Chapter 192 : Chaper 192

Morton’s old face was ashen as he staggered down from the griffon’s back.

Because his movements were too violent, those few sparse white hairs that had stubbornly held their ground lost the battle once again. They whipped sideways in the freezing wind, fully exposing that smooth, mirror-like forehead of his.

The air was filled with a foul scorched smell—the odor of griffon feathers singed by high-energy mana beams. This royal beast, which usually strutted sideways through the Royal Capital, now had its head buried between its front claws, trembling all over. Where was even a trace of the majesty of the ruler of the skies?

“Sylvia! Where is Sylvia?!”

Morton roared at the group already waiting at the entrance, all while frantically smearing those few strands of hair back over his forehead and waving his jewel-encrusted staff. Spit flew everywhere as he shouted.

“So this is how the Northern Territory treats its guests? Not only was there no red carpet or cannon salute, you even dared to use magitech cannons to attack a royal delegation! Are you planning to rebel?! Huh?!”

Yet in front of the gates of the Duke’s Manor, the atmosphere was eerily calm.

Sylvia stood there in silver-white military attire, a heavy Silver Fox Cloak draped over her shoulders, her hands tucked into her sleeves. On her face was the kind of shock and alarm that had clearly been refined through countless rounds of practice—perfectly measured, flawlessly timed.

“Oh my, isn’t this Master Morton?”

Sylvia quickly stepped down the stairs, her high-heeled boots clicking crisply against the stone. Her voice was full of concern, but her pace remained unhurried.

“How did you end up in such a state? I thought some wandering sky pirates had come barging in without knowing the rules. After all, proper visitors know to follow the tower approach route and report in advance.”

“You—”

Morton nearly failed to catch his breath. Pointing a trembling finger at Sylvia’s nose, he sputtered, “Wandering sky pirates? I am the Second Prince’s chief mentor! I am the deputy commander of the Court Mage Corps! You can’t even recognize me? I held you when you were little!”

“Your Highness is hardly to blame for that. With your current appearance, it really is rather distinctive.”

A lazy voice suddenly came from behind Sylvia, carrying a note of careless mockery.

With both hands in the pockets of his long black coat, Logaris strolled out at an infuriatingly leisurely pace. His trademark gold-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, and a professional fake smile—the sort that made people want to punch him on sight—hung at the corners of his mouth.

“Master Morton, you have to understand. Our Skythunder anti-air defense system is fully automatic. It specializes in identifying hostile targets. It’s only a machine. It has no brain. It can’t tell the difference between a noble royal griffon and an oversized pheasant with wings.”

Logaris walked up to Morton, completely ignoring the fury about to burst from the old man’s eyes. He even reached out helpfully and brushed some soot from Morton’s shoulder.

“It only knows that anyone who ignores orders and trespasses into a no-fly zone is to be treated as an intruder. Really, at your age, why insist on arguing with a machine? Wouldn’t it have been better to come through the front gate?”

Morton stared at the young man, his chest heaving.

He had read Logaris’s file in the Royal Capital—Saint Arcadia’s heretical genius, eccentric by nature, with no respect for his elders.

But he had never imagined the man’s tongue could be this vicious.

Every sentence landed squarely on his sorest nerves.

“You are Logaris West?”

Morton narrowed his eyes. The immense mental force of a Sixth-Tier Mage spread out faintly, and the surrounding air instantly grew heavy and viscous as he tried to teach this insolent young man a lesson.

“Young man, do you understand the difference between superior and inferior? I am your senior, a pillar of the kingdom. In terms of seniority, you should be addressing me respectfully as Master, not standing here speaking in this mocking tone.”

“In academia, only knowledge matters, not age. If merely living a long time were enough to earn respect, then the turtles in the Royal Capital’s sewers ought to be worshipped on altars.”

Logaris completely ignored the oppressive force and casually pushed up his glasses. “As for superior and inferior... This is the Northern Territory. Her Highness Sylvia is the highest authority here. If you’ve come to put on airs, then the exit is to the left. Take care on your way out.”

“You! Insolence!”

Morton’s face flushed crimson with rage. The ruby at the tip of his staff had already begun to glow with a dangerous light, as though in the next second he would hurl a great fireball right into that eminently punchable face.

“All right, all right, both of you should say less.”

Seeing that the fire had been stoked enough, Sylvia stepped smoothly between them and finally played the conciliator.

She turned and “glared” at Logaris, though there was not the slightest trace of reproach in her eyes—only the faintest hint of amusement.

“Why are you still standing there? Go have the kitchen prepare some refreshments. Master Morton has suffered a fright. He needs something to calm his nerves. Master Morton has come from afar, so he must be tired. Let’s go inside and talk.”

Morton drew a deep breath and forcibly suppressed the urge to hit someone.

He had come here on a mission. He could not stand at the gate shouting insults at some sharp-tongued junior. That would be too undignified.

“Hmph. Lead the way!”

With a sharp flick of his sleeve, he straightened his disheveled mage robe, lifted his chin, and strode into the Duke’s Manor.

From the look of it, one would have thought he was the master of the place.

Logaris watched his back, the smile on his lips deepening.

Old bastard, let’s hope your spine is still this straight in a moment.

...

Conference room.

The heavy oak doors were pushed open. The long redwood conference table had been polished until it gleamed, reflecting the light of the crystal chandelier above.

The instant Morton entered, his old eyes locked onto the seat of honor at the very head of the table like a radar.

In his rotten system of values, he represented the royal family, was the elder, and was also a Sixth-Tier powerhouse. Naturally, he ought to sit in the main seat. Sylvia, as a junior, sitting to the side was only proper. That was the rule.

He walked straight toward it, his steps steady and forceful.

He pulled back the high-backed chair at the head of the table, turned, and lowered himself.

The movements were natural, fluid, and filled with an arrogance that admitted no question—as though it were only right.

Leaning against the doorframe, Logaris lightly rubbed his chin with his slender fingers, and a trace of mockery flashed through his eyes.

Just as Morton’s backside was about to touch the seat—

Humm.

The air twisted ever so slightly.

There was no incantation, no glow of magic, and even the spatial disturbance was so faint it was nearly impossible to detect.

Then, the next second—

Plop.

Morton felt himself sit down solidly.

The cushion was soft and comfortable, but the expression on his face froze in an instant.

Something was wrong.

The view was wrong.

The perspective from the head seat facing the main doors had vanished. In its place was a massive oil painting of the Northern Territory’s landscape hanging on the side wall.

He froze for a moment, then looked around in confusion.

He had somehow sat down in the first seat on the left side of the table—the standard guest seat.

And in the main seat that should have been his, Sylvia had already seated herself gracefully, hands folded atop the table, those silver-gray eyes smiling at him.

“Master Morton, please, have a seat. There was no need to be so courteous as to give me the seat of honor. This really is too embarrassing.”