"If you don't want to believe it, then just forget I said anything," Flandre pouted, crossing her arms. "I only heard it from rumors anyway." She couldn't exactly explain the precise details of her memories, so she chose to drop the subject.
"Regardless of his true nature, there is one thing I am certain of," Patchouli spoke up, her voice serious as she recalled the various texts on Sarkaz history she had studied back in Kazimierz and Londinium. "This fellow has definitely slacked off during previous wars. In my estimation, it is entirely understandable why the Liches refuse to recognize him as a legitimate member of the Ten Royal Courts."
She adjusted her glasses and continued, "With an ability like his, if he had actually been willing to contribute his full strength to the cause, the historical siege of Kazdel by the Terran Allied Forces would never have succeeded."
After listening to Flandre's description of the spy's capabilities, the scholar had instantly recognized the staggering potential for behind-the-lines disruption.
As everyone knew, only a small fraction of a nation's total military force ever stands at the very front of a battlefield. The numbers of personnel dedicated to logistics, supply lines, command structures, regional garrisons, and scouts are equally massive. And a shapeshifter's gift was the single most devastating tool imaginable for fracturing the stability of an enemy's rear—especially when dealing with an allied coalition.
The historical hatred separating the different Terran empires was no less intense than their collective animosity toward the Sarkaz. The only reason those rival nations had ever managed to gather under a single banner was because their respective high commands had forcibly twisted them into a single rope. With just a tiny, well-placed spark, a clever saboteur could have caused that fragile alliance to detonate from within.
By combining physical transformation with a method of telepathic coordination—as Patchouli assumed the collective operated via a linked consciousness similar to the Laterano race—the Damazti could be considered the ultimate deep-cover agents. Through a few simple operations, they could have easily driven massive wedges into the already tense cracks of the alliance, potentially triggering a total collapse of the invading forces.
Yet, despite this massive tactical advantage, history recorded that the Terran Allied Forces consistently managed to push the Sarkaz to the brink of ruin. The archival logs contained virtually zero intelligence regarding severe disruptions or systemic sabotage within the coalition's rear lines.
Therefore, in Patchouli's estimation, the Damazti were simply a lazy bunch who completely failed to utilize their natural gifts and possessed zero sense of cultural belonging to their own species.
To be perfectly fair, she wouldn't recognize them as royalty. While every other branch of the Sarkaz race was sacrificing their lives and pouring out their blood for the survival of their people, the Damazti Court was busy slacking off in the shadows. Why should they be granted equal footing on the military council? Leaving them unpunished was already a massive display of mercy.
As the academic discussion continued, the carriage slowly rolled up to the grand exit gate.
Suddenly, the vehicle ground to an abrupt halt.
"What is happening out there?" Remilia murmured, pulling back the velvet curtain to peer through the window.
A man with a pale, elegant face stood on the cobblestones a short distance away. He bore the distinct look of a wealthy, somewhat sickly young aristocrat, and he was positioned squarely in the center of the road, completely blocking the carriage's path out of the city gates.
The moment Clever caught sight of his face, her pupils shrank to tiny pinpricks, and her entire body began to tremble uncontrollably.
Noticing the sudden terror, Patchouli quickly placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, channeling a soothing wave of mind-calming magic directly into the girl's system. The spell instantly suppressed Clever's soaring panic, keeping her from slipping into a total mental breakdown.
She raised a trembling finger, pointing out through the curtain.
"Duq'arael..."
Uttering that single name seemed to drain every last ounce of her courage. In the very next second, her eyes rolled back into her head, and she fainted flat onto the carriage bench from sheer fright.
At the very back of the compartment, Flandre rubbed her eyes. She had been distracted by the scenery out the rear window and hadn't quite realized what was happening. By the time she turned around, Clever had already delivered her dramatic final words and lost consciousness.
Flandre leaned forward, her gaze landing on the aristocratic figure standing in front of the horses.
"Oh, it's that Vampire uncle!" Flandre turned to Remilia.
Remilia noticed her sister sticking her head out of the frame but chose not to pull her back, curious to see how the child would handle this sudden roadblock.
Out on the cobblestones, Duq'arael had just composed his expression and was preparing to deliver a sweeping, dramatic demand when he froze. His red eyes locked onto the familiar, unforgettable figure emerging from the carriage window.
The brilliant blonde hair, the colorful, crystal-like lanterns dangling from those dark bat wings—every single detail confirmed the identity of the person before him. This was the exact same culprit who had turned the Ursus empire completely upside down, brought their imperial military to its knees on multiple occasions, and indirectly caused their iron grip on the Far East territories to completely fracture.
Flandre Scarlet.
Why on earth was she inside this carriage?
Duq'arael's brow furrowed tightly. Although he hadn't deployed his full strength during their brief historical encounter, the magical methods she had displayed back then were more than enough to give him pause. At the very least, if they were to engage in an open brawl right here at the gates, keeping the matter a secret from the public would become an absolute impossibility.
Now was not the time for the Sarkaz occupation to be exposed to the world. He stared at Flandre, quietly swallowing the aggressive speech he had spent the last few minutes preparing.
"What are you doing inside Londinium?" he demanded.
"We're sightseeing!" Flandre shot back with righteous confidence. "Our family is out on a holiday trip. Londinium is the capital of Victoria, isn't it? Why shouldn't we come over and look around?"
Duq'arael listened to her sunny explanation, the crease between his brows deepening. "So the mysterious group that has been wandering through the Highbury District for the past week was your entourage?"
"Who else would it be!" Flandre huffed. She waved her hand dismissively. "Now move aside, uncle. We've finished our tour and we're not going back inside with you. We still have plenty of other fun places left to visit on our vacation."
Because the luxurious carriage had stopped dead in the center of the thoroughfare, a massive queue of merchant wagons and civilian transports had quickly piled up behind them, and several frustrated drivers were already beginning to shout curses.
Noticing the commotion, Flandre looked at Duq'arael with a flash of genuine irritation, gesturing for him to clear the lane so they wouldn't back up the traffic.
"Who exactly is traveling with you?" Duq'arael asked, completely ignoring her demands as his gaze swept over the carriage frame.
"Ugh, you are so incredibly annoying," Flandre grumbled, rolling her eyes. "It's just me, my big sister, Toy Number One, and Toy Number Two!"
Sitting up on the driver's bench, Meiling suddenly realized she had been designated as the first toy. She quickly turned around, her face twisting into a look of deep offense. "Hey, hey, Second Miss! I am a respected mansion gatekeeper, not your personal plaything!"
"Eh? You're not?" Flandre looked back at her with an expression of total, unadulterated disbelief.
"Of course I'm not!" Meiling sighed, muttering under her breath about how deeply exhausting troublesome children could be.
Watching the two companions bicker back and forth as if he weren't even standing there, Duq'arael's expression darkened. With a subtle flick of his wrist, he sent a razor-sharp droplet of condensed blood flying toward the carriage door.
But in the very next microsecond, a silver throwing knife zipped through the air, colliding with the blood drop with a sharp metallic ring and sending it splashing harmlessly onto the dirt.
Duq'arael's pupils shrank imperceptibly. He took a measured step backward, clearing the path and stepping onto the grassy shoulder of the road.
"Do not return to this capital for your next holiday," he warned coldly.
"We definitely won't," Flandre replied with a serious nod, adjusting her hat. "This place turned out to be completely boring anyway."
In absolute silence, the Vampire Prince stood by the roadside and watched the horses pull the carriage out into the open plains. Once the vehicle had faded into the distant horizon, a fluid shadow detached itself from a nearby wall, and a Damazti materialized at his side.
"You chose not to detain them?"
"The girl leading that group is Flandre Scarlet," Duq'arael replied, his voice flat as he adjusted his cuffs. "If I had attempted to force her hand, I would have been compelled to unleash my full power. By the time the dust settled, the news of a Sanguinarch engaging in an open magical war outside Londinium would have been plastered across every newspaper on the continent."
He paused, his mind flashing back to the flawless trajectory of that silver throwing knife. The subtle energies radiating from the other passengers inside that carriage were by no means weak.
With only a single, specialized spy standing by his side to offer support, he honestly possessed zero confidence in his ability to successfully capture Flandre's entourage. Since the intelligence confirmed they were merely passing through as passing tourists, letting them depart unbothered was the only logical choice.