"Additionally, specific minerals and materials you need can also be listed as an additional reward for you to choose from."

He stared intently at Murphy. "What we need is a continuous, stable, and prioritized supply of special steel. The greater the quantity and the faster the delivery, the better. In exchange, you and the Monte Territory will gain a long-term, stable, and high-quality channel for rare materials, as well as the friendship and goodwill of the Peric Clan once the war in the Eastern Territory is over. This is my father’s sincerity."

Murphy considered this for a moment before speaking slowly. "Payment in installments is negotiable, but the proportion of the initial payment and the guarantees for subsequent payments must be clearly defined. The mining shares and priority rights for the rare mineral veins must also be put in writing. As for which specific materials you can provide..." He looked up at Sir Harold. "I need to see the list."

"The list is already prepared." Sir Harold produced a roll of parchment tied with a thin cord from within his coat and pushed it across to Murphy. "It lists what we can provide on a stable basis, as well as some of our current inventory. The approximate stock levels and difficulty of acquisition are noted for each item. You may take your time reviewing it. As for the specific terms, once your people from the Monte Territory arrive, we can have our respective secretaries draft a detailed agreement."

Murphy accepted the parchment scroll but didn’t unroll it immediately, simply testing its weight in his hand.

Sir Harold seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. The tension in the negotiation eased considerably.

He picked up his mead, which had grown slightly cool, and took a sip to soothe his dry throat.

After a moment of silence, he seemed to recall something. He set down his cup, his tone turning subtle as he lowered his voice.

"Ah, yes, Governor. Before I departed, my father had one more message he instructed me to deliver to you personally."

He looked up, his gray-blue eyes meeting Murphy’s, a cryptic glint in them. "My father said, ’Give my regards to Duke Temeris and wish her all the best.’"

Murphy’s fingers, which were holding the parchment scroll, tensed for a moment.

He raised his eyes to meet Sir Harold’s gaze, his expression betraying no surprise, as if he had just heard a common pleasantry.

He nodded, his tone perfectly level. "Very well. I will pass on the Duke’s regards. Duke Temeris... will be arriving shortly."

A flicker of understanding crossed Sir Harold’s eyes, and he nodded gravely. "Excellent. Then let us conclude here for today. We can schedule another time to discuss the finer details after you’ve reviewed the list. With matters on the front line being so pressing, I must take my leave."

"By all means, Sir." Murphy gave a slight nod.

Sir Harold said no more. He rose, placed his right hand over his heart in another salute, then turned and strode out, his steps steady yet quick as he pushed open the door and departed.

Silence returned to the small hall, leaving only the faint crackle of burning pinewood.

Murphy sat alone at the long table. He did not immediately look at the parchment list. Instead, his gaze fell upon the crest above the fireplace—a cold mountain and crossed hammers on a shield—and his eyes grew deep, like a dark abyss.

’The Ironspine Duke’s regards... How very profound.’

’This East Border Guardian not only predicted the passage would open and prepared war supplies in advance, he even knows Margaret’s movements.’

"’Will be arriving shortly...’" Murphy repeated his own answer under his breath, a cold smirk playing on his lips.

’The Church Court, Wizards... Are the two truly so distinct?’

He tucked the parchment scroll into his coat, stood up, and left the small hall.

...

「Three days later.」

Over those three days, the atmosphere within Blackstone Fortress grew increasingly taut, like a bowstring being drawn ever tighter.

More private armies of the nobility and elite local troops arrived, spurred on by the official decree. The fortress became more crowded and clamorous. The air, thick with the smell of sulfur, was now mixed with the heavy stench of sweat, rust, and the faint odor of blood—a miasma that not even the upper echelons of the fortress could escape.

It was as if the iron heel of war had brutally trampled the boundaries between the high and lowborn, forcing a crude and urgent mingling.

That afternoon, an urgent summons—jointly signed by the Ironspine Duke and two Bishops—was swiftly delivered to all Great Knights in the fortress whose strength had been confirmed to be at the "Peak of Mortality."

The order was concise and cold.

Proceed to the inner hall at once. An important mission will be assigned.

Even Murphy, who was supposedly "recuperating," received this summons that could not be refused.

In the courtyard, Murphy had just seen off the messenger who delivered the order.

He stood on the cobblestone path, his gaze calm, showing no surprise.

’These last few days of ’recuperation’ have been low-profile enough. It’s about time I made a move.’

’Besides, given the methods of the Ironspine Duke and those two Bishops, they would never let a crucial asset like me remain idle, especially not when there’s a tough nut to crack.’

"Lord Melfield."

A hesitant voice called out from behind him.

Murphy turned to see Princess Elizabeth standing under the covered entrance of her stone cottage.

Today she wore a practical, deep blue, belted tunic fit for travel. Her long hair was neatly braided down her back, shedding the elaborate style of the court for the simple functionality of this place.

But her dark eyes still held a hint of lingering worry.

"Your Highness." Murphy gave a slight nod.

Elizabeth hurried over, stopping a few paces from him. Her gaze lingered on his calm face, as if searching for some sign of his "unhealed injuries," but in the end, her search culminated in a single, soft question:

"Are... are you going too? I heard they’re only summoning Great Knights at the Peak of Mortality. The mission must be... extremely dangerous. Your injuries..."

"It’s nothing serious." Murphy cut her off, his tone flat. "Just a flesh wound. Nothing to worry about. It is an order, and I must obey."

Elizabeth pressed her lips together.

She knew it was useless to argue. Once the man before her made a decision, a few words of concern from someone else would never change his mind.

She just... couldn’t help herself.

Over the past few days, she had taken Murphy’s earlier advice and tried to familiarize herself with the records for military supply allocation and refugee settlement. What she had seen and read gave her a much deeper understanding of the cruelty of war and the cold calculus of the decisions it required.

And for that very reason, she understood all too well that any mission requiring the two Bishops and the Ironspine Duke to personally summon and assemble all the top-tier mortal warriors would be far more perilous than fighting the monsters that had first poured from the breached passage.

"Please... be extremely careful." In the end, all her unspoken words were reduced to this one, feeble plea.

She paused, a complicated look flashing in her eyes as she lowered her voice even further. "I just feel... the atmosphere in the fortress is strange. The way the Great Knights look at one another... it’s not like they’re allies. It’s more like they’re... rivals, or..."

Murphy glanced at her.

’The princess’s powers of observation have certainly sharpened since her arrival.’

"Interests drive people, and people’s hearts are fickle," he said simply. "The Church Court’s decree forced us all together, but our individual loyalties, the families we represent, and our calculations for post-war gains have never gone away. On the battlefield, you must not only be wary of monsters, but also... watch your back."

Elizabeth’s heart jolted. She nodded silently.

"I understand." She took a deep breath, trying to make her voice sound more composed. "My lord, please... come back safely."

Murphy said nothing more, merely giving her a slight nod in response.

Then he turned and strode toward the courtyard exit, his gait steady, without a hint of hesitation or delay.

Though his deep blue Knight’s Armor was slightly damaged from the previous battle, it was still largely intact, making his retreating figure seem as upright and solid as a mountain.

Elizabeth stood rooted to the spot, watching his back disappear into the shadows beyond the archway, her fingers curling into fists unconsciously.

Murphy walked through familiar corridors and archways. The soldiers and officers he passed all saluted and stepped aside, their gazes a mixture of awe and complication.

The rumors about him being "gravely injured and recuperating," his "strength being questionable," and his "cowardice in avoiding battle" had not entirely died down. Yet, his steady gait and cold aura still radiated an undeniable pressure.

The two heavy oak doors to the inner hall stood open. More of the Peric Clan’s elite guards than usual stood solemnly at the entrance, and the atmosphere was tense.

Murphy paused briefly before the doors, smoothed the front of his tunic, which was already uncreased, and then stepped into the brightly lit yet strangely oppressive hall.

Inside, dozens of imposing figures, some standing and some seated, were already present, their auras radiating authority.

As Murphy entered, their gazes snapped toward him in unison.