Chapter 145

The duke—no, Blake—had lived over fifty years without anyone ever speaking to him so bluntly, let alone delivering such “audacity” to his face.

And for good reason. Blake was the legitimate son of the late king, hailed as the greatest conquering monarch since the founding King of Pendragon, the Knight King. He was often called the Warlord King, the embodiment of martial excellence, and a master of statecraft.

Blessed as if by a dragon’s favor, his countless talents surpassed those of any tutor who attempted to teach him. It was said that no teacher lasted more than two weeks before Blake’s intellect outstripped their own.

Even when his succession rights were stripped following his acceptance of the Cursed Sword, the Warlord King himself had reportedly shown rare signs of despair. That alone was a testament to how remarkable a ruler Blake could have been.

Yet, even though he never ascended to the throne, Blake’s achievements as the "Lord of Galahad" were nothing short of extraordinary.

He demonstrated what it meant to be perfect, growing the Galahad family’s power and wealth by over thirtyfold.

Politics? Mastered.

Swordsmanship? Unmatched.

Commerce? Dominated.

Blake excelled in every field, and his name became synonymous with the Galahad family. No one in the kingdom, not even the current monarch, dared to belittle him.

His presence was overwhelming, his abilities exceptional, and no one could look him in the eye without feeling dwarfed.

…And yet.

“Surely, you haven’t lost your mind like some senile royal. Why are you acting like this?”

“……….”

Blake found himself stunned.

The knight he had personally invited to his domain was now delivering this to his face. Yet, rather than feeling enraged, Blake found the sheer audacity refreshing.

There was only one question on his mind.

“…Why are you angry with me?”

Why was this knight suddenly upset with him? Blake genuinely wanted to know.

The knight, however, answered with a tone that sounded more like nagging.

“I’m not angry. I’m just telling you to get a grip. Stop indulging in these delusions.”

He spoke as if he were delivering advice to a wayward student.

“This isn’t a rebuke for ‘Your Grace the Duke.’ Think of it as counsel from a teacher to a parent who’s utterly failing.”

“…Counsel? For me?”

“Yes, for you. As a father, you’re a disaster.”

“…….”

“Actually, let me revise that. You’re not even a disaster as a father. You’re disqualified. From what I can see, even if you had your wife and child, you wouldn’t have been a good father. You never would’ve trusted them.”

“…You are clearly overstepping your bounds.”

Mentioning his late wife was already enough to test Blake’s patience. Any more and this knight’s life could—

“So why haven’t you conducted a proper investigation? Instead, you’re doubting not just Judea Pierre but even Irene Windler!”

“……….”

Blake’s hand flinched for the first time.

For the first time, Blake Galahad showed visible discomfort, momentarily at a loss for words.

The knight pressed on.

“From earlier, you’ve been calling your ward by her full name, ‘Irene Windler,’ as if you’re distancing yourself from her. Aren’t you doubting your own adopted daughter, not just that red-haired woman? Tell me I’m wrong.”

“…And if I am? What of it?”

Blake didn’t bother to deny it. The truth was, he did suspect Irene.

A suspicion rooted in the uncanny resemblance Irene bore to his late wife. He couldn’t help but wonder if she, like Judea, was some creation of the temple.

From the moment such doubts arose, he began questioning even his adopted daughter.

“It’s a logical suspicion.”

“That’s what we call twisted logic.”

“…….”

A sharp, unyielding rebuttal.

“Because she’s not silver-haired? Or because she’s a mage? You claim it’s all due to her fairy lineage, but isn’t there a way to confirm it? The royal family surely has methods to determine bloodlines. So why haven’t you confirmed anything yet? Ah, perhaps you’re afraid Irene Windler might turn out to be some clone of your wife? Hm, that’s possible, I suppose. But in that case…”

The knight smirked before delivering the final blow.

“If you’re so suspicious of her, why do you keep her by your side?”

“…….”

For once, Blake couldn’t answer.

The man who had never been outmaneuvered in debate, whose wisdom and composure were legendary, was utterly stumped.

“Do you not know why you keep her close? That’s why I said you’re disqualified as a father. You already know the answer—you’re just pretending you don’t.”

“…I already know the answer?”

“Stop asking questions you already know the answers to. Pretending you don’t is starting to irritate me.”

“…I genuinely don’t know. What answer am I supposedly avoiding?”

For the first time in his life, Blake felt like a fool.

The confusion he felt, the tremor in his chest with each of the knight’s remarks, made him feel as though he was on the verge of realizing something he’d been blind to.

“Tell me.” Blake’s voice was tense.

He was desperate for an answer.

To that urgency, the knight replied:

“Are you keeping her close because she resembles your wife? Or because your heart compels you to?”

“-------.”

The answer was strikingly simple, yet it hit Blake like a blow to the back of the head.

It forced him to confront the foolishness of his past—the denial, the lies he told himself, the way he dismissed his feelings as mere delusions of longing.

“Your Grace, you know this. Sometimes, people act on instinct, on impulse, rather than reason. So I’ll ask again—what does your heart tell you about that child?”

“…….”

“If you still don’t get it after I’ve spelled it out, I’ll have to say I’m disappointed. To think the man who once made me feel defeated could be this pathetic.”

“…Hah.”

Blake chuckled faintly.

In that moment, Blake understood.

Why this knight had been so brash, why he’d spoken so fearlessly.

‘…I’ve been lying to myself this entire time.’

The knight was frustrated—not with Blake’s suspicions, but with Blake’s refusal to be honest, even with himself.

Blake had been untruthful to himself, endlessly doubting and dismissing the pull of his heart.

He had dismissed his feelings as illusions born of grief.

“One more thing,” the knight added. “If you truly doubted her, you wouldn’t have drugged her to keep her out of the conversation. You’d have spoken to her directly. But you didn’t. Want to know why?”

“…….”

“You didn’t want her to hate you. That’s all there is to it. If she heard your suspicions, she’d be hurt, and you couldn’t bear that.”

“…….”

“And whether she’s your biological daughter or not, there’s one thing I know for sure: all fathers instinctively fear being hated by their children. And judging by how much you dread that, you already hold her dear.”

“…I…”

“If you don’t want to lose something precious and regret it later, don’t do this. Though, to be fair, humans always seem to regret things only after losing them.”

“…You could’ve left that last part out.”

At that moment, Blake couldn’t help but feel like the knight standing before him was older than himself.

The advice he gave, the way he spoke…

‘Even his clumsy attempts at humor remind me of my late brother.’

For a brief instant, Blake thought of his older brother, who had passed away long ago. And somehow, he saw traces of him in this knight.

Perhaps… it wasn’t the knight who was unusual.

Perhaps it was Blake himself.

“…Well, I’ve really done it this time.”

That was Ihan’s first thought, immediately followed by a sharp, stinging sensation that seemed to strike his very nerves.

Zzt-zzt!

A wave of murderous intent crashed toward him.

‘Anyone with a weak heart wouldn’t last a second under this.’

The servants of the Galahad household were radiating lethal energy, their gazes full of the promise that they’d kill him on the spot if their master gave the order.

It was a dangerous situation, one that made Ihan keenly aware of the risk he’d taken by speaking so brazenly.

And yet…

‘Even so, I feel relieved.’

There was no regret.

Not because he was confident he could escape if things got ugly—no, it wasn’t that.

It was simply…

‘If I didn’t say anything, it would’ve eaten me alive.’

Ihan couldn’t let go of his frustration without speaking his mind. So he decided to keep talking, knowing full well he could regret it later.

It was absurd.

Was the duke too smart for his own good?

Or had no one ever dared to tell him the obvious?

‘How can he not see what’s right in front of him?’

There was one thing Ihan hadn’t mentioned. Something so glaringly obvious that anyone with sharp senses—or the ability to perceive aura—would have picked up on it instantly.

‘They’re like two peas in a pod…’

The day before, Ihan hadn’t been able to see it clearly through the artifact. But now, it was as plain as day.

Blake Galahad’s aura, his wavelength—every aspect of the man’s presence had a distinct color.

And that color was unmistakably similar to that of Irene Windler, the mage chick.

It was the kind of similarity that practically screamed a DNA match.

A match that made it painfully obvious they were father and daughter.

And yet, this stubborn man was still in denial.

Honestly, Ihan didn’t care much about whether the duke handed over the redhead or not. But the duke’s behavior—his words and actions—were so frustratingly idiotic that Ihan felt like he’d swallowed a dozen metaphorical potatoes.

‘Is this the curse of romance fantasy?’

It was as if this world operated under a bizarre curse where fathers couldn’t recognize their daughters, no matter how much they resembled them.

A trope as common as it was exasperating.

What made it worse was…

“So, I already think of her as precious. And yet, I doubted her. Whether she’s my biological daughter doesn’t matter. What matters is that I cherish her, and I didn’t even realize that fundamental truth…”

“……”

…It was driving Ihan insane.

‘How can you still not admit she’s your daughter when you’re literally dripping affection all over her?’

This was why romance fantasies often devolved into melodramas in their latter half.

The resolution seemed within reach, yet it never arrived.

‘…Whatever. I’ve done all I can.’

Ihan decided not to intervene further.

He had already overstepped his bounds, throwing out enough reckless remarks to potentially lose his head. Saying any more might actually push the duke into action.

“Well then, I’ll take my leave before things get worse.”

“…You’re leaving after saying all that?”

“Sometimes, people only understand when you hit them with a blunt truth. And if you’re going to do that, you might as well be harsh and rude about it.”

“Hah! As much as I hate to admit it, you’re right. My head still feels like it’s spinning from that verbal blow.”

“…I won’t be apologizing.”

“Ahahaha!”

The duke laughed heartily, but his servants were less amused. Their murderous glares bore into Ihan, who met them with a confident smirk.

“What’s the problem? Are you angry because you think I insulted your master?”

[[………]]

“Then let me correct you—you’re pointing your anger at the wrong person. If you have anyone to blame, it’s yourselves.”

[[??]]

For a moment, the servants exchanged bewildered looks, their expressions saying, What nonsense is this guy spouting now?

Granted, Ihan understood why they felt that way. After all, he was the one acting like a farting culprit blaming someone else. But he was entirely serious.

“Let me tell you something. A truly loyal servant is someone who risks their life to correct their master when they’re going astray. Yet none of you did anything when your duke was running wild. Instead, you let a complete outsider like me do it for you. If that doesn’t embarrass you, it should, you pathetic lot.”

[[………]]

“And what’s the point of having hundreds of you if you can’t use your eyes and ears to distinguish right from wrong?”

It would’ve been better to have none at all.

That was Ihan’s final truth bomb.

The duke watched as Ihan’s figure grew smaller in the distance.

Even as he disappeared, his broad back seemed unshakable—a mountain steadfast even from afar.

“He’s grown. And not just in strength…”

The knight’s growth wasn’t just physical power but a culmination of his beliefs, pride, and conviction.

Someone who had clashed with life itself and emerged stronger for it.

And now, this knight—who dared to “lecture” him—stood before him, unflinching and bold.

It should have been humiliating.

And yet…

“…Oddly, I don’t feel upset at all.”

Instead of resentment, Blake felt something else—something deeply refreshing.

From the very first time they’d met, the knight had caught his attention.

A hero who hid his achievements.

Blake had found him intriguing then, and now he understood why others, like Marquis Tristan, had wanted to keep him close.

‘Keep those who offer harsh truths nearby, and beware of flatterers,’ the saying went.

This knight embodied that sentiment perfectly.

As his servants stood in awkward silence, reflecting on their own actions, the duke muttered to himself.

“…Perhaps I should take in another foster child.”

Wouldn’t it be amusing to have such an interesting knight as part of his household?

If Irene Windler had overheard, she would have been horrified by the suggestion.

But in a way, it felt like the beginnings of a political triangle surrounding one lone knight and a handful of high-ranking nobles.

“…Why does this suddenly feel so disgusting?”

If Ihan had known, the mere thought would’ve sent shivers down his spine.