The middle-aged knight quietly approached the three men who were supporting each other as they slowly made their way toward the stairwell. Why would the lord suspect these three? No matter how you looked at them, they were just three spoiled young men who had had a few too many drinks. Although the one on the left seemed to have some skills, he probably still fell short if he were to go up against the knights of the Reima Order. As for the other two, who could barely walk straight, he really couldn’t see anything suspicious about them. Still, he had always admired the captain’s perception, so even though he couldn’t detect the slightest hint of anything wrong, he calmly drew closer, relying on his own experience and detection abilities to carefully sense them.

As someone born with a talent for magic, Harold had learned a vast array of things over the past three years, which brought many side effects—namely, that he was mediocre at almost everything, with nothing he truly excelled at. But in one area, he considered himself quite accomplished: defending against enemies and concealing himself. When the faint aura from the approaching knight began to subtly probe his body, Harold knew the other party was suspicious, though not certain—this was just a vague, searching scan. Quietly taking a breath, he hid his already not-so-strong magical power deep within his body, trying to merge it with the rhythm of his own blood, while relaxing his body to maintain the appearance of drunkenness. It was as if a ray of sunlight gently brushed over his body, circling several times before finally leaving. Harold did his utmost to control himself—he could even feel his whole body itching, but dared not show any reaction, simply staggering toward the door, left foot crossing over right, in a drunken manner.

The middle-aged knight was finally disappointed. He had thoroughly scanned the three from head to toe, inside and out, but found no sign that any of them were suspicious. The burly one, though clearly skilled in martial arts, was actually the least likely—while it wasn’t impossible to be adept at both magic and martial arts, reaching true mastery in both was extremely difficult, let alone excelling in either. Most who tried ended up as mediocrities. The man before him was clearly accomplished in martial arts, and his own spiritual sense had carefully searched him, finding no trace of magic. As for the other two, the frail one was obviously an ordinary person with no martial or magical ability—his spiritual sense detected nothing. The one beside him was actually the most suspicious, but no matter how thoroughly he probed, he could only sense a hint of martial strength, nothing else out of the ordinary. Could it be that the captain was just overly tired or paranoid from the recent search efforts, seeing danger everywhere?

Still, he had no intention of letting the three go. He quickly strode forward, his tall figure flashing to the stairway at the end of the corridor. “Gentlemen, please wait.”

The burly young man suddenly stopped, his furious gaze locking onto the face of the man blocking their path. “Who are you? How dare you stand in our way—are you tired of living?” Although his companions had hinted at caution earlier, the straightforward Elliot hadn’t considered that this stranger might be involved. As he hurled his massive fist at the man’s face in a flurry of blows, the huge shadow of his fist swept through the air with a fierce wind, its power intimidating. Yet, without betraying any sign, he also quietly launched a deadly kick.

Though the middle-aged man was experienced, he hadn’t expected the other to attack so ruthlessly just for being stopped, especially in such a setting. While dodging the onslaught of punches, he was caught off guard by the burly youth’s secret, lethal kick. Only when the silent leg swept toward him did the knight realize that beneath this man’s rough and irritable exterior lay a cunning and vicious heart.

But that didn’t mean Elliot would gain the upper hand. Although surprised, such tricks weren’t enough to let his opponent take advantage. Tilting his head to dodge the punches, the knight flicked a finger, sending a chill-laden force straight at Elliot’s leg, just as it was about to strike. The bone-chilling cold made Elliot instantly realize the danger. He retreated, and the soft-belted sword at his waist flashed out of its sheath. Meanwhile, the frail Paul quietly let go of the Harold he was supporting, one hand slipping into his wide sleeve, fiddling with something unknown, while Harold maintained his drunken facade, secretly breaking out in a cold sweat.