Imperial Knight Office
The room was awfully quiet except for the sounds of scratching of a pen against paper, the faint rustle of docunts, and the slow, steady ticking of a clock sowhere in the background like it was counting down to soone’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 n suffering on the floor while said n, were in a plank position, and had been for the past thirty minutes.
"...What did you an," 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 docunt 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 ntally, each one trying to co up with sothing—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 chid in, nodding aggressively despite shaking arms.
"Visibility issues!" soone else said.
"Emotional... warfare?" one muttered, imdiately regretting it.
A pause.
"...What?" Soren finally looked up.
The man who spoke flinched mid-plank, nearly collapsing before catching himself. "I—I ant 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 ant explaining, and explaining ant reliving it—and frankly, so mories 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 n 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 ho with her," Mikael’s voice ca from the other end, completely unaware he had just interrupted eight n 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 seed to spike instantly.
Behind him, eight grown n 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 ti, 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-ter 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 mont.
"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 ."
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.
" 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 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 sohow, that was even worse.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
A Few Monts Earlier...
The air shimred 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 mont his eyes landed on us, specifically on being carried by Gawain, his smile froze, like a crack had ford 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 sothing sharper beneath, "might this be?"
I lifted my OmniSync lazily and typed. "He’s my long lost manny. I t 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 co 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, ntally sighed—and typed again.
"I really wanted to discuss sothing with him," I typed, lifting the screen again, "regarding my manny."
Mikael’s eyes flickered.
"For the anti," 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 tis."
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 rely 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 agreent.
Then he turned to 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 imdiately as her eyes flicked between the two n.
"Yeah, Agatha," Gawain added casually, as if nothing strange had just happened, "and while you’re at it, carry the lady for , please."
And just like that, he handed over, like passing an object.
Agatha caught 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 sa. 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 mont 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 ti, 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 sa thing."
Right before the two of them could launch into what would undoubtedly beco 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 announcent 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 an he did a complete personality backflip and sprinted toward 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 na right?"
I smiled at him sweetly, the kind of smile that definitely didn’t an 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 na properly—" he dramatically pointed at Agatha like her na 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 , 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 sothing 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, resud walking without comnt.
The two n followed behind us, suspiciously quiet.
At the ti, I thought I had successfully prevented a fight.
In hindsight, I had rely relocated it.
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