Things have come to this.

Blake was unaware that his expressions had already betrayed much of his inner thoughts. He adjusted his mindset, drew two letters from his breast pocket, and offered them with both hands.

"Your Highness, our party was ordered to bring you a reply from the Grand Duke, and... a personal letter from Her Royal Highness, the Princess."

"Philia's letter?"

Herbert slightly furrowed his brow, picked up the envelope bearing the royal crest of Frostcrystal, and made to open it immediately.

"Your Highness! Please wait!"

Blake blurted out in a panic, stopping him anxiously. "Her Royal Highness instructed that she hopes you will read this only when you are completely alone..."

"Are you telling me how to do my job?"

Herbert's voice was cold, all expression vanishing from his face, leaving his eyes filled with sheer indifference.

"Warrior, remember your status."

"Are you a vassal of Silverwing, or a vassal of Frostcrystal?"

Staring into those pale grey eyes, Blake felt a sudden surge of unease and instinctively took a step back.

What is this?!

"No! Your Highness, I..."

He wanted to explain, but ultimately lowered his head obediently, saying respectfully, "I am a single feather of Silverwing."

"Hn."

At that moment, Blake felt somewhat bewildered, because in his past impressions, Prince Herbert was not like this.

Could this truly be Prince Herbert?

Gentle, well-read, a man who favored art far more than martial arts, he had been the epitome of a perfect and elegant noble heir.

Even when treating servants like them, he was warm and friendly, never once showing the slightest trace of aristocratic arrogance on the surface.

But now...

Even though Herbert was not glaring furiously, and his expression hadn't even changed, the deterrent force carried by that single glance far surpassed the pressure many peers had inflicted upon him!

He even felt as though he had encountered an earth dragon!

Why did such a terrifying aura emanate from the Prince?

What on earth has he experienced here?!

On the other side, Herbert merely glanced at the letter briefly after opening it before folding it back up.

Lowering his gaze in silence for a moment, he instructed Blake, "Very well, I am aware of the situation."

"Dismissed. The guest rooms are prepared for you to rest well. Take a few days to recuperate here; there is no need to rush back."

Blake nodded, readily complying. "Understood."

Remembering something, Herbert added, "...Oh, by the way, the monastery's crucian carp soup is quite good. The few of you should have more of it tonight, drink plenty of soup, and warm yourselves up."

"Ah?"

Blake blinked, nodding honestly. "Oh, right, thank you, Your Highness."

"Go."

After Blake departed, Herbert, standing alone in place, narrowed his eyes slightly, tapped his fingers lightly against the letter paper, and murmured softly:

"Philia... Hah."

Just moments ago, upon opening the letter, Herbert had bypassed everything else and swept his gaze straight to the very end.

At the conclusion of the letter lay this passage—"Herbert, I hope you will be able to attend mycoming-of-age ball."

Regarding this invitation, only a single sentence continuously repeated itself in Herbert's mind at this moment.

"Things have come to this, are you... kidding me right now?"

.
.

Night fell.

Uncharacteristically, Herbert did not visit the Third House of Commandments to converse with the monster girls this night; instead, he sat quietly alone at his desk.

At that moment, he felt a genuine sense of sentiment, finally understanding why Nenasha had previously stated that sleeplessness was not a reward, but a punishment.

Being able to remain awake forever was undoubtedly a gift, one that could extend the time available for work and study.

However, when you truly desired a temporary mental detachment yet found yourself unable to drift off to sleep, it indeed transformed into a form of torture.

The night punishes every conscious soul.

Unable to escape, unable to sink into slumber, unable to halt...

This painful entanglement would only swell under the nourishment of the nocturnal gloom, gradually devouring your entire mind.

And this condition is commonly referred to by people as—late-night emotional turmoil.

A conscious brain remains continuously active in thought, endlessly and repetitively running simulations on its own, reviewing all those past episodes of your life that you wish to forget.

Every single mistake ever committed, every wrong word spoken, every decision mishandled...

Allow me to offer everyone a piece of advice here: at such times, absolutely, under no circumstances, post anything to your social media or status updates!

Otherwise, there is a high probability you will scrape out an entire villa with your toes by the next morning and earn yourself titles such as "The Deeply Affectionate Brother" or "The Intoxicated Solitary Brother" bestowed by others.

Do not ask me how I know this; I simply happen to have a friend like that.

Truly!

"..."

Herbert finished reading both letters and unwrapped the parcel containing the magic artifact.

The Grand Duke of Silverwing's reply was utterly mundane, bordering on formulaic.

It was merely a simple greeting from a father to Herbert, alongside words of encouragement urging him to properly temper himself within the monastery and not tarnish the reputation of the Albert family, and so forth.

Aside from that... nothing more.

There was no concern for his well-being, nor any mention of other family matters.

Reading through the entire text, while the wording was not harsh, it felt remarkably stiff, imbued with the chilly alienation of a stranger.

Having finished reading it, Herbert casually tossed it aside, giving it not another thought.

As for the delivered magic artifact, the [Ring of Bitter Vow], its effects not only perfectly met Herbert's requirements but also came with several innate supplementary abilities.

Not only could it defend against and counteract external mental control, but in daily life, it could also suppress one's own emotional fluctuations and maintain a calm mindset.

It was a high-tier magic artifact, not far removed from a legendary item, making it clear that whoever prepared it had invested a considerable amount of thought.

Yet, its appearance posed a certain problem...

Well, a very significant problem.

It appeared to be a black silk choker, but no matter how Herbert looked at it, the thing looked far more like a... collar.

Uh?

What on earth is the meaning of this?

Herbert chose not to ponder whether the old man harbored any deeper implications, attributing it simply to his dreadful aesthetic sense...

He had no intention of wearing the item himself, yet neither was he inclined to throw it away; he happened to have a few candidates on hand who were remarkably well-suited for such an item.

Indeed.

There was a dragon-selected candidate who fit the bill exceptionally well.

Who on earth could it be?

Quite difficult to guess, truly.

If Blake had brought only these, Herbert would not have felt lost at all, but unfortunately, they had also brought that other personal letter.

In this letter, Philia conversed with Herbert in a tone utterly familiar to him.

Philia first expressed sympathy and regret regarding Herbert's previous harrowing experiences.

She clarified that she had not been in the royal capital when the incident occurred, had nothing to do with that "personal maid," and suspected someone had impersonated her identity at the time, and so forth...

Following that, she meticulously inquired about the details of Herbert's life within the monastery, expressing concern for his various recent circumstances.

She even volunteered to help him resolve any financial troubles, telling him to let her know if he had any needs whatsoever.

Only at the very end of the letter did Philia extend a sincere invitation to Herbert—hoping he would attend her coming-of-age ball two months hence.