Chapter 291: I

「……」

Cyril silently returned to his room, and after closing the door, he finally erupted, clenching his teeth and pounding the stone desk with all his strength.

「Damn! Damn! Damn! 」

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The hundred-kilogram stone desk trembled continuously, faint cracks beginning to appear.

But Cyril, though furious, had not yet lost his reason.

He was still holding back his strength; otherwise, that stone desk would have been shattered long ago by his fists, as large as sandbags.

Born with innate strength, after years of grueling training and learning Wu Seng techniques, his hands had become formidable supernatural weapons.

Although Cyril excelled at using a warhammer, even unarmed, he could easily defeat Wu Seng of his own level.

Boom!

Crack…

When a fine fissure appeared on the desk, Cyril finally calmed slightly; he stopped striking, slowly lifted his palm, and clenched his fist tightly.

「Herbert, that damn noble! 」

Though calmer now, his inner rage still could not settle.

Cyril recalled Herbert's "mocking" smile when they parted.

He's definitely laughing at me!

Yes, that bastard must think everything I've done is nothing but a futile joke…

And what's the truth?

「…Tch. 」 Cyril thought of the grim reality and couldn't help clicking his tongue.

For his brave resistance, no one supported him; most didn't even care.

The others had already gone back to pack, preparing to accompany Herbert to the Shadowlands.

Is it my fault?

Or are they too naive?

「Those bastards, they've all been fooled by him—tch! 」

Cyril's anger and hatred toward nobles were hard for others to fully understand.

Not everyone could grasp his rage; many monks in the monastery weren't commoners by birth.

Some had ties to nobility; some were former nobles themselves.

Cyril seethed for a while, then angrily pulled out a worn little notebook from his drawer and slowly wrote Herbert's name on it.

This notebook was Cyril's "Book of Hatred," recording every "enemy" he'd encountered over the years.

Then Cyril continued writing.

Second name: Varro—he mocked me.

Third name: Zal—he mocked me with sign language.

Fourth name…

Soon, Cyril wrote down every name present that day, including the clueless Rust Nail Bishop!

「…」

Putting down his pen, Cyril stared at the list of names in silence for a long while, scratching his head.

「Tch! 」

Rip—

After slamming his tongue against his teeth, he suddenly tore off the sheet covered in names—the "Paper of Hatred."

He clenched it tightly, shoved it into his mouth, chewed fiercely, then swallowed it whole.

Gulp.

As the paper wad moved up and down with his throat, he swallowed this "hatred" into his belly.

「No! The Inquisitor said I must not let anger control me… that's wrong! 」

Slap!

He let out a deep sigh and struck himself hard across the face; his gaze grew even more resolute.

He had awakened from being consumed by rage—he would not make the foolish mistake of hating everyone.

「Only one person deserves hatred! 」

Finally, Cyril picked up his pen again and wrote one name.

「Only by defeating you can I truly become stronger! 」

Cyril stared at that name and nodded deeply, closed the Book of Hatred, and placed it into the cloth pouch sewn into his chest.

Having finished everything, he finally turned to pack his belongings.

Yes, Cyril would also go to the Shadowlands with the others.

Would he give up this rare chance for training because Herbert was in charge?

Impossible.

Having once had no opportunity, having watched his father and brother die, he valued every precious chance more than anyone else.

Although having Herbert lead this mission made him unbearable—even repulsive.

But going to the Shadowlands for training was highly challenging and would help him strengthen his own power.

「Yes, no matter what happens later, I must endure…」

He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, then slowly exhaled.

When his eyes opened again, they had regained their calm.

……

Ten minutes later.

"What did you say!?"

"I won't accept it!"

Cyril, who had already built himself up mentally and prepared to bear the humiliation, exploded.

He had achieved a fine ten-minute score in the "Don't Get Angry Challenge."

Cyril erupted in rage once more, glaring at the smiling white-haired youth before him through gritted teeth: "You're insulting me! I will absolutely never do what you're imagining!"

"You really do still think of yourself as a noble in your heart! Looking down on us commoners!"

"A slave? Heh!"

When Cyril had finished all his mental preparation and arrived before Herbert, he was informed that the role he was to play for their cover was a slave.

At other times, playing a slave wasn't something impossible to accept.

Because in many situations, although Holy Knights represented justice, they were not accepted by others.

Although their intentions were good, wanting to rescue others, they were also frequently regarded as a calamity by certain people.

Some people did not wish to be saved by others.

Especially those who themselves had ties to the realm of evil — they were even less willing to see Holy Knights appear.

One could only say their suffering was a match for their convictions.

Therefore, Holy Knights often needed to disguise their identities in order to better accomplish their missions.

Under those circumstances, posing as a pauper, a refugee, or a slave was all very common.

But the current situation was entirely different.

Herbert's arrangement was seen by Cyril as naked humiliation!

He could only play the lowly slave, while the other was going to disguise himself as the slave merchant who owned him.

If this wasn't humiliation, what was?

He glared at Herbert and said through gritted teeth: "You're making us play slaves while you prepare to be this slave merchant, isn't that right!?"

And as for the current situation, Cyril wasn't actually the only one thinking this way.

Because Cyril's earlier resistance had also led some people to think about Herbert's identity, and unknowingly planted a seed of doubt in their hearts.

Once you put on coloured glasses through preconception, everything looks like discrimination.

Naturally, after Cyril brought the contradiction out into the open, some subtle shifts appeared in the room, and some people looked toward Herbert with suspicion.

Could he really have been thinking that?

But in the face of his fury and the others' suspicion, Herbert appeared remarkably calm.

No one noticed that, after Cyril's outburst, a trace of amusement flashed in Herbert's eyes.

Oh ho, he really took the bait.

While Cyril was venting his emotions, Herbert stood with his hands behind his back, smiling quietly as he watched him, and only after Cyril finally began to calm down and catch his breath did he gently shake his head.

"Lord Cyril, I don't understand why you have to get so worked up, even going so far as to see this arrangement as my insult to you?"

There was a faint hurt of being misunderstood in Herbert's eyes, along with puzzlement at Cyril's behaviour.

Cyril was still in the heat of his anger, but upon seeing that expression, a sudden flicker of unease passed through his heart.

Wait, something doesn't seem quite right?

As he was puzzling over it, he heard Herbert's next words.

The white-haired youth of noble birth had clear, limpid eyes as he posed a question that left everyone speechless.

"By your logic… you think playing a slave is humiliation? And playing a slave merchant is an honour?"

In an instant, everyone suddenly realised the point — the slave merchant was also part of the disguise.

Herbert's words… didn't actually seem wrong!

Herbert stared at Cyril, whose expression had abruptly stiffened, and sighed regretfully: "Cyril, if you keep talking like that, I'm going to start doubting your convictions."

Cyril:!!?

I, uh? Huh?

Right?

No no no!

"No, I'm not—"

Cyril tried to explain, but Herbert didn't give him the chance, continuing: "Do you really think I'm eager to be the leader of this slave caravan?"

Herbert fixed his gaze on Cyril's now-turmoil-filled eyes and said in a low voice:

"Do you think becoming an evil, filthy slave merchant is something glorious? Am I not enduring the same humiliation as you!?"

"Why do I play the slave merchant? Because my background means I understand their behaviour and bearing better — not because of what you think, that I want to 'enjoy' the feeling of lording it over others!"

"Then tell me, if not me, a former noble, who would be more suited for this role?"

"Who in your eyes is more suited for this evil, filthy, lowly role!"

"Is it you? Or someone else?"

"Speak."

And so, Herbert's scheme succeeded.

Step by step, he had led Cyril into the trap he had prepared.

If Cyril had quietly chosen to obey, everything would have been fine.

But if he chose to resist… then, from the moment he opened his mouth, he had no path left to retreat.

If you have grievances, if you have doubts, that's fine — speak up.

And once you've raised it, what's your solution?

As cultivators who have devoted themselves to justice, who would be more willing to take on such a role?

"..."

Cyril stood awkwardly in place; he too had realized the problem—he had raised the question, but had not offered a solution.

A candidate?

Where am I supposed to find such a candidate?

In the silence, Cyril felt the gazes of the others; those eyes that had previously shown some agreement with him had now all turned to suspicion.

At this moment, more than anger, Cyril felt a sense of helplessness.

"..."

The scene remained silent for a while, until an impatient voice broke the deadlock.

"Tch, are we going or not? What's there to argue about?"

Elisa's disdainful cold snort drew everyone's gaze onto her.

And under everyone's gaze, her crimson eyes were full of contempt as she scoffed: "Isn't it just a slave trader? You humans really are hypocritical—I can't fathom what you're agonizing over."

"Since none of you are willing to take it, then I'll do it!"

Isn't it enough that I do it?

Elisa's original intention was not actually to be this slave trader; she simply felt these people were far too indecisive.

For an instant, Elisa's aura as a legendary vampire truly did overwhelm everyone.

Her pride, her power, her mystery—all of it was deeply imprinted into the eyes of the others.

It's a great pity that, just like every show-off—Elisa didn't stay cool for more than three seconds.

"Hm?"

Soon, Elisa realized one thing—this place, you see, was no ordinary location.

It was the Mist Monastery.

A Mist Monastery that had gathered a group of fanatical pyromaniacs.

And the bunch in front of her had never been any saints or devout believers.

"Human? Is… a different race?"

"A foreign-race prisoner?"

Once they realized Elisa's identity as a "heretical foreign race," nearly all the cultivators present placed their hands on their weapons.

Click.

Clang.

Hiss.

The sounds of various weapons being drawn and unlocked came one after another, making Elisa silently swallow a mouthful of saliva.

She saw in their eyes the burning desire to destroy evil.

Elisa of course wasn't afraid of these "weaklings" whose strength was in the mid-to-high tiers, but as always… don't forget what kind of place this is.

This is the Mist Monastery!

Beat the small one, and the old one will surely come out.

If the very first one were to be provoked into appearing, then… heh heh heh.

"Hiss…"

Just as Elisa awkwardly tried to shrink behind Herbert to hide, the scoundrel who usually loved to humiliate her took the initiative to step forward and shield her.

Elisa:?

The young vampire lady stared in confusion at the youth who had walked in front of her.

What are you going to do?

Upon noticing her bewildered gaze, Herbert tilted his head slightly and gave her a faint smile.

Then, Herbert turned to face the crowd and said with a smile: "I actually think Elisa has put forward a rather good suggestion."

"That's right—since none of you are willing to play such an evil role, why not let Elisa, who already belongs to evil, take it on."

"This way, there's no need to agonize. What do you all think?"

The crowd had still been agonizing over Elisa's identity, but upon hearing Herbert's words they unconsciously began to think it over.

Hey, don't say it, but you really shouldn't say it.

It really does seem to be the case, hey!

As long as Elisa takes on the role of the slave trader, the problem would indeed be solved at once.

Watching the crowd nod slightly, Herbert smiled in satisfaction and continued: "Then, my new identity shall be the caravan master's male favorite."

At that moment, everyone felt their brains short-circuit.

Hm?

Crowd:???

At that instant, everyone suspected their own ears had malfunctioned.

Even Swani, who had been drifting in her own world until then, was stunned; she raised her head and glanced at Herbert's profile.

What is this lord up to again?

And as the "person involved," Elisa was even more dumbfounded.

Male favorite? Whose male favorite… ah!

Mine?

Ah!!?

(End of this chapter)