Micheal stood atop the jagged cliff's edge, sleeves rolled back, hammer in one hand, glowing drill in the other, overseeing the reinforcement of the stone walls. The beast tide loomed just a day away. The tension in the air was palpable, but for once, his heart felt light.
Magda was in the estate's lab, sleeves stained with ink and ash, her crimson eyes flickering with calculation and drive as she took command of the archive and lab—doing what she did best: protecting lives through knowledge.
He watched her retreat into the fortress of spells and theory, and though she never said it out loud, Micheal understood—this was her way of shielding the world.
He wanted to be useful too.
So while she prepared elixirs and runes for the North's defense, he lent his hands—enhancing defensive barricades, sketching quick deployment systems, even stabilizing cliff walls with collapsible locks so the beasts couldn't scale the sides.
Sweat ran down his temple as he checked the tension on the newest support anchor. Villagers who had once murmured about the 'delicate nobleman' now watched with curious respect. Some even brought him water.
It was then that he smelled it.
Something ancient.
Rotting roses and copper. A scent that didn't belong in this century.
A shadow fell beside him. Micheal turned slowly.
A tall, handsome man stepped forward, dressed in dark noblewear woven with metallic threads. Raven-black hair tied back, crimson eyes gleaming with disdain.
He had the unsettling elegance of someone sculpted rather than born. The resemblance to Raphael was unmistakable, but colder—younger—hungrier.
"Your grip on that hammer," the stranger said in refined noble speech, "is almost... poetic. Are you building a tomb?"
Micheal didn't respond at first. He stood still, hammer resting against his shoulder, blue eyes calm, then gave a small smile.
"I thought I smelled a predator."
"Oh?" The man arched a brow, amused. "Not many would say that to an heir of Duke Ashford."
"Ashford?" Micheal's voice turned clipped, gaze narrowing. "And here I thought you were an overgrown alley cat."
Rüdiger's eyes narrowed, lips curling. "Careful, boy. You might bruise your tongue. I'm Rüdiger. Second son of Duke Ashford. And your wife's little uncle."
Micheal blinked. "...Little?"
"In title. Not in... other measurements." Rüdiger flashed a grin that made the villagers step back.
He took a step closer. "You're the one married to our darling Magda, aren't you? I wanted to know what kind of pup dared to lay claim to an imperial mate."
Micheal's eyes narrowed slightly. "Pup? Mate? Your vocabulary is... rustic."
Rüdiger smirked, his voice deepening as he shifted from noble dialect to the older, rawer tones of devil tongue. "Still speaking in the polished language of courts? Let's see how long that lasts, little mate."
Micheal's grip on the hammer tightened, but he said nothing.
Rüdiger's gaze glittered with something darker. "I sensed something off about you the moment I arrived. That aura you keep so tightly cloaked... you're not just a pretty noble, are you?"
Micheal remained unmoved. "I'm just a man trying to help a village survive. Unlike you."
With a bored sigh, Rüdiger turned and grabbed a village child by the back of his coat. The crowd screamed.
"Fight me," he said lazily, "or this little cub learns how to fly."
Micheal's smile dropped.
"Fine." His voice was low. "Let the child go."
Rüdiger hurled the child—not off the cliff, but into the crowd. Screams rang out before Arthur dove and caught the child just in time.
Micheal stepped into the clearing.
He rolled his shoulders, adjusting his collar, his every movement too refined for battle—yet there was a tautness in him, something cloaked.
"I'm not a warrior," he said softly, brushing a strand of platinum hair from his face, "but if that's what it takes to protect these people... I'll humor you."
Rüdiger tilted his head, crimson eyes narrowing. "Tch. Are you really so weak, little mate? Why not bring out that pretty aura you're hiding?"
Micheal offered a mild smile. "Because I'm just a fragile nobleman. You wouldn't want to injure someone so untrained in the ways of war, would you?"
That struck something in Rüdiger—challenge and amusement alike.
"Oh? Trying to bait me into a fair fight? Very well, little lordling. Let's see if there's steel beneath that silk."
He removed his coat with dramatic flair and flexed his shoulders, revealing toned arms under a silk shirt. "No aura. No magic. Just muscle. Let's see what kind of husband Magda's got."
The air shifted.
The two circled each other.
Then in a heartbeat—Micheal struck first.
Faster than Rüdiger expected. A clean jab, expertly placed, backed by enough force to send the devil skidding several feet back. The villagers gasped, stunned, then cheered.
Rüdiger blinked once—then laughed and lunged.
Fists met flesh. Dust rose in the air, curling like smoke from an ancient pyre.
To the villagers, it looked like a bewitching predator beating down a delicate noble. Micheal's skin bruised, his lip bled.
But under the haze of dirt and sweat, his eyes stayed clear. Calculating.
Meanwhile, unnoticed in the chaos, Arthur quietly slipped away through the edge of the crowd, clutching the saved child close for a moment before handing him to another villager.
Then, with careful urgency, he activated his com-tab and called Magda.
"Your Highness," he whispered, voice tight with fear, "Young Master is fighting a man... and he claims to be your second uncle."
Meanwhile, Micheal was still holding back.
He couldn't afford to reveal himself yet. Not with Magda's identity still fragile in court politics. Not with eyes watching.
But he was growing tired.
Rüdiger's patience too frayed. "Tch. No fun. Let's try this the proper way."
Mana surged through his veins, and a red sigil shimmered beneath his feet.
Micheal's feet slid back. He braced, but he was no match—not without revealing his secret.
And then came the scent.
Lavender and fire.
A sudden pulse in the air.
"Second Uncle Rüdiger!" a voice rang out.
Crimson eyes blazed from the ridge.
Magda.