Chapter 67

After their superficial tour was over, Harold headed back to the Berlioz estate with Erika at his side. Once her smile had faded, she didn't say another word, walking silently a few paces behind him.

In the silence, Harold fought to regain his composure.

That momentary lapse earlier had been a fluke. While he couldn't deny that her suddenly grabbing his hand had been effective, it certainly wasn't a romantic feeling. Having his hand taken by a woman as beautiful as Erika would make any man self-conscious; it was a simple biological reaction. It didn't mean there was a shred of deeper significance to it.

Besides, he knew their respective roles and the fate awaiting this world. There was no way he could actually be attracted to her.

By reciting these denials like a mantra, Harold managed to calm himself down.

The whole thing had likely been Erika teasing him—a prank. Their physical ages might be the same, but mentally, Harold was ten years her senior. It would be a blow to his dignity as a man if a grown adult let himself be played like a fiddle by a girl who wasn't even twenty yet.

Determined not to let her shake him again, Harold felt his racing pulse and the heat in his cheeks finally subside.

They arrived at the mansion without further incident. They were met by Aurelian, who offered a sincere "Forgive me," effectively letting the afternoon’s confrontation become water under the bridge.

Harold had been incredibly insolent, yet instead of being punished, he was receiving an apology. He found himself impressed by Itsuki’s negotiation skills; the boy had clearly put in work while they were gone. The title of the Next Head of House Sumeragi was evidently not just for show.

To show his gratitude, Harold resolved to handle the task Itsuki had requested with professional care. Then again, if Itsuki hadn’t made the request in the first place, Harold wouldn't have had to be rude to Aurelian at all—but he decided to look at it as a way to bolster his own nonexistent morale. There was no telling what kind of punishment Justus or Itsuki would cook up if he slacked off and failed.

Less than an hour after their return, the celebration began. Most of the guests had already arrived while Harold and Erika were out on the boat.

The guests of honor, Itsuki and Sylvie, gave their greetings from the dais before making a circuit of the room. They were quickly swallowed by a sea of well-wishers, disappearing into a crowd of people offering congratulations.

However, since they could only speak to a few people at a time, the crowd remained dense and slow-moving. The remaining guests, left to their own devices, began to mingle, sample the food and wine, or take to the floor as the band began to play.

Among the crowd, one activity was more prevalent than any other: flirting.

Of course, this wasn't the fleeting sort of pick-up artistry found on street corners. These were calculated social maneuvers intended to form connections or scout for future spouses. As expected of the scions of high-ranking nobles and wealthy merchant houses, their social grace was polished to a mirror sheen.

As Harold had anticipated, Erika was a prime target. Between her prestigious lineage and her breathtaking, ephemeral beauty—coupled with the fact that she was currently unattached—she was the most popular person in the room by a landslide.

For Harold, this meant his job was about to become incredibly tedious. He systematically dismantled the men who approached her with a barrage of verbal abuse, but their numbers only seemed to grow.

Eventually, the crowd around Erika rivaled the one surrounding Itsuki.

"Beautiful lady, might I have the honor of learning your name?"

"Would you grant me a single dance?"

"Why don't we slip away to my room? I have a vintage wine I've been saving for a special occasion."

The invitations were whispered from all sides. Since Harold wasn't some legendary sage capable of processing a dozen conversations at once, he could only track about three voices at a time; the rest blurred into a chaotic, irritating hum.

It was a mess. Moreover, the men seemed to be intentionally ignoring Harold’s presence at Erika’s side, effectively boxing him in along with her.

The situation was spiraling out of control. Even the composed Erika looked overwhelmed, her responses faltering. She tried to answer everyone politely, but for every word she spoke, four more men chimed in. It was a losing battle; she only had one mouth, after all.

Finally, Harold reached his limit.

He stepped between Erika and the suitors, shielding her with his arm. Forced to acknowledge him, the men’s expressions soured, their voices turning sharp and hostile—a stark contrast to the honeyed tones they had used with Erika.

"Who do you think you are? Step aside."

"Don't be so boorish."

"Exactly. Look at you—you look like some common thug. Know your place; someone like you has no business standing next to Lady Erika."

"What’s the matter? Has our 'knight' lost his tongue?"

A concentrated barrage of malice rained down on him.

For Harold, this wasn't even enough to trigger his temper. If anything, he was concerned for them; he wondered how they could be so foolish as to run their mouths at someone whose identity they didn't know.

Surely some of them knew Erika was the sister of the host, Itsuki. Did they not stop to think that the man standing guard over her might be affiliated with the Sumeragi or Berlioz families?

Then again, most people attending these events memorized the faces and titles of every important guest beforehand. Since Harold wasn't on any of their lists, they likely assumed he was a nobody. Or perhaps they were simply blinded by Erika’s beauty.

He pushed the trivial thoughts aside. The problem was how to get rid of them.

He couldn't carry a weapon in such a place, and violence was strictly forbidden. Causing a physical scene would ruin the celebration. On the other hand, verbal persuasion was a waste of breath—anything he said would just end up as a string of insults that would escalate the situation.

That left him with only one option.

Exhaling a long, slow breath, Harold purged all unnecessary emotion. What he needed now was high-purity killing intent.

He focused on the men before him, identifying them clearly as enemies. He envisioned them as mortal foes on the level of Justus himself. A sub-zero flame ignited in his chest, flickering with cold fury.

He refined that hostility, that boiling malice, and that raw killing intent into a single, cohesive pressure. Then, he unleashed it with a single word.

"Begone."

It was only a word, but it carried with it a dense, suffocating shadow of death.

He had hoped they would simply get scared and scatter. However, the sheer weight of Harold's killing aura was beyond their comprehension. Not a single man moved. It wasn't that they were brave—it was that the effect was too powerful.

For people who had never stood on a battlefield or looked death in the face, the aura felt like a physical weight crushing the air from their lungs.

A heavy thud broke the silence. One man had fainted dead away. As if that were the signal, the others began to collapse like dominoes.

Some lost consciousness, some fell to their knees trembling in terror, and others began to weep and beg for their lives. It was a bizarre, grotesque spectacle that immediately drew the attention of the entire hall.

Through the gaps in the crowd, Harold saw Itsuki standing in the distance, pressing a palm to his forehead in a silent gesture of "not again."

Coincidentally, Harold felt exactly the same way.

From that day forward, a rumor began to circulate among the nobility:

The Sumeragi daughter is protected by a Guard Dog that would devour the God of Death himself.

---

He was certain he had died. Or more accurately, he felt as if he had been killed.

Of course, neither was true.

Yet, he had felt the distinct sensation of a blade piercing his gut. He had hallucinated the sight of his own head rolling across the floor.

It had all been caused by a killing aura unleashed by someone nearby.

It hadn't even been directed at him. When he looked toward the source, he saw a group of men collapsed on the floor. In the center of the chaos stood a beautiful girl in a kimono and a young man standing over her like a sentinel.

The youth was clearly the source. To project such a vivid image of death through mere proximity was the mark of someone truly monstrous.

Who was he? How strong was he? Why was he here? The questions swirled, but they were quickly forgotten.

His eyes were locked on the girl. She was like a single flower illuminated by moonlight—lovely, delicate, and ethereal. Beside her, even the most vibrant blossoms or the most exquisite landscapes would surely pale into insignificance.

Her beauty was vivid. The youth vanished from his mind instantly, and before he knew it, he was speaking to her.

"Meeting you today is the greatest stroke of luck in my life. I wish to share this wonderful moment with you. First, might I ask the princess's name?"

"...I am Erika Sumeragi, daughter of House Sumeragi. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Oh, Erika! A name as beautiful as its owner. I am—"

"Francis J. Arclight."

The man—Francis—was cut off. The youth standing next to Erika had stated his name before he could even introduce himself.

Suspicion flared in Francis's mind. He had joined this event at the very last minute; his name shouldn't have been on any guest list. That meant this youth had known who he was from the start.

"So you've heard of me? Well, I suppose I am quite famous."

"Particularly for your lack of restraint with women."

"Kh...! You are well-informed, it seems. However, that information is officially outdated."

Francis dropped to one knee and took Erika’s hand.

"Because my heart has already been offered to Erika!"

"Lord Arclight, to say such a thing so suddenly..."

"Don't be so formal! Please, call me Fran."

Erika looked utterly bewildered by his aggressive approach, but this was Francis's style. When wooing a woman, one had to be passionate. If pushing didn't work, one simply had to push harder. It was a method that had never failed him.

But looking at Erika now, he felt as though every woman he had charmed before had simply been practice for this moment. It was fate. His looks, his prestigious bloodline—it was all a divine gift to ensure he was a match for her.

If anyone tried to obstruct that destiny—even a monster who could kill with a glance—he would face them and seize victory. With that resolve, he glanced up at the youth.

The young man’s eyes met his with total indifference. Francis was caught off guard; he had expected some kind of flare of temper.

"How unexpected. You aren't going to stop me?"

"You're clearly not like the rest of the trash rolling around on the floor. Do whatever you want."

The youth leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. His boredom was genuine. He truly didn't care.

Is he not her fiancé? Or even an attendant?

The questions remained, but if there was no interference, then the path was clear. Just as Francis was about to redouble his efforts with Erika—

"Well, provided you get that guy's permission, that is."

As the youth spoke, a hand clamped down on Francis’s shoulder.

The grip was strong enough to crush bone. The pain triggered a memory. He had been so distracted by her beauty that he’d almost forgotten—she had introduced herself as a Sumeragi. And Francis had a very specific friend with that name.

He looked back slowly. Standing there was Itsuki Sumeragi, a man he was close enough to call a friend.

Realizing the situation and the relationship instantly, Francis spoke without a hint of hesitation.

"Itsuki! From this day forth, let me call you 'Brother'!"

"Like hell you will! Get your hands off my sister, you damn sex fiend!"

Itsuki’s roar echoed through the rafters of the Berlioz mansion.

Seriously, someone go check on the guys unconscious on the floor first.