Chapter 21: Damien Crowe

His hair was an immaculate, grease-slicked golden blonde, parted down the middle with mathematical precision, and his thin, aristocratic face was contorted into a sneer so sharp, so cartoonishly villainous, that it looked as though it had been chiseled out of cheap plastic by an animator who had run out of time.

Flanking him were two burly, thick-necked third-year students wearing heavy brawler’s doublets, cracking their knuckles with rhythmic, synchronized monotony.

Lucien stopped dead in his tracks.

Rowan, walking directly behind him, slammed face-first into Lucien’s shoulder blades, let out a pathetic squeak, and instantly dropped into a trembling, fetal crouch behind Lucien’s coat.

"L-Lucien..." Rowan whispered, his voice trembling so violently his teeth were audibly clattering. "That’s... that’s..."

"Who?" Lucien muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing as he frantically searched the encyclopedic mental archives of The Astral Sovereign’s Dawn.

’Blonde hair. Scarlet uniform. Gryphon crest. Obnoxious sneer. A rapier that costs more than a small village...’

’Who the hell is this guy?’

’Is he an assassin from the Eclipsed Hand? No, they wear black hoods and smell of brimstone. Is he an elder brother from a rival Ducal house? No, the Everharts only border House Blackwood and House Thorne.’

Wait.

A tiny, dusty memory from Chapter 14 of the novel flickered to life.

In the early Chapters of the academy arc, before the plot escalated into ancient cults and cosmic entities, Cassian Valemont had been challenged to a routine academic ranking duel by an arrogant, self-proclaimed "eternal rival" from a minor marquisate.

A pompous, third-rate noble whose entire purpose in the narrative was to talk trash for three paragraphs, get disarmed in a single panel, and spend the rest of the semester complaining to his influential uncle.

The novel had barely mentioned his name.

In fact, Lucien was reasonably certain the author had accidentally spelled the guy’s surname three different ways across two Chapters.

’Lord Damian... something... Damian Crowe? Damian Vance? Damian von Generic-Noble-Punching-Bag?’

The blonde young master pushed himself off the fountain, his velvet capelet swirling dramatically in the breeze.

He drew a pair of pristine white leather dueling gloves from his belt and slowly, theatrically slapped them against his palm.

"Well, well, well," the blonde noble drawled, his voice carrying that nasal, high-society cadence that made one immediately want to introduce his face to a brick. "If it isn’t Lucien Everhart. The celebrated invalid of our Academy. The theatrical martyr of the Sunken Catacombs."

Lucien stood entirely still.

He blinked once.

"Good morning," Lucien said politely. "I believe you have me confused with someone who cares. Excuse us, we are late for a very important appointment involving grain tariffs."

Lucien took a step to the left to bypass the fountain.

The two thick-necked goons immediately shifted, their heavy boots thudding against the flagstones, blocking the path with crossed, muscular arms.

Rowan let out a strangled, breathless whimper from behind Lucien’s back, grabbing Lucien’s belt loops with both hands. "WE’RE CORNERED! LUCIEN, THEY HAVE FISTS! VERY LARGE, CALLOUSED FISTS! WE’RE GOING TO BE BURIED IN THE WEEEPING WILLOWS!"

"Silence, you commoner trash!" the blonde young master snapped, glaring at Rowan with supreme disgust before turning his sharp, arrogant sneer back upon Lucien. "Do not play the fool with me, Everhart! I saw the spectacle in the arrival plaza! I know what you did!"

Lucien sighed, resting his weight on his left heel.

"What I did was get dragged into a ninety-degree bowing exhibition by a man who possesses zero social awareness. If you have an issue with the choreography, take it up with House Valemont."

"Do not speak his name in my presence!" the blonde boy snarled, his pale face flushing with sudden, ugly crimson fury.

A faint, crackling aura of crimson flame began to hiss along the edges of his rapier hilt. "Cassian Valemont! That arrogant, celestial-blooded usurper! He acts as though the entire academy belongs to his Astra Party! He looks through me! Through me, Damian Crowe, heir to the Grand Marquisate of the Western Reaches!"

’Damian Crowe!’ Lucien’s mind shouted in triumphant recognition.

’Ha! I knew Crowe was in the name! He’s the guy who gets his rapier snapped in half in Chapter 16 and cries in the locker room!’

"Right. Lord Crowe," Lucien said, adopting the smooth, pacifying tone of a psychiatric nurse attempting to talk a patient down from a roof. "A pleasure to meet you. Lord Cassian is indeed very tall and deeply annoying. Now, if you’ll excuse us—"

"You humiliated him!" Damian stepped forward, his eyes blazing with manic, petty ambition. "You stood in that plaza, a man with no mana, and you stripped away his noble pride with a handful of words! The entire student body is talking about it! The second-year faction leaders are trembling! They think you are a strategic genius operating from the shadows of House Everhart!"

"I literally just wanted to eat soup," Lucien muttered.

"Do not be modest!" Damian barked, leaning in, his breath smelling faintly of peppermint and aristocratic entitlement. "I see through your game, Everhart! You despise Valemont just as I do! He left you to die in the dark! Your family hates his house! The Everharts command the earth, the Valemonts command the stars, a natural, ancestral rivalry!"

Damian thrust out his white-gloved hand, his grin turning sharp, conspiratorial, and entirely unhinged.

"Join me, Everhart. Ally your house’s influence with mine. With your psychological manipulation and my peerless, A-Rank Crimson Flame Sword Arts, we can dismantle the Astra Party from within! We will orchestrate a grievance at the Imperial Awakening Ceremony! We will expose Valemont’s tactical negligence before the High Council, strip him of his expedition command, and take our rightful revenge!"

The courtyard fell dead silent.

A gentle breeze rustled the willow branches, scattering golden leaves across the sunlit stone.

’Haha... are you serious? This supporting character guy sure likes to talk big. Why, thank you, but I would be even happier if you continue this grand ambition on your own...’