Episode 49: The White House
Serdes Central Region
In the heart of a vast, open plain stood a single, magnificent castle. The surrounding land was rich and fertile, perfect for agriculture, yet no crops grew there—only an endless sea of emerald grass. No signs of wildlife or human settlement disturbed the silence. The castle rose like an isolated island floating in a green ocean.
This was the domain of Blancaros: the Grand Council Hall, where the fate of the continent was decided. It was known to all as the White House.
Ferda had arrived.
“Is this the place?”
Ferda looked up at the towering castle gates. They stood wide open, but to a master of mana like Ferda, the entrance was far from unguarded. A transparent white barrier shimmered across the threshold, forming a massive dome that encased the entire territory.
Order and Domain. Anyone who stepped inside accepted the rules of Blancaros. In this space, the Dragon’s law was absolute; not even the gods could deny it.
“You need not worry.”
A calm voice drifted from beyond the gate. Ferda turned to see a man standing in the shadows of the archway. He was dressed entirely in white, his skin so pale he resembled a vampire, yet the horns crowning his head and the piercing depth of his eyes revealed his true nature.
Placing a steady hand over his heart, the man bowed. “I apologize for the delay. I am The Hand of Blancaros, and I shall be your guide, Ferda.”
As expected, he was a Dragon Spawn. Blancaros possessed three such servants: The Hand, The Mouth, and The Eyes. Each was a specialist in their namesake’s function. Unlike the spawns of other dragons, they were famously polite and refined. However, they were bound to the castle; they could never leave Blancaros’s territory.
“Please, follow me.”
“Very well.”
Ferda reached out, his fingers brushing the barrier. As he stepped through, he felt microscopic particles tingle against his skin. Instantly, the rotation of his mana circle began to sluggishly slow. It wasn’t a violent suppression, but a natural, heavy relaxation, as if his body were being lulled into a peaceful slumber.
Impressive. This was an absolute domain. Even Ferda was not exempt from the rules. The restriction wasn’t a total ban on power, but a silent, firm warning: If you think you can fight here, you are welcome to try. But no one escaped the judgment of Blancaros. The Staff of Law ensured there were no excuses.
Shadow Hand should still function, Ferda noted. While active casting was restricted, passive and innate abilities remained. He glanced back at his companions. Jed and Arwen looked visibly strained.
“How does the domain feel to you?” Ferda asked.
Jed frowned, rubbing his temples. “Terrible. I feel weak, and my eyes are bone-dry.”
Arwen nodded solemnly. “The same. I can’t seem to manifest my Aura at all.”
Jed, an Eyeblood, had lost his supernatural sight, while Arwen had been stripped of the power that made him a master knight. Ferda then turned his gaze to Ruri.
“And you?”
Ruri’s expression didn’t flicker. “No issues.”
Ferda nodded, unsurprised.
Behind them, Arwen leaned toward Jed and whispered, “Hey, did something happen between the Regent and that Dragon Spawn lady back at the castle?”
Jed shook his head frantically. “I don’t know, and I don’t care.” He had learned his lesson the hard way: never stick your nose into a dragon’s business. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.
“The council begins in five hours,” The Hand informed them. “Would you prefer to rest in your quarters or visit the banquet hall?”
“What is the difference?” Ferda asked.
“Rest or socialization. Many of the continent’s nobles have already gathered in the hall.”
Before Ferda could speak, Jed chimed in with a grin. “The banquet hall, obviously!”
Ferda shot him an unimpressed look. Jed quickly held up his hands in defense. “Think about it! ‘Know your enemy,’ right? It’s better to scout them out now.”
Ferda smirked. “I was already planning to go.”
Jed’s smile vanished. “Then why did you look at me like that?”
“Because,” Ferda replied dryly, “scouting isn’t the reason you want to go.”
Jed sighed, unable to argue.
“Take us to the banquet,” Ferda commanded.
“As you wish.”
As they followed The Hand, Ferda patted Jed on the shoulder. “Enjoy the party.”
“Huh? Oh… thanks?” Jed paused, a sudden realization hitting him. His eyes widened. “Wait… Sir… you’re not using this banquet as a replacement for my formal knighting ceremony, are you?”
Ferda remained silent.
“…Sir?”
Ferda did not say no.
The White House Banquet Hall
Laughter and orchestral music spilled out as the massive white doors swung open. Though Ferda was rarely moved by luxury, even he found the sight staggering. The palaces of the Empire were grand, but they were the works of men. This place had been built by dragons. The sheer scale and perfection were overwhelming.
The hall was a tapestry of the continent’s elite. It wasn’t just humans; Elves, Dwarves, Gnomes, and other reclusive races mingled freely, a rare sight in the outside world.
“Whoa…” Arwen gasped, his eyes wide.
Jed chuckled, nudging him. “First time at a real banquet, Sir Knight?”
Arwen shook his head. “No, I’ve been to many parties with my lord.”
“Then close your mouth,” Jed smirked. “You look like a country bumpkin. It’s too obvious.”
Arwen straightened his posture, trying to look composed, though his stiff movements betrayed his nerves.
Consillus was right, Ferda thought. Arwen lacked worldly experience. In contrast, Jed and Ruri were unmoved by the splendor—Jed was too cynical, and Ruri was simply indifferent.
But beneath the music and the fine wine, Ferda felt the true nature of the room. It feels like stepping into a nest of vipers.
This was a battlefield far more dangerous than the squabbles of regional lords. Every friendly smile was a mask; every polite greeting was a probe for weakness. These people were the rulers of the world because they knew how to climb, how to hold their ground, and how to tear others down.
Ferda didn’t hesitate. He straightened his back and walked into the fray with cold confidence, his eyes scanning the various factions.
“Haha! You’ve arrived, Regent of Valdrova!”
A man surrounded by a flock of extravagant nobles waved at him, acting as if he were the sun around which the room orbited. On his shoulder sat the emblem of the Arken Empire.
Alexander Arken. The First Prince.
The Empire was currently ruled by the “Incompetent Emperor,” Godfrey Arken. Both Alexander and his brother, Ureus, had tried and failed to depose their father, claiming it was for the good of the state. Their failure had turned them into laughingstocks, inadvertently making the Emperor look like a saint by comparison. To Ferda, who dreamed of the Empire’s ruin, Alexander was nothing more than a useful idiot.
“Let me introduce myself. I am Alexander Arken,” the Prince declared. He was in his thirties, with a meticulously groomed beard that practically screamed his desire for the throne.
“Ferda Valdrova greets the First Prince.”
“You sent me a letter a while back, but I couldn’t reply,” Alexander said dismissively. “I was so buried in state affairs I could barely breathe.”
Nonsense, Ferda thought.
A woman in blue robes standing beside the Prince spoke up. “Haha! A Prince has a hundred million subjects to worry about! Even two bodies wouldn’t be enough!”
Despite her youthful looks, her tone was ancient and arrogant. Even Alexander treated her with guarded respect. She was Erdes Roton, President of the Magic Society. The Roton family had once been legendary alchemists, but now they were known as the continent’s greatest fraudsters. Erdes was the last of her line—a woman with no land and no title, but with a 7th Circle of mana that commanded the respect of every mage alive.
“I am Ferda Valdrova. It is an honor to meet the Archmage.”
“Haha! I came to see the King, but meeting his fiancé’s regent is a fine start,” Erdes laughed. Her gaze locked onto Ferda. “Regent of Valdrova—no, I’ll just call you Ferda. The other name doesn’t suit me yet. Is that alright?”
“That is fine.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“From a family of mages?”
“No. I was the third son of the Rosnova knight family.”
Erdes’s eyes sharpened. “Interesting! Knights train their mana, but only as a side effect. Yet, your aura… it feels entirely like a mage’s.”
“I trained as one.”
“At such a young age? Impressive!” She laughed loudly, though her eyes remained cold. “The Prince tells me you were quite helpful in catching the Empire’s rats. The Black Mages.”
Ferda had eliminated those mages only because they threatened his own plans, but he kept his expression neutral. “I only played a small part.”
“Don’t be modest! You also handled the Tessalos Walzer incident, didn’t you?”
The man Ferda hadn’t wanted to kill, but had been forced to.
“That bastard was secretly researching Black Magic, wasn’t he?” Erdes asked, her voice dropping an octave.
“Yes.”
“Fascinating. A man with no talent suddenly becomes a Red Circle mage in his rage. He must have had a ‘breakthrough.'” Erdes leaned in, her wine glass swirling. “Did you know? I hate Black Mages.”
It was her most famous trait. She showed no mercy to those who touched the dark arts—she broke their circles and erased their names from history.
“If I had to breathe the same air as one, I’d want to strangle them,” she whispered, her eyes glowing with a faint blue light. “They sell their souls to demons and call it ‘hard work.’ They become mindless puppets, wandering like ghosts. Tell me, Ferda… what do you think of those who study Black Magic? Especially those who use dark arts to control monsters?”
The hatred in her gaze was now a physical weight. She wasn’t asking a question; she was making an accusation.
I know who you are, her eyes said. She knew he held a Red Circle. She knew his secrets.
Ferda met her gaze without flinching. He knew her fate, too. He knew that her obsession with “purity” would eventually lead to her ruin. And he knew that he would be the one to give her the final push.
