TRFS 7

Chapter : 7

Of course.
Come to think of it, there’s no way a proper knight would join a place whose finances have completely collapsed.

There were two ways to become a knight.

One, to pass a fencing tournament or exam.

The other, to be acknowledged by one’s own family and receive a knighthood.

You could earn the title through one of those two paths.

But the world always has loopholes.

There was a way to obtain a knighthood without going through either.

That was sponsored knights.

Simply put—it was when someone who had money but was not a noble poured a fortune into a knight order to get their child accepted, hoping to rise to nobility.

Back when Cleora was alive, the Eisenbold family never accepted sponsored knights.

The reason was simple: they weren’t short on money.

But other families took plenty. Most sponsored knights were children of famous merchant guilds, after all.

Expanding business partners was never a bad thing, so it made sense.
However, this kind of social climbing always created friction.

Inferiority, hypersensitivity, overreaction.
And yet, overflowing contempt for commoners.

All of that was mixed into the scene Cleora faced.

“W-what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing… just realizing people never change, even after all this time.”

Nothing’s changed in seventy years.
Catching Cleora’s soft laugh, the knights shot to their feet, their faces twisting.

“You’re laughing? Still don’t get the situation?”

“Maybe she needs a little lesson to wake up.”

“Quit yapping. Putting a fist in her face will do the trick.”

The brown-eyed knight who had been speaking earlier stood up.

Cleora watched his slow approach, sword still sheathed, with dry eyes and bit her lip.

These are supposed to be wolves? A mutt off the street would be closer to a wolf than this trash.

No—dog was too kind.
Pitiful vermin. Rats stuffed up to bursting.

Cleora let out a small sigh.
How had her family fallen this far?

Never in life had she imagined seeing this disgrace.
Had she not seen it with her own eyes, she would have preferred ignorance to this boiling anger.

“Don’t blame me for what happens. Blame your tongue for insulting a knight of Eisenbold.”

“No need to worry about that.”

Cleora smiled faintly and lightly lifted her right foot—then tapped it down, tak.

A short, light motion, yet it rang through the room like a clear bell.

At that moment, the black shadow gathered at her toes rippled—and melted away.

Not just hers.
Every shadow in the room vanished.

Unable to grasp the sudden change, the knights frowned—but even if they had noticed, it was already too late.

To think I worked myself half to death just to see trash like this…

Cleora let out a self-mocking chuckle and lifted her head.

The knights, sensing something strange, followed her gaze upward.

“W-what the—”

“What is that?”

The ceiling was black.

A darkness so deep not a hint of light touched it, like staring into a pure abyss.

They were Cleora’s shadows.

The Eisenbold family’s legacy—and the reason Cleora had once been called the family’s essence.

She wielded that age-old inheritance better than anyone alive.

Even her swordsmanship was unmatched, but beneath shadow—where light fell— even the dark warlock Kelleagos admitted defeat.

Cleora looked at their frightened faces and smiled sweetly.

“The one you should blame is…”

A faint chime like a bell rang—then the shadows crashed downward.

The tiny room drowned in darkness, not a sliver of light remaining.

“…someone else.”

In the pitch-black, only Cleora’s eyes shone—brilliant blood-red.

Clack.
The door opened.

The knights staggered out one by one, hollow-eyed, as if half their souls had been scraped away.

Blinking at the bright sky, they turned at the sound of footsteps.

Cleora stepped out last, closed the door—and smiled at them.

Her expression was perfectly gentle, pristine—yet the knights paled with terror.

“No need to look like that. As long as you do exactly what I said, there won’t be any problems. Understood?”

“Y-yeah… I mean—yes, ma’am.”

The knight who had been so arrogant minutes ago bowed in a panic.

Cleora’s lips curved smoothly upward.
Her eyes flicked down to the shadows beneath their feet.

Ordinary shadows to anyone else—but Cleora could see the red eyes gleaming inside.

Shadow infection.

One of the Eisenbold family’s secret arts—turning a once-absorbed shadow into a living host.

If they disobeyed or resisted, agony awaited—and possibly death.

She rarely used it, but right now, she needed eyes and ears.
And the five men fit the bill perfectly—noisy, boastful, and arrogant.

“Run along. Ah—just in case—watch what you say, yeah?”

With a bright smile, all five of them went paper-white.
They bobbed their heads, and Cleora shooed them away like flies.

She watched their backs retreat at a sprint, then let her expression relax and sighed.

Thank goodness. Still works.

Absorbing the flickering shadow from her fingers, Cleora organized her thoughts and turned to leave.

“Hm?”

A face appeared in her field of vision.

“…?”

“…”

Silver hair. Gold eyes.

Cleora followed the boy’s gaze—looking behind her.

Was someone there?
She turned, but only sand and dry weeds filled the space.

So he didn’t see someone else.

Frowning slightly, Cleora turned back—just as the boy slowly spoke.

“Shadow.”

“What?”

At the word, Cleora froze.
The boy took a calm step forward.

“I saw everything.”

“You… saw what?”

“The shadow disappearing from your fingertips.”

“……”

“As far as I know, only blood heirs of the Eisenbold family can command shadows.”

“That’s…”

He moved closer.

Up close, he was tall—tall enough that Cleora had to look up.

Still young, still boyish—but in two, no, maybe three years, he’d be a striking adult.

And those gold eyes staring straight at her—
Wait. Golden eyes and silver hair meant—

“So that means… you’re the last heir of Eisenbo—”

“Hey— you— you’re a Kurtzfel, aren’t you?”

Cleora grabbed the boy by the collar.

Her once-serene face twisted with fury.

The boy, who’d remained composed until now, looked genuinely startled.

“You dare show your face in front of me?”

Cleora’s voice trembled with rage.
The boy stiffened, clueless—but Cleora had every reason.

“Ludius Kurtzfel.”

Like Eisenbold, a martial house.
A deputy commander through generations.
A man who stood opposite Cleora.

And the one who rejected the front line’s request for reinforcements.

“Because you ignored that request, over fifty thousand soldiers died!
Including Harrison Eisenbold, Duke—and my father!”

The former Supreme Commander.

Cleora would never forget that day.

The five thousand men who fought to keep her alive.
Her father’s back as he marched to death.
Her own tears—red with blood from rage.

“And now the descendant of that traitor appears before me?”

Teeth clenched hard enough to crack, Cleora drew back her fist.

“Bite down.”

Her voice dropped cold.

“Your teeth are about to go flying.”