"Hey, hotshot."

The voice came from behind, light as a feather but sharp as a thorn.

Aiden did not turn. The voice was familiar—too familiar. It belonged to none other than the so-called future Earl, the boy born with ambition stitched into his bones.

The voice carried with it an echo of mockery, of someone who thought himself clever enough to stand above the crowd.

He came striding forward now, pushing aside whoever lingered near Aiden's shoulder, brushing them away as one might sweep dust from a velvet coat. The arrogance was not unusual; nobility often wore arrogance like a cloak. But there was something especially grating about him.

Aiden's eyes, however, were not for the future Earl. They remained fixed ahead, unblinking, tethered to the dais where the Duke of Merlin's fief presided over the anointing ceremony.

Something about the Duke was off—deeply off.

The old man's presence was like oil upon water: smooth, glimmering, but refusing to mix with the world around him. Every time his hand lingered too long on Sabrina's shoulder, Aiden's jaw clenched. It was not jealousy alone—it was instinct. A primal warning clawing up from somewhere beneath his ribs.

Something within that Duke's golden eyes whispered danger.

"Hey," the voice pressed again. Aethal.

This time, Aiden turned his head, slow and deliberate, his gaze finally meeting the boy's flaring blue hair and too-casual smirk.

"Yes, future Earl of Wessex," Aiden said, his tone a knife wrapped in velvet. "What is it?"

Aethal spread his arms with theatrical flourish. "…Here I am, straining for your attention like all the butterflies fluttering about this hall, and you ignore me the same way you ignore them."

Aiden's lips curved, though not with warmth. "Well… I am, in many ways, soothing to look at." His words dripped with a sarcasm thinly veiled in confidence.

Aethal chuckled. For a moment—just a moment—his smile looked genuine, not the painted thing he usually wore. "I saw you speaking with Baron melodious earlier. My father saw it as well...."

"…And?"

"He says you lurk with suspicion and deciet."

Aiden's laugh was quiet, mirthless. "A very good instinct, if I may say so."

"Hah! Do you even try to hide it?"

"That depends," Aiden said, stepping closer, lowering his voice, "upon who stands before me."

Aethal tilted his head, smirk fading into something sharper. "Always have an answer, don't you? I was like you once."

"Being like me," Aiden replied, locking eyes with him, "is not enough, Sir Aethal. I hear you have three brothers."

The words cut deeper than they should have. Aethal's smirk faltered, though only for an instant. "You heard correct." His tone thinned, joy slipping away like sand between fingers.

"And yet," Aiden continued, "you voice your ambitions so openly. Too openly."

"Indeed," Aethal admitted, masking unease with bravado. "Because I am my father's favorite."

Aiden barked a dry laugh. "You nobles. Ambition gilded in silver. You will also die early, I suppose."

The words landed like stones.

Before Aethal could press further, before he could demand explanation, a voice thundered across the hall:

"AIDEN!"

The herald's cry split the chamber like a blade. All eyes turned. The time had come.

The air shifted.

Aiden's body obeyed before his mind did, legs carrying him forward into the sudden blaze of attention. A hundred eyes pressed upon him, weighing, measuring, doubting.

He moved with elegance, as if every lesson learned in shadowed alleys and hidden practice had prepared him for this spotlight. His stride was measured, but his heart—his heart hammered a war-drum in his chest.

Whispers trailed in his wake, hushed yet burning.

Who is he? A commoner, no? Then why elegance? Why such charm and allure?

Too bold. Too strange. Too dangerous.

But another murmur threaded through them—something else.

Charisma.

The system notifications whispered in his ears like phantom bells:

.

[Puni....

[Snow is being charmed.]

[Claire is being charmed.]

[Aisya is....

.

Aiden almost smiled. Almost. He liked the weight of their stares, though blood still soaked his sleeve, reminding him of earlier wounds he cut to drop in the barrel of wine.

He was not whole, not untouched. He walked into nobility's embrace bleeding.

Then—he stood before the Duke.

The man's presence pressed down like a mountain. His aura was suffocating, thick with mana so raw it felt as though the very air curdled. Aiden's lungs burned, thirst clawing at his throat. He hungered for ember, for flame, for something to push back against the suffocating tide.

The Duke's golden eyes locked upon him. A smile stretched across his weathered face, though it did not reach his eyes.

"So you were speaking of this man…" The Duke's voice was old but unyielding, each syllable a command. His gaze flickered toward Augustus and Sabrina, then back to Aiden. "Well, I see… I see. Not certain if he is knight material, but his mana… yes, above average, that much is clear."

Gasps rippled. Even Sabrina and Augustus blinked in surprise. Catherine, silent at the edge, stiffened as if struck.

Augustus tried to laugh, to soften the moment. "Really? That's rare. Aiden may look the part of a noble… but he was born a commoner."

The Duke chuckled, though the sound was cold. "Still, those golden eyes… bolder than my own. Yes. He seems worthy indeed."

And then came the words that bent fate:

"I anoint you, Aiden. In the name of the Empire and its rulers—the Emperor and Empress, sovereigns of our realm—you are no longer commoner, but noble. From this day forth, all shall call you... Sir Aiden."

The hall erupted with applause, with surprise, with envy sharpened into whispers.

Aiden's chest rose and fell, slow, steady.

They gave him a sword—a new sword, gleaming with ritual polish, its edge untested but hungry. The weight of it settled into his palm like destiny itself. Commoners spent their whole lives honing the sword, the discipline, but still don't even get a chance to shine as he. But he did, with his own sword, his own girthy sword which every Nobel woman craved.

He knelt, head bowed. "Thank you, oh Duke of Merlin's fief. May I have your blessing, as Viscount Augustus does. I shall obey, serve, and nothing but serve under your rule. I shall heed your words as though the gods themselves commanded them. I shall—"

The world shattered.

[Notification! The curse of the Devourer Demon is placed upon you.]

[You have been tainted.]

The words burned across his vision, invisible to all but him.

His breath caught, chest tightening. For a heartbeat, the hall blurred, voices drowned in a rushing tide. He did not lift his head.

'…Interesting.'

The thought slipped from him, calm, deliberate, though beneath it boiled a storm.

Around him, the hall cheered. Nobles clapped, some with genuine approval, others with barely masked disdain. Aethal, still standing at the edges, stared with narrowed eyes—confused, unsettled, replaying Aiden's earlier words about dying young.

Sabrina pressed her hand to her lips, smiling with pride and nothing but pride as her knight was ready, as his cum dropped from her underwear to her thighs.

Sabrina also nodded with glee, knowing this was just a start, only but a start, as she placed a hand on her stomach. Gently so, like she was holding something precious in her stomach.

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