The Villain's Retirement-Chapter 42: Dance (2)

Elara already noticed the nobles staring at her. Just like years ago, when her father was declared a traitor, their eyes eyes felt like daggers as if no one wanted her there. It was understandable since this was the first time she had appeared in the noble society since two years ago. She felt even impressed that they could still recognize her albeit not immediately.

However, that wasn’t what was weighing on her mind, but the people watching her from discreet corners of the crowd.

’Elder sister, Father, when did things go wrong?’ She thought.

On the crowd—

"That girl," a man murmured. "Isn’t that the youngest of the Fallen House Mur? She looked slightly different but I would never forgot a beauty such as her."

"Is this also a scheme of the Duke?"

In the balcony above, the Duke’s expression darkened. It was not only him. Everyone up there had quietly shifted toward the girl below.

"The Fallen Mur house," the duke said after a brief pause. "I thought they had vanished two years ago after that incident."

The Duchess spoke softly, her gaze never leaving the floor below.

"That child, Elara Mur, she’s the daughter of the traitor. She has grown since I last saw her. It was a pity what had happened to her. During her years at the Royal Magic Academy, she ranked among the finest of her peers. I had not even known she survived."

"Did she come alone?" the Margrave said.

"I highly doubt that." The Duchess then said. Just then, the sound of clanking steel was heard and the old and tall knight Faller had also arrived.

"How are their movements?" The Duchess said.

"No overt movement so far, Your Grace," Faller answered. "Nor do they seem to have intentions of acting recklessly."

"Naturally," the Duke said, "They might be enemies but they still have their own families."

His voice hardened.

"Still—remain ready. We will respond without hesitation. I’ll take responsibility."

The Margrave and the Lady exchanged a brief look. It was clear—the Ducal couple had anticipated this long before tonight.

*Clack* *Clack* *Clack*

A few days ago, in a mine that reeked of damp wood, iron, and sweat and chains rattled softly as figures moved in the dim light—men and women, bent over crates, their backs scarred, hands raw. A side door creaked open and two men entered.

They were well-dressed, boots polished, cloaks trimmed with subtle embroidery—nobles, or what passed for them now. Their presence alone made the slaves stiffen.

"Out," one of them barked.

No one moved fast enough. The man’s boot struck first—hard, merciless—sending a slave sprawling across the floor.

"I said out," he repeated, voice flat.

The slaves scrambled, chains clanking as they fled through the opposite door. Another kick landed, then another, faint chuckling following like punctuation.

"Lazy filth," the second man muttered as they moved deeper into the stairs, past a rusted iron door, into a cramped back room lit by a single flickering lamp.

Inside sat a broken man. This was the former Patriarch of House Mur hunched over a table, hair unkempt, eyes sunken, hands trembling around an empty bottle. Beside him stood a young woman—straight-backed, pale, emerald eyes sharp: Elara Mur.

One of the men smiled thinly.

"So this is what’s left of you," he said.

The Patriarch looked up slowly, bloodshot eyes narrowing. "You bastards—what are you doing here?"

The other man tossed a rolled parchment onto the table.

"Congratulations. You’ll just gained another 15 years of employment. As a manager even."

The Patriarch’s hands shook as he stared at the seal.

"That’s impossible," he rasped. "The agreement was just 15 years. Not only did you not take my estate, you dare take further advantage of me!"

The first man scoffed.

"Oh, here we go, again. Her grace was totally disappointed. Not only did you fail 2 years ago, your useless daughter married to that trash Lewis also died with her husband. To fall into demonic possession no less. What a hilarious end. They were totally useless to the very end."

Suddenly, the patriarch started to laugh then snarled. He slammed his fist on the table and his hands bled and the wood turning to splinter. It was clear he was no ordinary old man.

"That damn Lewis!" a suffocating energy started to emanate from him, making Elara panic. But then, the old man stuffed crystal stones in his mouth and started to calm down.

’This old man is nearing his limit.’ The man then thought and grabbed the drugs.

"Careful."

"Give it to me!" The patriarch shouted and demonic energy flowed out within him, filling the space, but he was met with sharp, cold calculating eyes, from the two men, even scarier, and he fell to the floor.

"Calm down." The man said, "You wouldn’t want to be like that useless Lewis and start killing everyone here without even knowing."

Then the other man spoke:

"Her Highness has issued an order," one of them said coldly, sliding a newspaper across the table. It bore Ard’s image.

"This is the so-called hero who dealt with that troublesome Lewis. We have received intel that the Duke intends to elevate him into the nobility, and our intelligence confirms he will act as the man’s personal patron. That favor exceeds even what he once granted the all-powerful duke’s worthless brother."

The Patriarch seized the newspaper with trembling hands, a surge of unnatural fury cutting through the haze clouding his mind.

"He is already within the Duchy," one of the men continued calmly. "Tomorrow, he will undergo his recognition ceremony. An open banquet will be held in the evening." Then the man added, "Her highness has worked out a plan for him to join us."

The Patriarch’s eyes burned.

"Take him to our side," the man continued, "as soon as possible, and he shall receive the baptism."

"What? This commoner is going to receive the baptism ceremony? How could her highness when I had been rotting here—"

The men didn’t bother listening anymore and their gazes shifted to the young lady listening without a murmur on the side. Elara felt her stomach drop under their scrutiny, fingers curling at her sides.

Seeing this, the Patriarch staggered forward. "Don’t you dare—!"

The boot came fast.

Then bang!

The kick struck the fallen patriarch’s ribs with a sickening sound, sending him crashing to the floor, coughing, gasping for air. For some reason, even when the patriarch timely used his mana to clad his body, it didn’t matter.

"Do not even bother, o fake Lord Mur," one of the men said casually, stepping over him.

The Patriarch groaned angrily, then smirked while he was on the ground.

Then, the second man turned his eyes to the side.

"Lady Elara," he said at last. "We are here for you. Her Grace has chosen you to serve as the connection."

Elara’s breath caught for the briefest instant. Every memory of these men—of chains, of orders, of her father broken before her—rose unbidden. Fear coiled tight in her chest.

But, as she had learned through countless days like this, she did not allow it to surface. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her gaze and curved her lips into a fake serene smile, just like what she did everyday.