Chapter 28: The Rejection of Noble Flesh

Copper light from The Red Ring seeped dimly through a narrow gap in the cave roof, illuminating dust dancing slowly in the suffocating air.

Silas's study lacked windows, only limestone walls radiating a faint blue phosphor glow. The scent of cheap ink, worn parchment paper, and the metallic tang of remaining blood still hung thickly in the air. In the center of the room, a massive oak desk stood firm. That desk was once the place Silas calculated the value of human lives. Today, that desk had changed hands.

Luka stood, resting on both his arms atop the desk.

His right arm, having shrunk back into human form, was now wrapped in neat new bandages from shoulder to wrist. The ache from the unanesthetized stitching last night still throbbed dully, accompanying his heart's rhythm.

Luka's pitch-black eye darted fast, sweeping the parchment sheets scattered on the desk.

It was strength data. The inventory list of The Hollow Syndicate which he had now renamed Shadow Knights. Hundreds of mercenary assassin names recorded neat along with their specializations. There were poison experts, snipers, to torturer executioners. On other parchments, secret smuggling routes and smuggled weapon lists were stated.

A thin smile—the stiff smile of a newly born tyrant—carved on Luka's cracked lips. Silas led this group like a stingy merchant, hoarding this massive potential merely for gold. In his hands, these assassins would become serrated fangs that would tear Ulric's throat. Shadow forces that would move in Oesteria's darkness.

The room's iron door hinges creaked faint.

Rhea stepped inside. Her charcoal-gray wool dress had been replaced with a clean dress of similar color, ironed with a precision illogical for the size of this filthy place. The maid's steps produced no sound. The lily scent swept away the musty smell of old parchment, claiming the air inside the room.

In both her hands coated in thin cloth gloves, Rhea carried a small wooden tray. Atop it, rested a dull copper cup billowing hot steam.

"Your morning is too early, My Lord," Rhea whispered. Her voice flowed calm, cleaving the study's silence.

Luka straightened his back. His spine crunched faint. "There is a kingdom to reclaim. Sleep is a luxury for those who have surrendered."

Rhea placed the wooden tray at the corner of the desk, moving several parchment scrolls aside careful.

An extremely dense, elegant, and sharp-piercing aroma immediately invaded Luka's sense of smell. The scent of coffee beans slow-roasted with special wood. Not a bitter herbal concoction. Not mud-scented soup.

"Black coffee from the Eisenhart plantations," Rhea said, stepping her body back one pace and bowing her head. "I found Silas's remaining stash in his private cabinet. It seems the man liked robbing goods from the nobles. This is your favorite drink, My Lord. And the favorite of your late father, King Reinhardt."

Luka's eye fixated on the copper cup.

Eisenhart plantations. His brain immediately worked, groping the memories forced-stitched inside his skull. Yes. He remembered. The memory fragment emerged. This aroma was part of his glorious past. A morning in the gothic palace, where the sun had not been shattered. He sat on a marble chair, and a servant poured this thick fluid into a gold-plated porcelain cup. A conqueror's drink. The drink of a true noble.

Luka reached out his left hand. His fingers gripped the copper cup's handle. The heat crawled comfortably to his palm.

His noble ego demanded he appear elegant. He raised the cup. His shoulders pulled flawlessly firm. His jawline locked. He brought the expensive fluid to his lips. He sipped it slowly, exactly like the palace etiquette recorded in his head.

The thick fluid touched his tongue. A highly classy bitterness. A sharp yet elegant acidity. His brain screamed, 'I love this. This is my identity.'

The black fluid slid down his esophagus, falling and striking the pit of his stomach.

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One second passed.

Two seconds.

THUD.

The copper cup slipped from Luka's hand, falling and striking the desk board. The expensive coffee spilled, soaking the troop data parchment scrolls and dripping filthily to the stone floor.

Luka's eye widened. His pupil shrank drastically.

His gut thrashed. Not merely a stomachache. His body violently rejected it. His stomach muscles contracted wildly, twisting his internal organs as if he had just swallowed acidic poison. His flesh, ruined by the starvation of escape and forced to digest a raw monster heart smeared in bile, rebelled hard against the drink's elegance. That palace coffee acid was too pure for his stomach, which had now rotted.

Luka folded forward. His hand gripped the desk edge.

"Ugh—"

He fell kneeling on the limestone floor. His jaw opened wide. His bile rose uncontrolled. Luka vomited severely. The thick black coffee fluid spewed out along with remaining bile and filthy food from the previous day, flooding the floor beneath his knees.

He coughed hard. Air was pushed out by force from his lungs. Cold sweat seeped instantly, soaking his forehead and bandages. His stomach kept kicking, vomiting his flesh's undeniable rejection. His memory might be manipulated, but his crude flesh could not be fooled by palace delusions.

"My Lord!"

Rhea immediately dropped beside Luka. Her clean dress touched the floor wet with spilled coffee and vomit. The maid showed absolutely no disgust.

Rhea's pale hand massaged Luka's nape with a constant, soothing rhythm. Her left hand pulled a handkerchief from her dress sleeve, then wiped the remaining vomit at the corners of Luka's lips and chin with the gentleness of a mother caring for her sick baby.

Luka took a deep breath. Gasping. His eye watered enduring the torturous stomach cramps. His hands trembled enduring shame.

Why? Why did his body reject his own favorite drink? Why every time he tried adjusting to his nobility, did this filthy flesh always humiliate him? A sanity-ruining frustration struck his head.

"Why..." Luka's voice broke, scraping against his acid-burned vocal cords. "Why does this body react like... a street dog?"

Rhea stopped her massage on Luka's nape. The maid's gray eyes stared straight.

"It is natural, My Prince." Rhea's voice flowed smooth, drugging the remaining panic in Luka's chest. "Do not blame your nobility. This is not the coffee's fault."

Luka turned his head. His eye demanded an answer.

"Silas's soul," Rhea whispered. Her fingers wiped a remaining drop of sweat on Luka's temple. "You absorbed the Echo Ruler's soul by force last night. Silas is the pure manifestation of gluttony and filthy greed. Your body still rejects the remnants of the man's sins. Your stomach is fighting against Silas's street energy residue residing in your blood."

The explanation embedded right into the empty space of Luka's logic.

Silas. The defective scavenger monster. Of course. The remnants of that man's soul poisoned his digestion. Ulric ruined his foundation, and Silas soiled his blood. Luka's logic gripped that lie tight, building a high wall to cover his own humiliation.

Luka pressed his palm to the floor, forcing his body to stand straight.

His ego intact again.

Rhea also stood, throwing her dirty handkerchief to the corner of the room unnoticed by her master.

Luka stared at the overturned copper cup on the desk. Then his gaze shifted slow. Staring at a giant leather map untouched by the coffee spill. The map of the Oesterian Continent.

The boundary lines of the Eisenhart Kingdom drawn thick. The capital guarded by steel walls and Ulric's thousands of elite forces.

His gaze sharpened. His brain worked purely as street tactics wrapped in a ruler's ego again.

"These mercenary assassins are lethal in the shadows," Luka said. His voice cold again, banishing his physical weakness moments ago. His left index finger pressed the capital fortress point on the map. "They can infiltrate, poison, and decapitate guards lacking sound. But this is no one-night hunt. Toppling a tyrant requires more than daggers in the dark."

Rhea stood silent behind him, listening obedient.

"Mercenary forces need food," Luka continued, sliding his finger across the kingdom's territory border lines. "We need hundreds of tons of wheat. We need steel plate armor, swords that do not snap in one clash, and hiding places untouched by Ulric's tax forces."

Luka stopped. His index finger embedded firm on one territory name south of the capital. A fertile territory controlled by one of Ulric's fangs.

"We cannot defeat Ulric with these forces alone." Luka turned his head, staring at Rhea from behind his pitch-black eye shadow. "We need allies. We need donors in this bloody project."

The corners of Rhea's lips raised a fraction of a millimeter.

"A greedy corrupt noble always seeks profit amidst chaos, My Lord," Rhea replied low. "They are easier bought than loyalty."

Luka nodded faint. His gaze locked onto the map again.

This vengeance was no longer merely devouring enemy hearts in the forest. He would enter the political arena of the palace rats, and he would use their own greed as his hangman's noose.