
Silver hair, golden eyes.
Cleora followed the boy’s unwavering stare and turned her head.
Was there someone behind her? She looked back, but there was nothing there—only sand and dried grass.
It didn’t seem like he had seen that.
As Cleora frowned and turned back, the boy slowly opened his mouth.
“The shadow.”
“What?”
At the word shadow, Cleora froze. The boy took a calm step forward.
“I saw it all.”
“Saw… what?”
“The shadow disappearing from your fingertips.”
“……”
“As far as I know, only direct descendants of the Eisenbold family can wield shadows.”
“That’s…”
The boy approached the hesitant Cleora with steady steps.
She hadn’t realized it from afar, but up close he was quite tall—tall enough that she had to look up at him.
He still looked young, but in three years—no, even two—he would surely grow into a striking adult.
And those golden eyes staring at her… wait. Golden eyes? Silver hair and gold eyes—then that must mean…
“Then you’re one of Eisenbold’s remaining direct—”
“Hey… you…”
Cleora grabbed the boy by the collar.
The calm that had covered her face until moments ago shattered, replaced by fury.
Confusion flashed across the boy’s features.
“How dare you show your face before me so shamelessly?”
Cleora ground her teeth, radiating an air so violent it seemed she might strike him at any moment.
The boy stiffened in shock, but Cleora had every reason to react this way.
“Rudius Kurtzfel.”
Like the Eisenbolds, a family that had produced warriors for generations—and one of the vice commanders.
A man who had stood in direct opposition to Cleora.
And the one who had refused the request for reinforcements at the front.
“Because you ignored that call for support, more than fifty thousand soldiers died on the front lines! And among them was Duke Harrison Eisenbold…!”
Her father.
The former supreme commander.
Cleora could still never forget that day—
the backs of her father and the fifty thousand soldiers who had given their lives to save her.
The day her rage burned so fiercely that tears of blood seemed to fall from her eyes.
“And now the descendant of the man who committed such an atrocity dares stand before me?”
Cleora clenched her fist, teeth grinding.
“Shut your mouth.”
Then she delivered her final warning.
“Or I’ll knock your teeth out.”
