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Chapter – 23
Those called the Watchers—or the Eyes of the Royal House—were officials belonging to the Royal Information Bureau.
Their duty was to deliver the will of the royal family to the twelve noble houses.
‘Just an old saying now.’
Carlyle sneered inwardly.
Their so-called mission to “convey the royal will,” which once meant passing on the prophecies of the royal bloodline, was nothing more than a relic of the past.
Now that the prophetic ability inherited by the royal bloodline had vanished, these people were no longer messengers of divine will—but mere deceivers.
Their real task was to pretend to convey the will of the royal family and deceive the noble houses, making it seem as though the gift of prophecy still existed.
Of course, even they didn’t know that the royal family’s prophetic ability had disappeared—so they themselves had no idea what they were really doing.
“Listen.”
The Watcher did not reveal his identity or name.
That was their privilege. The moment one became a Watcher, they became an agent of the royal family—thus exempt from revealing one’s origins or lineage to anyone.
Even to one of the twelve noble houses—such as the Sigmund family, ranked among the top three.
“I have come bearing the royal will.”
Carlyle almost laughed aloud.
‘They’re just checking if the master of Grimungandr has appeared.’
Why?
Because if a new master of Grimungandr had emerged—signaling the return of the King of Chaos, Cain—it would indeed terrify the royal family.
So, during every Investiture Ceremony, the royal family dispatched a Watcher to confirm whether the new master of Grimungandr had appeared.
That act alone was enough to raise suspicions that the royal family had lost its prophetic power—yet none dared to think so.
For the twelve noble houses still remembered clearly how, for centuries, the royal family had manipulated, deceived, and toyed with them.
So much so that not one of them dared to voice doubt anymore.
“I will ask.”
“Yes.”
“Whose will have you inherited?”
“I don’t know.”
“…What?”
A brief flicker of confusion crossed the Watcher’s face.
He wasn’t alone—everyone watching showed the same bafflement at Carlyle’s response.
“C–Carlyle!”
“W–What did he just say?”
“Has he gone mad?”
To think that even a scoundrel like him would give such a flippant answer to a Watcher…
‘Tch. So the rumors were true—Carlyle von Sigmund really is a hopeless degenerate.’
The Watcher didn’t even feel anger.
Somehow, he simply accepted it as the natural behavior of a man known to be a fool.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Just that. I don’t really know which ancestor made it.”
“Hm?”
“This.”
Carlyle held out Grimungandr toward the Watcher.
“This… is your inheritance blade?”
The Watcher frowned as he examined the weapon.
— ……
It was rusted, chipped, and old—a dull sword that looked more like scrap metal than a blade.
“Ha.”
The Watcher let out a short, incredulous laugh.
Every inheritance blade of the Sigmund family was said to be a masterpiece, without exception.
Yet the one Carlyle held was so shabby that it was hard to believe it could be one of them.
And yet, in a way, it did suit him.
‘Well, it fits. That worthless brat deserves a piece of junk like this.’
The Watcher had heard plenty about Carlyle’s reputation and silently nodded to himself.
But he still needed to know what that scrap sword really was.
To report back to the royal family, he had to identify the weapon that had chosen Carlyle.
“You truly know nothing about it?”
“That’s right.”
“Hmm.”
Meanwhile, the Grand Duke Guntram, who had been watching quietly, turned to his retainer, Maranello.
“Sir Maranello.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Could you fetch the Record of Inheritance? I believe we’ll be needing it.”
The Record of Inheritance was a catalog of every inheritance blade stored in the Vault of Swords—a detailed ledger describing each weapon.
Some entries lacked information, but that was only because their creators had chosen not to record every detail.
Still, who had crafted each blade, and what it looked like—those facts were all listed without exception.
‘Was there ever such a sword in the Vault?’
Even Grand Duke Guntram himself didn’t recognize the blade that had chosen Carlyle.
After all, even a family head couldn’t be expected to memorize hundreds of swords by heart.
“Your Grace, I believe this must be it.”
Maranello, having brought the Record, opened it to a specific page and showed it to the Duke.
“Ah, yes. That one.”
The Duke nodded, recalling the name.
It was called The Wanderer.
A blade forged by an ancestor named Rompen, a free knight who had once roamed the continent performing eccentric deeds.
The Record described it as a rusted, chipped piece of scrap metal—nothing more.
“Agent of the royal family.”
“Speak.”
The Watcher answered curtly, his tone imperious.
It was only natural—Watchers spoke as the mouthpiece of the king himself, entitled to such demeanor even before nobles.
At least, by regulation.
“…!”
Then, realizing his misstep, the Watcher flinched.
Even a royal agent had to tread carefully before Grand Duke Guntram—a man reputed to be able to kill with a mere glance.
“Y–Yes, please continue.”
The Watcher corrected his tone.
“The blade that chose my son was crafted by our ancestor, Rompen, once a free knight.”
“I see.”
The Watcher scanned the Record and nodded.
“The Wanderer, then. Understood.”
That was all he needed.
The only reason he’d been curious about Carlyle’s sword was to have something to report back to the crown.
He had never once imagined it could be Grimungandr.
‘A convenient cover story, then.’
Carlyle, listening in, understood immediately.
If they’d claimed it was an unlisted sword, suspicion would have arisen—but with The Wanderer as its name, no one would question it.
“The verification is complete. There’s no further need to discuss this matter—the confirmation itself is merely a formality.”
The Watcher turned to Carlyle.
“Carlyle von Sigmund. The royal family congratulates you on your investiture, and expects that you will uphold your duties and responsibilities as a member of House Sigmund.”
“Sure. Thanks, I guess.”
The Watcher clicked his tongue inwardly at Carlyle’s indifferent reply.
‘Handsome face, but utterly worthless. To think a house like Sigmund produced such a fool… I’d better finish this and leave quickly.’
He then turned back to the Grand Duke.
“With this, the royal portion of the ceremony concludes. On behalf of the crown, I congratulate your son on his investiture.”
“My thanks.”
And so, Carlyle’s investiture ceremony came to an end.
The members of House Sigmund were surprised that Carlyle had been chosen by any inheritance blade at all—but at the same time, they weren’t.
“The Wanderer, you say? I didn’t even know we had such a sword.”
“It actually suits him.”
“Probably the weakest of all our inheritance blades.”
Carlyle didn’t bat an eye at their remarks.
‘Even better.’
If everyone believed Grimungandr was The Wanderer, it worked perfectly for him.
No one would expect anything—or dare to pry.
“Inheritance blades exist to pass down the wisdom of our ancestors,” said Maranello with earnest concern. “That is all that truly matters. Sir Rompen was a renowned knight in his day—perhaps his sword hides deep meaning and insight.”
“I’m fine.”
“Pardon?”
“I like it. It doesn’t draw attention.”
Carlyle raised the disguised Grimungandr and smiled faintly.
“But, my lord—”
“Enough. Let’s drop it.”
Carlyle had no intention of telling even Maranello the truth.
If Maranello knew, his father would soon find out—and that would be a problem.
“Congratulations.”
“Congrats, brother.”
Selena and Frey approached, offering polite well-wishes.
“You’ve done well,” said Duke Guntram. “You’re an adult now—try to show a little more maturity.”
“…”
The Duke’s words were more congratulatory than stern.
And his expression was one of relief, not disappointment.
He looked as if a great burden had been lifted.
After all, as long as Carlyle had been chosen by any inheritance blade, it spared the family from an unspeakable disgrace.
If he had not been chosen at all, the Duke himself would have had to banish his son.
‘If only they knew it’s really Grimungandr.’
Carlyle almost laughed.
Grimungandr—possibly the strongest and most dangerous of all Sigmund blades.
If they discovered that such a cursed sword had fallen into the hands of the family’s infamous black sheep, they would surely panic.
The family’s top warriors would probably guard him around the clock, terrified of what disaster might occur should he ever draw it in earnest.
“I’m tired. I’ll be going to bed.”
Carlyle excused himself and returned to his room.
“The Black Sword, huh…”
He idly ran his hand along Grimungandr’s surface—disguised as The Wanderer—but soon fatigue overtook him, and he fell asleep in his shirt.
He didn’t know how long he had slept when—
— …Give it back.
A chilling, furious voice echoed in the darkness.
‘What the hell…’
Carlyle frowned, half-awake—only to feel his breath suddenly stop.
“Ugh—Kh…!”
It was as if invisible hands were strangling him.
“W–What—huff!”
When he opened his eyes, he froze in horror.
Someone identical to himself was gripping his throat—his double.
Blood-soaked, with a face twisted like a demon’s, and eyes reversed in black and white.
— Give it back… Give me back my body… heeheehee…!
“Kh—Khhhk!”
— Give it back! Heehee! GIVE ME BACK MY BODY!!!
“Khhaaa!”
The more the bloodied Carlyle tightened his grip, the stronger the pressure grew—making it harder and harder to breathe.
‘I—I’ll die…’
As his consciousness began to fade, Carlyle desperately groped for something—anything.
His fingers brushed against the hilt of a sword—Grimungandr, lying beside the bed where he’d left it.
He grasped it tightly—
Clang!
—and swung it with all his strength.
