Auspicious Hour, Turn You Into a Honeycomb in an Instant

Of course, entering the city gate of Southlyn was inevitable—but to enter under these conditions would be a total loss of face. For someone as proud as Prince Nolan, there was no way he’d let Southlyn humiliate him like this.

Prince Damien of Southlyn offered an apology, but Prince Nolan didn’t even bother to respond. Hidden behind the carriage curtain, he replied with icy sarcasm: “I watched the stars last night and calculated the auspicious hour for entering the city. That time has already passed. When the next auspicious hour comes, I’ll let your country know myself.”

The implication was clear: he wouldn’t enter the city today, and as for when he would—it would depend entirely on his own mood. Now that he was already on Southlyn soil, he was in no hurry whatsoever.

Prince Damien let out a mocking laugh. “I always thought Prince Nolan was clever—never imagined you’d actually believe in this nonsense.”

“For those who believe, it works; for those who don’t, it doesn’t. Today, I choose to believe.” Prince Nolan ignored Damien’s ridicule, his tone cool as he ordered, “Move out!”

Not once did Prince Nolan show his face, treating Prince Damien as if he didn’t exist. Every man Nolan brought—his loyal guards and the Si Clan’s Eighteen Riders—answered solely to his command. At his order, they surged forward, completely disregarding Damien’s cavalry.

Such blatant disrespect instantly enraged Prince Damien. Hot-tempered and extreme by nature, he clenched his jaw and slashed his hand through the air, snarling, “Invite Prince Nolan into the city!”

“Understood.” Damien’s men knew exactly what ‘invite’ meant here. One after another, they drew their blades and advanced menacingly.

“See? Miss the auspicious hour and blood is sure to follow.” Prince Nolan’s words sounded almost casual, but the bloodthirsty chill beneath made his guards shiver and straighten up.

After that, Prince Nolan uttered a single word, weightless and cold: “Kill.”

That one cold-blooded word—‘Kill’—was spoken by Prince Nolan as if it weighed nothing. If they hadn’t been standing so close, they might have doubted their own ears.

Kill!

With their master’s order, there was no room for hesitation. Except for those tasked with guarding Prince Nolan directly, everyone else drew their blades and closed ranks. Outnumbered many times over, not a single one showed fear or panic.

Steel crashed, sparks flew. Atop the city gate, Prince Nathan of Southlyn’s eyes went wide. He cursed under his breath and immediately ordered the city guards forward.

He wasn’t helping Prince Damien—he was trying to stop the madness before it spiraled out of control.

Prince Nolan had come to Southlyn as an imperial envoy. The prince meant to welcome him hadn’t shown up, and now there was a brawl at the city gate. What kind of mess was this?

Prince Nathan sent men both to break up the fight and to rush word of the chaos to the king.

With a catastrophe this big, there was no hiding it anymore.

But distant water can’t put out a nearby fire. By the time the city guards arrived, the two sides were already locked in combat. Prince Nolan’s men were few but cunning—the Si Clan’s Eighteen Riders and his personal guards formed ring after ring around his carriage, never letting Damien’s troops break through.

Prince Damien’s numbers were overwhelming, but the battle circle was only so big. Nolan’s men clustered together, so Damien’s forces couldn’t swarm them—they had to attack in waves, like storming a fortress.

With the situation locked down, Prince Damien could do nothing to Nolan in the short time left—and the royal city’s officials weren’t about to give Damien much more breathing room, either.

“You’re despicable, Prince Nolan!” The city guards had arrived, but Damien’s men hadn’t even cracked the outermost ring. No wonder his fury was boiling over.

“Bring me a bow.” Damien knew the clock was ticking—he was ready to gamble everything on one shot.

If he could kill Nolan, perfect. If not, he’d at least make it clear: on Southlyn soil, Prince Nolan was not free to run wild.

As Damien drew his bow, the Si Clan’s Eighteen Riders each nocked arrows, bows raised, their sights locked on him.

Eighteen bows, fifty-four arrows—all aimed at Damien on horseback. If he dared let his arrow fly, they’d turn him into a honeycomb then and there.

“You…” Damien’s face went pale. Sweat beaded on his palms, knuckles bleaching white as he gripped the bow.

“Your Highness, best order your men to stand down. Blades and arrows have no eyes.” One of the Si Clan’s Eighteen Riders spoke—calm, but the threat in his words was unmistakable.

Threatening a Southlyn prince on his own turf—Nolan was truly in a league of his own for arrogance.

No choice. However much he hated it, Damien lowered his bow. “Stand down.”

He was exposed on horseback, while Nolan sat shielded in his carriage. Even as a master archer, Damien couldn’t be sure he’d land a killing shot.

The chaos had exploded fast, and ended just as suddenly. No deaths—just a few injuries—but anyone with eyes could see Damien had lost face, badly.

He’d meant to crush Nolan’s spirit, but ended up being threatened himself. Humiliation was inevitable.

Prince Nathan of Southlyn arrived at the worst possible moment—just as Damien hit rock bottom. Ignoring Damien entirely, Nathan dismounted and strode toward Nolan’s carriage, only to be blocked by Nolan’s guards, who didn’t care about his status.

“Prince Nolan, on behalf of Southlyn, I apologize to Eastlyn.” Nathan’s words were flawless: in a single sentence, he pinned all the blame on Damien and shifted the apology to the Eastlyn Empire.

This way, Nathan could be courteous to Nolan without losing Southlyn’s dignity.

“Let him approach,” Nolan said. As Nathan drew near, Nolan finally stepped out of his carriage.

Standing atop the carriage, Nolan’s face was unreadable. Before Nathan could speak, Nolan declared, “Prince Nathan, I find it inconvenient to enter the city today. Please inform your king on my behalf.”

With that, Nolan didn’t spare Damien a glance. He returned to his carriage and ordered, calm as ever, “Move out.”

The Si Clan’s Eighteen Riders instantly put away their bows, Nolan’s guards sheathed their blades, and—completely ignoring the hostile Southlyn soldiers—mounted up as if nothing had happened.

A few Southlyn soldiers bristled, blades raised, but Prince Nathan barked, “Let them pass!”

This time, Damien didn’t argue. He just shot Nathan a venomous glare, swallowing his humiliation.

He’d lost this round—no question about it. The sting of defeat burned in his chest.

Nathan ignored him, his eyes fixed on Nolan’s retreating carriage. Then he mounted up and headed back to the city, leaving Damien behind.

With so many witnesses to the fiasco, Nathan couldn’t let it slide. After all, Nolan had waited an hour outside the gate—if Nathan didn’t report Damien’s misconduct to the king, he’d be letting Nolan down.

Nolan didn’t enter the city, nor did he go far. He simply occupied a small village outside the gate, commandeering several large homes for his hundred-plus entourage.

When the Southlyn king heard about the disaster, he issued an edict that same day—half apology, half veiled threat—ordering Nolan to enter the city the next day and assuring that such humiliation wouldn’t happen again.

Nolan received the decree with a cold laugh, ignoring the messenger’s embarrassment as he turned and strode back inside.

The decree-bearer wiped sweat from his brow and quietly asked Nolan’s adviser, “What does His Highness mean by this?”

The adviser replied icily, “Our lord means this: he’ll decide when to enter the city—not your king.”

With that, the adviser followed Nolan inside, leaving the Southlyn officials fuming outside—so angry they could barely stand it, but not one dared speak a word…

If Nolan dared threaten a Southlyn prince at the city gate, what was stopping him from killing them too?