On the training field of Noblese Academy, the students stood in a semicircle. Swords sheathed and light clothing prepared for combat. It was the first practical fencing class of the term.
Clint positioned himself beside Alucard in the center, when a voice dripping with sarcasm cut through the murmurs of the students:
"So this is the infamous Clint Ravenhart?"
A young man with brown hair and an arrogant posture stepped forward, crossing his arms with disdain.
"You don't look like someone capable of killing in cold blood."
Clint simply watched him in silence.
"Did your father spread rumors to make you seem less… weak?"
The boy's eyes were as dark as night. Arrogant, but lacking true weight.
Before Clint could reply, the professor's voice roared across the field.
"Silence!"
The veteran's gaze fell directly on the provocateur.
"You'll have your chance to speak your mind soon. But for now\... focus on the lesson."
The young man stepped back with a smug smile.
The professor turned back to the group:
"Pair up!"
In seconds, the students began forming pairs. Four of them rushed toward Alucard with obvious eagerness.
"Alucard, can I spar with you?" asked one.
"Can I be your partner?" interrupted another.
"I got here first!" argued a third.
But Alucard simply raised a hand with a polite smile.
"I already have a partner today."
He walked straight to Clint and winked:
"Just don't break my teeth, alright?"
Clint nodded and took his position across from him.
The professor continued:
"Today's exercise is simple. One focuses the Mantra on their fists and attacks. The other on their forearms to defend. No dodging. No sidestepping. Anyone who avoids the blow will get a penalty."
The lesson began. The field echoed with the sounds of strikes, grunts, and falls. Some students handled it well; others walked away bruised. Blood wasn't uncommon.
When it was Clint's turn to attack, he wrapped his fists in Mantra. The aura shimmered—subtle, yet controlled.
His strikes? Weak. Deliberately weak.
Alucard felt the lack of pressure. He could defend with one arm, barely needing to channel much Mantra.
From the sidelines, the professor narrowed his eyes.
But before anyone could comment, the arrogant young man's voice rang out again, this time more inflamed:
"So that's it?" he stepped to the edge of the circle, sneering. "Just because you carry the Ravenhart name, you think you belong here? Even at the third stage... that strength? Any second-year could do better!"
Clint didn't even glance at him and continued his exchange with Alucard.
"I am Marlon Verriz, son of Duke Mikael Verriz of Leona!" the boy shouted. "And I will not submit to a bastard like you!"
The aura around Marlon rippled, as if to prove he could strike Clint down then and there.
Before any reaction could come, Alucard stepped between them. The smile was gone from his face.
"Marlon, are you daring to abuse your title here? Especially in front of me?"
The entire field fell silent.
"Clint is my friend now. And speaking to him like that, with such pathetic arrogance... is the same as asking to die."
Marlon hesitated. Alucard's stare was cold, almost suffocating. He exhaled, still irritated.
The silence lingered until the professor intervened:
"Today's lesson ends early. Rest. We resume tomorrow."
---
When most had already left, the professor approached Clint, curiosity still in his gaze.
"You held back during training..." he said calmly. "Don't trust Alucard's strength?"
Clint turned to him with a subtle smile.
"You really think I held back?"
The professor raised an eyebrow.
Clint chuckled softly.
"Amazing how you try to comfort a weak student. One who'd lose to someone in the second stage, no?"
"You haven't told me your name yet."
"Adan," the professor replied.
Clint's eyes stared into him with intensity.
"Here... I'm just another weak student, Professor Adan. Don't mistake me for the other disciples of Darius."
There was a pause. But Adan felt something he hadn't expected.
Cold… A coldness that seemed to come from deep within the boy's eyes—an expression that didn't match his age.
---
Clint walked over to Alucard, who waited near the field gates.
"Can you help me with something in the city?"
"Of course," Alucard replied. "What do you need?"
"I need to find someone. James Felps. Ever heard of him?"
Alucard crossed his arms, thoughtful.
"Quite a bit. He's an influential noble around here. Holds the title of marquess but has no land. Lives in a large mansion in the capital. Very respected… and feared in Felgrand's political council."
Clint narrowed his eyes.
"Where can I find him?"
"His mansion is on one of the central avenues of the capital."
Clint nodded.
"Thanks."
He then turned and found Emylle leaning casually against a nearby wall.
"We're heading into town. I need to buy clothes and handle a few things… and Iris? What did she say about the invitation?"
Emylle smiled slightly, as if still digesting the response.
"First, she gave me that fake smile of hers and said:
'Are you serious? A knight's room? At night?'
But right after that, she turned her back and replied...
'Tell him I accept. I'll be there tonight.'"
Clint closed his eyes for a second.
---
The carriage took them directly to the center of Felgrand's capital.
Mabel was a bustling city, with architecture that blended functional elegance with artistic exuberance. It was the heart of the kingdom's commerce and politics. The streets were crowded, guards patrolled with disciplined precision.
Within minutes of walking, Clint spotted a luxurious storefront.
The golden sign above the entrance read:
"Royal Fabrics: Vanda."
"We're going in there first," Clint murmured.
The entrance was immaculate. Display windows showcased finely tailored suits, silk dresses embroidered with silver, and jewelry on delicate mannequins.
As they approached, a strikingly beautiful young woman in a tight red dress welcomed them with a professional smile.
"How may I help you, sir?"
Clint stared at her for a moment.
"I need new clothes. Something that matches the name Ravenhart."
Her smile widened, instantly recognizing the kind of client she had before her.
"Then you've come to the right place, sir."
The woman in the red dress led Clint through aisles filled with fine garments and rare fabrics.
"Would you prefer something more formal, something to impress... or perhaps something functional?"
Her question was direct, and Clint, raising an eyebrow, replied:
"Both."
She nodded as if she'd expected that. Within minutes, Clint was trying on dark linen shirts, tailored vests in deep wine tones, coats with discreet silver trim, and boots that were both sturdy and refined. Measurements were taken with near-military precision, as tailors emerged from the backrooms with pencils, measuring tapes, and keen eyes. The shop moved like a silent orchestra working in perfect harmony to dress him like the heir to an empire.
Before leaving, Clint pointed to Emylle, who had been watching everything with a faint glint in her eyes.
"I want clothes for her too. Nothing extravagant, something practical and discreet. A custom maid outfit... that allows movement."
"A maid's outfit designed for combat? If that's the case, we have several options. It wouldn't be the first time we've had a request like that."
Clint nodded. "Exactly what I need."
The clerk didn't seem surprised by the request and led Emylle to a more private area. She returned shortly with a description:
A black and gray set of flexible fabric, fitted bodice, removable sleeves, short skirt reinforced by flexible leather shorts underneath, light boots up to the calf, and small, discreet compartments to carry knives or tools.
"It's practically disguised armor, sir. Elegance… with functionality."
Clint nodded in approval.
"Perfect. Send everything to the reserved dorm at Noblese Academy. Under the name Clint Ravenhart."
Shortly after, Clint left the shop without another word, accompanied by Emylle, who now wore only a quiet smile.
He crossed three wide streets, passed two decorative fountains, and finally stopped in front of an imposing mansion, with wrought iron gates flanked by marble statues and stained glass adorned with a crest he didn't recognize.
A guard eyed him carefully, then stepped back and announced firmly:
"Welcome to the residence of Marquess James Felps."
The gates opened slowly,
as if they'd been waiting a long time for this very moment.