This Ain't No Romance Fantasy

What, you think this is some romance fantasy? "Duke? Me?" The words from the woman who introduced herself as Mist shattered my common sense.

Even a back-alley beggar like me knows how lofty a duke's position is. And they're just handing it to me like that?

"..."

I put the cigar in my mouth and slowly drew in the smoke. I needed to stay calm. The citrus-scented aroma from the high-mana cigar soothed my wildly pounding heart.

The elegantly exhaled smoke dispersed into the air, and I gazed at the woman before me, still bowing her head in respect.

"Follow me for now."

This was a time for thinking, not blind trust. Only a madman would swallow that bait whole—especially with how bizarre parts of it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠were.

The only one? A duke family. One that ruled the underworld through all sorts of illegal dealings. And I'm the sole bloodline left in such a house? Ridiculous.

It was so absurd I couldn't even speak. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Who would believe that crap?

But her words weren't entirely lies. No one would have the guts to impersonate the Nebla family name.

So, for now, I'd lure her. To my place. A hideout I could hold even if she had backup waiting to ambush.

I turned and headed home. Soon, the click of her heels followed behind me.

A cigar I'd normally savor for at least thirty minutes was already burned out too fast, thanks to the combat and that outlandish claim.

"Tch..."

I stuffed the remaining butt into the case in my pocket and walked on, swallowing a sigh.

Trailing behind Abel like a loyal attendant, the dark-skinned woman Mist's eyes gleamed sharply.

Excellent.

His handling of the situation so far, his attitude toward it all—it exceeded her passing criteria.

He didn't rush in recklessly, didn't get excited, but observed coolly instead. Look at him now, still on guard even with his back turned as he walked ahead.

A glance. Keeping her face neutral, Mist shifted only her eyes to the faint smoke coiling around her wrist unnoticed.

Smoke wrapped so stealthily around her wrist that even an ordinary mana Awakened might miss it. That was probably his ability. Subtle enough that even she, raised as an elite assassin of the Nebla family, could overlook it if careless.

"..."

Her expressionless face cracked for a moment, a chilling smile creeping in.

A glance. But at a subtle look from the man who would become her master, she instantly reverted to her blank mask.

If he's this good... It might actually work. No, it wasn't just possible—it was more than enough.

How many bastards had she met? Nebla blood ran thick. Incredibly so. Even mixed with commoner blood, it never diluted.

Much of what she'd told Abel was a lie. The sole bloodline? No way something that convenient existed.

This was a trap. If he couldn't spot a trap this simple, if he couldn't regain his composure, he couldn't bear the weight of the Nebla family.

Intrigue, ambushes, poison, all sorts of political pressure. If he became family head, he'd face this and worse—but fail at even this basic trap?

Impossible.

Yeah, impossible. Utterly so. Any weakling brought in would just get devoured by the Nebla family.

They wanted a vessel to lead the house, not some beggar dragged around by its power.

This was a consensus from the entire family, despite their dire straits. The family head teetered on death's door. Direct heirs, per Nebla tradition, tore at each other until mutual destruction.

Even seeking collateral branches wouldn't work—Nebla had none by design.

What underworld-ruling house would dilute power with collaterals? Scattering strength was for fools.

That custom left their only escape: finding children of those unaware they were Nebla collaterals, or direct-line bastards.

"..."

Thinking of the Nebla bastards before meeting Abel wrinkled her nose in disgust. Lust-maddened fools trying to pounce on sight. Paranoid weaklings who attacked before listening. Unawakened weaklings assassinated easily. Base curs who groveled the moment she mentioned serving the duke.

Meeting them, let alone bringing them home, was revolting.

No matter the urgency, they couldn't drag trash into the family. Nebla demanded reason, boldness, strength—and the right attitude toward situations.

Even assassination is part of it.

One year. The time Abel had survived assassins. A covert Nebla test. Unrelated, inconsistent hits to induce extreme stress. Surviving that to meet an elite family assassin, hear the tale, and pass.

Everything so far had been the trial.

Well then.

Mist licked her lips, gazing at the rare candidate fit to lead. Recalling their conversation, she reached one conclusion: the duke title held no appeal for him.

She'd confirmed it from that final glare, pressuring her like she was to be killed after she claimed servant status.

What to offer?

What would lure Abel to Nebla? Quitting wasn't an option. Such a ripe talent was rare. Strength, reason, emotional control, and the vessel to defy even a duke house if needed. All perfect.

Hmm, tricky.

Mist wet her lips again, eyeing Abel's grayish ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hair swaying like smoke as he walked.

Oh my house. My house was finally coming into view.

Second floor of the building. My one-man hideout, akin to a studio apartment from my past life.

A glance. I checked Mist trailing like a bodyguard.

A commoner guy followed by a prim maid? "..."

How many stares had we drawn getting here? If glances had physical force, they'd have pierced me.

Screeech.

Swallowing a sigh, I unlocked and entered my familiar space.

A small studio, but the one-person sofa, desk beside it, and wall lined with cigar boxes welcomed me.

"Sit anywhere."

I unfolded a folding chair by the door—for rare guests—and gestured, then lounged on the sofa like it was nothing special.

"Thank you."

"No big deal... Oh, mind if I light a cigar?"

I opened the box by the sofa and lit up. Smoke began filling my home bit by bit.

"I've been thinking," I said, feigning a lazy gaze. Momentum mattered in talks like this.

"Feels like you lied to me..."

I let the smoke in my mouth drift out subtly, not exhaling fully. So she wouldn't notice, avoiding her eyes as my power-laden smoke spread across the floor.

"How about a honest chat?"

I crossed one leg over the other, declaring my dominance plainly.

"The only one? What a joke."

As if this were some romance fantasy—me the sole surviving blood of a duke house? It defied logic. No bastards, not even collaterals? Impossible.

So her claim of installing me as head ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as the "sole survivor" was bullshit.

"Let's be frank."

Oh, and one more thing.

"Leaving here's gonna be tough."

She probably guessed my ability by now. But here's the thing.

"My power controls the smoke I exhale. Shape, size, hardness depend on mana infused. Non-Awakened can't see it—pretty damn useful."

That weird status window had stalked me forever. Simple function.

"Why explain? Got another perk. When I verbalize my ability myself, giving the foe an edge, my power strengthens."

Vrrrrm. The thick smoke blanketing the floor resonated fiercely, each wisp alive with intent.

Even an elite knight here now would struggle to escape, let alone survive.

"So, shall we talk?"

The faint floor smoke sharpened into monster fangs aimed at her.

"Oh, and if you lie, that neck's mine."

My voice turned to a predator's growl.

Vrrrrmmm.

The surrounding smoke surged in sync with my words.