The Dinner

“Your Highness!”

A jarring voice shattered the romantic atmosphere.

A guard came sprinting over. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Ilisia awkwardly withdrew her hand, which had been hovering mid-air, ready to accept the offered flower.

“How annoying,” the prince sighed—and without a second glance, tossed the blossom carelessly into the sea of blooms.

Damian turned back, his princely smile returning.

“I’ll be waiting for you at the banquet, Ilisia. I hope you’ll grant me a dance.”

Ilisia lifted her gaze and offered a poised, elegant smile—though a quiet pang of disappointment lingered in her chest.

“I’d be honored, Your Highness,” she said with a graceful curtsy.

Only after the prince’s figure vanished into the distance did Ilisia snap back to herself.

Where had that casually discarded flower gone?

She glanced around, gently parting the surrounding blossoms, searching for it.

But no matter how hard she looked, it was nowhere to be found.

Only the soil beneath her feet seemed… oddly disturbed.

Just a few meters below the flower field—

“Who’s going to check the air valve? This place is suffocating.”

Adrian, clad in a dark robe, frowned and waved dismissively at a subordinate.

This was an underground chamber—modest in size, tucked directly beneath the flower field.

Dozens of people sat inside, poring over letters, annotating each with careful notes.

Beside every worker hung a lamp emitting a soft golden glow—

Not oil, not candlelight.

No one knew the true source of that light.

“Report,” Adrian said.

“The banks of the Lone Dark River and Blackstone City both reported deaths. Blackstone confirms it’s Subject No. 70,” replied Martin, a trusted clerk. “Highest priority today.”

“And Lone Dark River?” Adrian asked.

“Too remote. We’re short-staffed,” Martin shook his head.

Adrian sighed in resignation.

“How’s the ‘printer’ situation?”

“The Church is negotiating in Lord Lorence’s territory,” Martin said. “That old fool’s enshrining them in the temple like holy relics.”

“Wasteful idiots,” Adrian muttered.

His head throbbed.

Nobles like that—clueless, dazzled by pretty trinkets—always treated advanced tools like ceremonial ornaments.

And if the Church was handling negotiations… that meant he’d have to see Heronie again.

Martin handed him a document.

“Delarose Industries replied. They’ve deciphered the ‘firearm’ blueprints. Once the printers arrive, they can begin production.”

“I’ll verify it myself,” Adrian sighed.

“You’re heading into the mountains again tonight?” Martin asked.

Adrian nodded. “A bandit gang’s set up camp there. One of them’s an ‘Evil Seed’—might know something about Subject No. 43.”

“I thought you were going stargazing,” Martin said, surprised.

“I’m going to stir up trouble,” Adrian corrected. “Those bandits plan to use the ‘Evil Seed’ to ambush the banquet. The noble guards won’t stand a chance.”

Martin nodded thoughtfully.

“Do you need backup or extraction support tonight?”

“Backup? Don’t be ridiculous. You’re all clerks. You’d just scare them off,” Adrian snapped. “Besides—can you even use a sword?”

Martin sheepishly shook his head.

“Then just process these documents properly. That’s the best support you can give me.”

Adrian sorted the submitted files into the archive rack and turned to leave.

“Mr. Adrian…?” A timid female voice stopped him.

It was Anna, a new clerk.

“I… I want to know—what are we really doing here?” she asked nervously. “You said we don’t fight… don’t kill those things with swords…”

“You’re the new one?” Adrian asked.

She nodded.

“If you mean your daily tasks,” Adrian said, “you’re screening letters from across the kingdom—verifying authenticity, assigning threat levels.”

“But if you mean the bigger picture…” He paused.

He met Anna’s eyes and spoke with quiet intensity:

“We’re hunting ‘Evil Seeds.’”

“Evil Seeds?” Anna frowned in confusion.

“The kind of monsters that ate your mother… and your little sister,” Adrian said plainly.

Anna’s hesitation wavered.

“But… isn’t that the job of heroes? Or monster hunters?” she asked.

“When Subject No. 37 attacked your village,” Adrian asked, “where were your so-called ‘heroes’?”

“They’d already run away,” Anna whispered, lowering her head.

Adrian shook his head, pity in his eyes.

“The Adventurer’s Guild? Useless,” he said bitterly. “A bunch of clowns who kill a few goblins and think they’re legends.”

“But… just sitting here, reading papers—can we really kill those monsters?” Anna asked, voice trembling.

“With your intelligence, we can pinpoint the monsters hiding in human skin,” Adrian explained. “Then we ambush them, poison them, force them to reveal themselves—and eliminate them.”

“‘Evil Seeds’ hide everywhere—among soldiers, bandits, merchants… even nobles.”

“Killing them isn’t hard. Finding them is,” Adrian continued. “That’s your role.”

Anna nodded slowly, still not fully grasping it.

She was just a girl in her teens—how could she understand the weight of intelligence work?

“But… in fairy tales,” she sniffled, tears welling, “the saviors always fight monsters head-on… alone…”

“My mother told me that…”

Adrian clicked his tongue and gestured to Judy, an older clerk, who immediately stepped forward to comfort Anna.

‘Head-on combat?’

What a foolish notion.

‘Evil Seeds’ were masters of disguise, moving faster than any human.

Even the greatest swordmaster could barely hold their own against an “Abyss Seed”—a mere spawn of the true Evil Seeds.

“If that’s how it worked,” Adrian murmured, watching Anna sob in Judy’s arms, “then every ‘savior’ would’ve died centuries ago…”

“…Just like the demigods did.”

On the surface, the banquet was in full swing.

Lavish tents dotted the grass. Long tables groaned under silver platters gleaming in candlelight.

Laughter, music, the clinking of goblets—perfumed air thick with wine, roasted meats, and blossoms.

The celebration had reached its peak.

Nearby, Prince Damian finally broke free from diplomatic duties and strode toward the center of the lawn.

He spotted Ilisia.

“Would you honor me with a dance, fair lady?” The prince, bathed in moonlight, was as handsome as ever.

He bowed slightly, offering his hand.

The invitation had come at last.

If I become Crown Princess… then Queen… no one will ever dislike me again, will they?

Will that wretched Adrian regret ignoring me then?

Ilisia’s lips curved into an eager smile as she gazed at the prince.

“I’d be—” she began.

“Huh?”

In that instant, a servant carrying a wine tray stumbled—colliding with Prince Damian.

Crimson wine splashed across the prince’s brown ceremonial coat, blooming into a dark stain.

Snap.

The prince’s gentle expression vanished.

In a flash, his face twisted into something monstrous. He whirled and backhanded the servant across the face.

“You worthless cur! Are you blind?!” Damian bellowed.

Ilisia blinked in disbelief—was this real?

“I’m sorry, Your Highness—so sorry…” The servant, dazed and stinging, could barely stand.

His frantic apologies only fueled Damian’s rage.

What happened next stunned every noble present:

The prince grabbed the servant by the collar and began pummeling his face with furious, relentless blows.

“Why does everyone keep interrupting me?!” he roared.

Nobles exchanged horrified glances—but no one dared intervene.

Like a rabid beast, Damian shoved the man to the ground, straddled him, and kept punching—until his fists dripped with blood.

Ilisia covered her mouth and took a step back.

“Damian! Stop this at once!”

A sharp, icy voice cut through the chaos like thunder.

The crowd parted. Heronie stormed through, strode straight to her brother—and with terrifying strength, yanked him off the half-dead servant.

“Enough!”

Damian’s eyes bulged, veins throbbing in his neck—but beneath the fury, fear flickered.

“Get him to a physician,” Heronie ordered her attendants.

Only then did servants rush forward to carry away the unconscious man.

Blood tainted the air. The banquet’s warmth froze solid.

“You’re left alone for half an hour and this happens,” Heronie said coldly. “Can’t you go one day without brutalizing your servants?”

“I was merely teaching that mongrel some manners,” Damian muttered, fists still clenched—but his tone had softened before his sister. “He won’t make that mistake again.”

Whispers slithered through the crowd. Heronie sighed, weariness in her eyes.

This would be the talk of every noble salon by dawn.

It all happened too fast.

Ilisia stood frozen long after the scene ended.

She thought of how, just hours ago in the flower field, she’d nearly accepted the prince’s hand.

Marry a man like that? How could I have dreamed of it?

How had she ever believed Damian was kind… trustworthy?

Around her, nobles shot her glances—some pitying, some accusatory—as if she had driven the prince to madness.

No. It shouldn’t be like this…

Heart pounding, Ilisia gathered her gown and slipped quietly out through a side exit.