I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 371: Hatred

All three turned to see a woman approaching with the poise of a noblewoman. Her appearance was immaculate as always. Her dark hair was pulled back in a sleek style, and her clothing was pristine despite the dust coating everything else.

Seraphina stopped a respectful distance away and inclined her head fractionally. ”Lord Rhys Luffiel. Spirit Sylph. I am Seraphina, attendant to Master Jack Kaiser. He has requested your presence at your convenience.”

Rhys blinked, caught off-guard by the formal courtesy. After being defeated, after Sylph’s attack following his surrender, he’d expected... well, not a polite invitation delivered by an immaculate servant.

”Jack Kaiser wants to meet with us?” Rhys asked carefully.

”He does,” Seraphina confirmed. ”If you’re willing. First, I can show you to the guest quarters where you may clean up and change into appropriate attire. Your current state is...” she glanced at his torn, bloodstained clothing, ”understandable given circumstances, but perhaps not ideal for conversation.”

”The human offers hospitality after defeating us in single combat. Thats rich.”

”Master Jack values interesting opponents,” Seraphina responded, maintaining a composed demeanor. ”You provided a genuine challenge, which is rare. He wishes to speak with you about that, among other things.”

Rhys studied the woman’s face, reading the intelligence beneath her servant’s courtesy. This wasn’t just an attendant; this was someone trusted enough to deliver sensitive messages, someone whose judgment Jack relied upon.

”We accept,” Rhys said finally. ”Lead the way.”

Clyde fell into step behind Rhys as they followed Seraphina toward the manor. The bodyguard’s hand never strayed far from his sword hilt, his hooded head constantly scanning their surroundings despite being in ostensibly friendly territory.

The walk through the garrison revealed the full extent of the damage from the duel. Craters marked where Jack’s divine techniques had struck. Walls bore electrical scorch marks. Support pillars showed cracks that would require master stonemasons to repair correctly.

And standing near the observation platform, speaking with Duke Alaric and other nobles, was Chiron Stormblood. The Lightning God of Draconia. White lightning still crackled faintly across his frame, his presence radiating power that made the air itself feel charged.

Clyde’s pace momentarily slackened as they passed within fifty feet of the strongest man alive.

”Keep walking,” Rhys murmured quietly. ”Don’t draw attention.”

”My lord,” Clyde responded in a hushed tone, his voice betraying a hint of tension. ”I’m a Mythril-ranked warrior. I’ve fought in three wars and killed men who would make most soldiers weep in fear. But being this close to Chiron Stormblood...” He paused. ”I feel like an insect near a bonfire.”

”He’s the strongest man alive,” Rhys replied just as quietly. ”That reaction is appropriate.”

They kept going into the manor, with servants zipping through the hallways. None of them looked at Rhys with particular interest or hostility. Apparently, defeated opponents visiting the manor were routine enough not to warrant attention.

”Clyde seems nervous,” Sylph observed from Rhys’s shoulder.

”I am nervous,” Clyde admitted without shame. ”This manor houses too many beings who could kill me without effort. The Lightning God, Duke Alaric, that monster of a son...”

”Wait,” Rhys interrupted. ”I understand your fear of Chiron Stormblood. But why Duke Alaric? He’s powerful, certainly, but...”

”You haven’t heard?” Clyde’s hooded head turned to look at Rhys, as if with disbelief. ”About the Meredith family?”

Rhys frowned. ”The Merediths? I’m not familiar with...”

”They don’t exist anymore,” Clyde said bluntly. ”Shortly after the massacre, they were a prominent noble house. Influential enough to matter. Then his son kidnapped Annabelle Kaiser.”

Rhys’s eyes widened. ”Duke Alaric’s daughter.”

”Duke Alaric’s daughter,” Clyde confirmed. ”Within days, the entire Meredith bloodline was erased. Not just Lord Meredith, but his wife. Anyone who worked for him was taken in by Duke Alaric and forced to be a serf. Last I heard, he plans to kill anyone related to the Merediths. All because of Marcus Thorne.”

”Days,” Rhys repeated quietly.

”Days,” Clyde echoed. ”And the Duke ended then with a single strike. Left his land torn to pieces. The whole area was covered in. Purple rain before a giant black purple mass covered all of Elysium. How many people do you know that can change the weather in a whole country?”

Rhys absorbed that information in silence as Seraphina led them deeper into the manor’s private quarters.

They reached the guest quarters on the second floor, spacious rooms with attached bathrooms, and fresh clothing was already laid out on the bed. This had been prepared in advance, and Jack had planned for Rhys to accept the invitation.

”Take your time,” Seraphina said from the doorway. ”When you’re ready, I’ll escort you to the Young Masters study.”

Twenty minutes later, Rhys emerged wearing fresh clothing that fit surprisingly well. Dark colors with subtle silver threading, formal enough for important meetings but not ostentatious.

His silver hair was cleaned and tied back properly, his winter-ice eyes no longer carrying the exhaustion of recent defeat.

Sylph perched on his shoulder, somehow managing to look dignified despite her six-inch size.

Clyde waited in the hallway; his hooded form was a silent sentinel. Seraphina stood nearby with the same patient efficiency she’d shown earlier.

”Ready?” she asked.

”As I’ll ever be,” Rhys replied.

The walk to Jack’s study took them deeper into the manor’s private quarters.

Clyde walked three paces behind, his tension evident in the set of his shoulders. The bodyguard’s head kept turning fractionally, tracking servants and guards with the wariness of someone who knew he was outmatched.

They reached a heavy oak door, and Seraphina knocked twice. A precise, professional sound.

”Enter,” came a voice from within.

Seraphina opened the door and stepped aside. ”Master Rhys Luffiel and Spirit Sylph.”

Rhys took a breath and entered.

The study was surprisingly modest. Bookshelves lining the walls, a large desk positioned near the window, and comfortable chairs arranged for conversation. Magical lighting provided warm illumination.

But Jack wasn’t present.

Instead, Duke Alaric Kaiser stood beside the desk, his golden eyes fixing on Rhys the moment he entered. Those eyes, were usually composed and diplomatic in public. Shifted to something colder, and much darker.

Disgust.

Raw, undiluted disgust that made Rhys’s hold his breath.

”Why,” Alaric said quietly, his voice carrying deadly calm, ”is elf filth roaming my halls?”

The temperature in the study plummeted. A cold spread through the air as if winter had manifested indoors.

Then the darkness came.

Dark mana erupted from Duke Alaric’s frame. It manifested from nowhere, shadows coalescing around the Duke’s form like living entities answering a summons. The darkness spread across the floor, up the walls, consuming the warm magical lighting until the study existed in twilight.

Rhys tried to take a breath and found nothing. The oxygen wasn’t there anymore. His lungs seized, his chest tightening as if invisible hands were crushing his ribcage from the inside.

Sylph gasped beside his ear, her tiny form flickering like a candle in wind. Her manifestation destabilized, the dark mana disrupting the magical coherence that kept her anchored to the physical plane.

”You dare,” Alaric continued, his voice never rising above conversational volume but carrying weight that pressed down on Rhys like atmospheric pressure, ”enter my son’s private study? After challenging him like some arrogant whelp seeking glory?”

The Duke stepped forward, and the darkness moved with him. Shadows writhed around his feet, climbing up his legs like serpents made of living void.

Rhys tried to speak, to explain, to defend himself, but no air would come. His vision started to narrow, darkness creeping in at the edges not from the shadows but from oxygen deprivation. His hand went to his throat reflexively.