Imperial Knight Office

The room was awfully quiet except for the sounds of scratching of a pen against paper, the faint rustle of documents, and the slow, steady ticking of a clock somewhere in the background like it was counting down to someone’s death.

At the center of it all sat Soren, calm as ever, signing papers at his desk like he wasn’t currently hosting eight grown men suffering on the floor while said men, were in a plank position, and had been for the past thirty minutes.

"...What did you mean," Soren said, not even looking up, his tone terrifyingly casual, "when you said you lost sight of the prey?"

The Mad Dogs gulped as they were still in planking position for half an hour now.

"Well...?" Soren said, signing papers on his table.

Eight pairs of arms trembled, already screaming internally, their lives flashing before their eyes, as a collective gulp echoed across the room.

"We got..." Scavon—the bald one, now glistening with sweat and regret—struggled to form words between controlled breaths. "...distracted."

The pen didn’t stop.

"...Distracted," Soren repeated, still signing a document like this was a completely normal conversation.

A bead of sweat rolled down Scavon’s temple. "Yes, Commander."

A pause.

The kind that stretched just a little too long.

"That is...?" Soren prompted.

The other seven scrambled to say a word different from what really happened. There’s no way in hell they got distracted because of a random lunatic woman who had a really foul mouth.

And just like that, they started panicking because there was no way—no way—they were about to admit the truth.

There was absolutely no universe where they would say—

"We were emotionally destroyed by a random woman with a foul mouth."

Not happening.

Not today.

Not ever.

The other seven scrambled mentally, each one trying to come up with something—anything—that sounded even remotely respectable.

"A—ambush!" one of them blurted.

"Civilians!" another added quickly. "There were too many civilians!"

"Yeah! Crowd interference!" a third chimed in, nodding aggressively despite shaking arms.

"Visibility issues!" someone else said.

"Emotional... warfare?" one muttered, immediately regretting it.

A pause.

"...What?" Soren finally looked up.

The man who spoke flinched mid-plank, nearly collapsing before catching himself. "I—I meant psychological tactics! Advanced psychological tactics!"

Soren stared all eight of them. Sweaty, shaking, and barely holding themselves up. "...Elaborate."

Silence.

No one wanted to elaborate because elaborating meant explaining, and explaining meant reliving it—and frankly, some memories were better left buried, preferably in a locked box at the bottom of the ocean.

Scavon had just opened his mouth, ready to attempt what would undoubtedly be the worst explanation of his life, when—

ring.

The phone beside Soren cut through the tension like a blade and all eight men nearly collapsed from relief.

They were saved.

Temporarily.

Soren pressed the button as he focused back on the papers. "Soren Markhelov speaking."

"Master, I regret to inform you that Miss Blanca brought the target home with her," Mikael’s voice came from the other end, completely unaware he had just interrupted eight men on the brink of emotional confession.

Soren’s grip on the pen tightened. Too tight that ink bled across the paper in a slow, spreading stain.

"...Well," he said, voice dropping just slightly, "did you try to assassinate him?"

The temperature in the room seemed to spike instantly.

Behind him, eight grown men in plank position began sweating like they had been personally invited into a furnace.

"Yes," Mikael replied, just as composed. "And I apologize, but he’s too slippery. He remains constantly by the lady’s side. Any further attempts may alert Miss Blanca."

Soren exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair, the faintest crease forming between his brows. "I see."

That was not a good ’I see.’

"I’m sure that man won’t do anything reckless now that he’s found his master," he continued coolly. "Stand down for now."

"Yes, Master."

The line clicked.

Silence returned.

But this time, it was worse because Soren was now annoyed.

And Soren, when annoyed, was not the kind of man you wanted to be within a ten-meter radius of.

He placed the receiver down gently.

Too gently.

Then he looked at all eight of them.

Still trembling.

Still planking.

Still regretting every life decision that led to this exact moment.

"Choose," Soren said calmly, as if he were offering them tea instead of suffering. "Only three of you will get to run two hundred laps around the training ground."

A pause.

"And the rest," he added, standing up slowly, "will spar with me."

Their hope instantly died as every one of them looked at each other.

No words were needed.

This was a life-or-death decision.

Two hundred laps?

Painful.

Exhausting.

Possibly life-threatening.

But survivable.

Sparring with Soren?

That was not sparring.

That was a controlled execution.

"I volunteer!" one blurted out instantly, abandoning all pride.

"Me too!" another shouted.

"I’ll run! I love running!"

"Running is my passion!"

"I was born to run!"

"I’ve always believed in cardio!"

"I’ll do the laps! Please let me do the laps!"

In less than three seconds, seven hands shot up.

Seven.

For three spots.

One unfortunate soul remained silent.

He looked around at his teammates, at their raised hands, and at their betrayal.

"...You traitors," Scavon whispered.

One of them avoided eye contact. "It’s not personal."

"It’s very personal!"

Soren watched all of this unfold with mild interest, like a man observing particularly dramatic wildlife.

"...How touching," he said dryly. "Unfortunately, only three of you can run."

Seven hands slowly lowered as despair returned.

Soren clasped his hands behind his back. "I will choose instead."

The room froze because somehow, that was even worse.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

A Few Moments Earlier...

The air shimmered as we stepped out of the portal, the faint glow fading behind us like a closing curtain.

And right on cue, Mikael was already there, waiting.

Perfect posture, hands neatly folded behind his back, that ever-present polite smile resting on his lips like it had been carved there permanently.

But the moment his eyes landed on us, specifically on me being carried by Gawain, his smile froze, like a crack had formed beneath it.

"...Miss Blanca," Mikael greeted smoothly.

His gaze flicked to Gawain, staring at him for a bit longer before shifting to Agatha, his smile twisting dangerously before returning back to his usual smile.

"...and who," he continued, voice still calm but now carrying something sharper beneath, "might this be?"

I lifted my OmniSync lazily and typed. "He’s my long lost manny. I met him while I was roaming around Regional Network District."

I turned the screen toward him.

"Manny?" Mikael repeated, brows knitting ever so slightly.

I tapped the screen again. "Male nanny."

A beat.

"...I see."

He didn’t see.

Not at all.

"Has Soren come back already?" I typed next, completely ignoring the growing tension.

"I’m afraid he’ll be late again, Miss Blanca," Mikael replied, composure already snapping back into place like nothing happened.

I sighed—well, mentally sighed—and typed again.

"I really wanted to discuss something with him," I typed, lifting the screen again, "regarding my manny."

Mikael’s eyes flickered.

"For the meantime," he said, turning his attention back to Gawain, "your... manny can rest in one of our guest rooms."

He smiled.

The kind that said: I’ve already planned fifty different ways you could die "accidentally".

"I’m sorry," Gawain said smoothly, smiling right back like he didn’t just sense the killing intent behind that offer. "But I can’t."

Mikael’s smile didn’t falter but his eyes did. "Oh?"

"I have to remain at the lady’s side at all times."

Mikael’s smile sharpened. "I insist. You’re a guest—"

"I’m not a guest," Gawain cut in lightly, his tone respectful but firm. "I’m merely a servant of the lady."

Politeness versus stubbornness.

Grace versus absolutely not moving an inch.

"If you say so..." he murmured, though it sounded more like a warning than agreement.

Then he turned to me again. "Where would you like to go, Miss Blanca?"

I typed without hesitation. "The workroom."

"Understood," he shifted his gaze to Agatha. "Would you mind leading the way?"

Agatha, who had been silently observing the entire exchange raised a brow. She didn’t move immediately as her eyes flicked between the two men.

"Yeah, Agatha," Gawain added casually, as if nothing strange had just happened, "and while you’re at it, carry the lady for me, please."

And just like that, he handed me over, like passing an object.

Agatha caught me with ease, though her expression clearly said: I don’t like this.

She glanced back once.

Mikael stood there, still smiling while Gawain is also doing the same. Both of them were silently watching each other.

Neither speaking.

Neither moving.

Just smiling.

Like two predators politely deciding who gets to bite first.

She shrugged her shoulders and started walking.

The moment we were out of earshot—

Mikael’s smile dropped completely. "...You should have taken the room," he said quietly.

Gawain’s expression didn’t change. "And you should try harder," he replied just as softly.

A pause.

Mikael smiled again but this time, there was nothing polite about it. "Be careful," he murmured. "Accidents happen in this estate."

Gawain chuckled under his breath. "I was about to say the same thing."

Right before the two of them could launch into what would undoubtedly become a dramatic, furniture-breaking, reputation-ruining brawl, I decided I valued peace—and the survival of nearby objects—far too much.

"GAWANG!!!"

"MIKAAAA!!!"

My voice echoed like a public announcement no one asked for. Both of them froze mid-hostility, like actors who forgot their lines but were too committed to the scene to admit it.

Gawain was the first to recover, and by recover, I mean he did a complete personality backflip and sprinted toward me like an overly affectionate golden retriever.

"My lady!!!" he cried, clutching his chest as if I had personally stabbed his pride. "Can’t you even pronounce my name right?"

I smiled at him sweetly, the kind of smile that definitely didn’t mean I was about to do it again.

"Gawang," I repeated, with confidence.

He looked personally victimized. "You’re so rude, My Lady! You can pronounce this maid’s name properly—" he dramatically pointed at Agatha like her name was too hard to pronounce, "—but mine? Impossible? Unfair!!!"

Before I could ruin his day further, Mikael appeared beside us like a ghost.

"You’re calling for me, Miss Blanca?" he asked, all polite and composed, as if he hadn’t been seconds away from committing a socially unacceptable act of violence.

I nodded.

"Is something wrong?"

I quickly typed out my response and showed it to him. "I just want you to follow us."

He raised a brow. "All the way to the workroom?"

Another nod.

"If you say so," he replied, his smile stretching just a little too wide to be considered normal.

Agatha, who had wisely chosen self-preservation over curiosity, resumed walking without comment.

The two men followed behind us, suspiciously quiet.

At the time, I thought I had successfully prevented a fight.

In hindsight, I had merely relocated it.