Rhyka didn't waste time after the meeting. While the mercenaries prepared to leave, sharpening blades and rechecking gear, he slipped back to his spot at the edge of camp, dropped onto the cold ground, and shut out the noise.

He pulled his breath into rhythm, steady and deep, until the camp's bustle blurred into nothing. Golden threads unraveled before his mind's eye, his Martial Vision spreading like a net.

The fog of the devil beast domain resisted him, as always. Heavy, choking, like a wet cloth pressed against his face. His Vision could pierce it, but only with focus, every inch he expanded took effort, like forcing light through thick mud.

Still, he pushed. The longer he held it, the sharper the effect. Faint movements became clear. Intent glimmered in lines of gold. Even the smallest twitch of a mercenary's hand as they strapped a buckle showed itself in his perception.

It was progress. Small, but progress.

He was so deep in it that at first he didn't notice Nero approach.

The noble moved quietly, his boots crunching once on the frost before he sat beside Rhyka. He didn't cross his legs like a fighter preparing to meditate, he simply lowered himself gracefully, posture perfect, as though he were back in a marble hall instead of surrounded by mist and dirt.

For a time, Nero said nothing. He just sat there, watching Rhyka's faintly glowing eyes, the calm but razor-edged aura around him.

Finally, in a low voice, he spoke.

"Nero von Augustine."

Rhyka's eyes opened slightly, the golden light dimming. "…What?"

"That is my full name." Nero's tone was flat, but deliberate. "I am the eldest son of Marquis Augustine."

Rhyka's smirk twitched at the corner of his lips. "Finally. A last name."

Nero's gaze shifted, pale and unblinking. "But I am not the heir."

That made Rhyka pause. He studied Nero's face, the faint tension at the edge of his otherwise composed expression.

Not the heir. Which meant… discarded? Pushed aside? Or something worse?

The golden threads of Martial Vision hummed faintly at the edge of Rhyka's perception. He didn't see malice from Nero, no intent to deceive. The words were real.

"…So," Rhyka drawled, leaning back slightly, "you're important enough to throw coin around like water, but not important enough to inherit."

Nero didn't flinch. "Correct."

There was no pride in the admission. No shame either. Just a statement of fact, like describing the weather.

Rhyka tilted his head, studying him. He wanted to laugh, to sneer, to say he didn't care, but the smirk on his lips didn't quite reach his eyes.

Because if Nero was telling the truth, then the question only grew sharper.

If he wasn't heir, if he wasn't valued, then why was he here? Why was he alive, wandering the mountains alone, and not in a grave already?

Rhyka's golden eyes lingered on Nero, sharpened by Martial Vision but narrowed with suspicion. He wasn't used to answers being handed to him so cleanly, so quickly. People hid things. Lied. Obscured their weakness in layers of half-truths. Especially nobles. Especially the sons of marquises.

So why was Nero still breathing?

In every tale Rhyka had heard, when inheritance shifted from the elder to the younger, it wasn't peaceful. Brothers poisoned each other. Families tore themselves apart. Blood in the bedchambers, daggers in the banquet halls. And if the heir was stripped of his title but allowed to live, it was usually for one reason only, because he was too dangerous to kill outright, or too beloved to erase without consequence.

But Nero… sitting there in the mist, pale eyes unflinching, posture perfect… he didn't look like someone clawing for vengeance. He looked calm. Detached. As if he had already accepted his place.

"You're not making sense," Rhyka said at last, his tone sharp but not mocking. "If you lost the heirship, it means someone took it. And usually, when someone takes something like that, the loser doesn't walk away still drawing breath."

His smirk flickered. "Unless you're lying."

Nero's gaze cut to him then, sharp, but not angry. It was the look of a man dissecting a thought, measuring the weight of each word before giving one back.

"I left."

Two words. Simple, but absolute.

Rhyka tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "…You left?"

"Yes." Nero's tone carried no hesitation, no wavering. He spoke as though he were describing something inevitable. "There was no battle. No poison. No scheming courtiers behind curtains. I lost the position because of myself."

The mist seemed to thicken around them, swallowing the distant sounds of the caravan.

Rhyka's lips twisted, part smirk, part sneer. "So you're telling me you're the only noble in history to get stripped of heirship without blood spilled? You expect me to believe that?"

Nero's expression didn't change, but his eyes sharpened faintly. "I don't expect you to believe it. I expect you to hear it. The reason I lost my place is simple: I wasn't good enough."

The words hit harder than Rhyka expected, not because of what was said, but because of the way it was said. Cold. Precise. Without self-pity.

"I judge by results," Nero continued, folding his hands neatly behind his back. "You know this already. It is why I am willing to pay you. Because you've proven results. You survived the mountain. You fight like someone far above your stage. I don't care if you're magicless, or if the others laugh at you. You've shown proof."

He paused, his pale eyes gleaming faintly in the gloom.

"But I also judge myself. And when I weighed myself against what was required of an heir…" His voice grew softer, not with weakness, but with cold finality. "I fell short."

Rhyka's smirk faltered just slightly. Not because he pitied Nero, he didn't. But because he recognized something in the words. That merciless self-measurement. The refusal to dress failure up in excuses.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows loosely on his knees, studying Nero with a new kind of intensity. "…So what, you just walked away? Just handed your little brother the inheritance?"

"Yes." Nero's tone didn't waver. "Because it was the truth. He was better suited. I was not."

The arrogance Rhyka expected never came. No bitterness. No venom. Just acceptance.

And for Rhyka, a boy who had built his whole existence on rage, spite, and clawing his way upward against those who spat on him, the answer felt alien.

"…Tch," he muttered, leaning back against the tree trunk again. His golden eyes flickered, the smirk pulling back into place as though to cover the faint unease in his chest. "Strange bastard."

But even as he dismissed it aloud, the words stayed with him.

"I wasn't good enough."

Rhyka didn't like hearing them from Nero's mouth. But he knew, one day, he might have to say them himself.

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