As a child, Jian Qiao was betrayed by his parents. As an adult, he was stabbed through the heart by a woman he barely knew but claimed to love him. If there was one truth he'd learned, it was that love was destruction.

Rege Grande was a formidable warrior and a renowned playboy. The gallery in his family's castle was filled with dozens of portraits of beautiful women, all his former lovers. He had no intention of falling in love with a man.

After Jian Qiao died, he transmigrated into a medieval world of startling cruelty, but the nightmares from his traumatic past shattered his health. His only goal was to improve the lives of his city's people. Rege Grande was just another obstacle to overcome.

And yet, somehow, this most improbable couple might turn out to be perfect for each other...?

***

Rege, before they met: Damn, who the hell is Jian Qiao? If he dares to steal my girl, I'll mess him up!

Rege, after they met: Damn, Jian Qiao is really good-looking, we should be friends!

Rege, after they were friends: No way! Jian Qiao is great! He should belong only to me! The first time I've bent for anyone!

Jian Qiao: One hundred actions will have a reaction, and your retribution is me!

......***......

A thin woman was slowly walking towards the cold river.

The surging waves pitched pale gray mist into the air, forming a fog that grew thicker and deeper, gradually shrouding everything nearby. The gloomy sky was depressing, and the oversaturated moisture seeped into the lungs, giving people a sense of suffocation unto death.

The woman used a phone as she walked, and the little boy who was tightly clamped under her arm could not help coughing.

"Mom, I can't breathe. Mom, I'm so cold, can we go home? Mom, don't go there, if you go further won't the water come up? Mom, mom..."

The child's tender voice, mixed with sobbing and helpless pleading, reverberated on the open river.

The woman looked down at her son.

Her eyes were bloodshot as if she hadn't slept for several nights. The despair in her eyes was more intense than the rushing river and denser than the diffuse mist. She continued to carry the phone that wouldn't connect, stubbornly waiting for a response from the other side.

Her son's pained face and tear-filled eyes seemed meaningless to her, scenery without any significance.

She lifted her head, looked towards the deeper water, and kept walking. The little boy choked on his saliva and began to struggle violently.

She fiercely clamped her arm, not caring that she might take her son's life before the flooding river could.

Suddenly, the phone connected. A lazy male voice spoke slowly, "Didn't I tell you to stop contacting me?"

The woman's eyes, which were completely occupied by despair, suddenly showed a glimmer of light. Her pace towards the deep water finally stopped.

The little boy breathed a sigh of relief, but he couldn't stop coughing.

"Be quiet!" The woman scolded fiercely.

The little boy quickly let go of the hand that tightly gripped his mother's clothes. He covered his own mouth, staring at the phone with dark eyes full of expectation. He hoped this call would save him.

"Will you get a divorce or not? If you don't get divorced, I'll take Jian Qiao into the river!" The woman's voice trembled.

The man gave an unconcerned chuckle. "I have no shortage of women or sons. Go ahead. You're not the first person to use a child to try to force me to divorce, and you're not the first person to commit suicide for me. Save it, I won't be pushed around."

The man was about to end this conversation which was so meaningless to him, but the woman suddenly pressed the phone against her son's ice-cold cheek, her voice eager: "Call for Dad, Jian Qiao! Tell Dad to come and save you!"

The little child didn't understand the grievances between his parents, he just wanted to live. It was too cold here, too terrible.

He opened his mouth and shouted again and again, "Dad, save me, Dad, save me...."

However, the phone screen went black in the middle of his cry for help. The man decisively hung up the phone and quickly blocked all the woman's contact information.

Even if the child's cry for help was real, even if the woman's suicide threat was genuine, he didn't care. A madwoman who considered love more important than her own life and the life of a child, she would only cause him more trouble. He might not be able to get rid of her entanglement in his life otherwise, so it was better to let mother and son die cleanly.

The woman could no longer hear the man's voice, but she was still screaming like crazy, "I love you! I love you more than anyone else! Why can't you love me? Why? Fine, so you don't love me, do you? Then I'll go ahead and die, and I'll take your son with me! You'll regret it!"

The little boy suddenly understood in his ignorance—love was a terrible thing, and his mother couldn't live without it. Without it, even he wasn't entitled to live.

But why? Was love really that important? What did love look like? Why was it something you couldn't see, couldn't touch, and couldn't hold?

Since you couldn't see it, couldn't touch it, and couldn't have it, he didn't want it. Wasn't that OK? Couldn't you live perfectly well like that?

The flooding river didn't wait for him to understand these too-complicated questions. The water submerged his body. The stinging pain in his nose and suffocation in his chest snatched away his ability to think.

In an instant, all the messy thoughts disappeared. Only the fear remained, overwhelming and turbulent, terrifying as a storm.

The little boy struggled violently, thumping his hands and feet, trying to call for help, but he was only robbed of more oxygen by the freezing river. His mother was dragging him into the abyss of death with hands like iron tongs.

He was terrified, and the unprecedented sensation of horror was a dagger

piercing his heart, as if his soul was being torn to pieces, with such an immensity of pain and despair it was engraved in his memory forever.

In the last second as he lost consciousness, the little boy thought in a daze: Love is about as painful as death, right?

***

Jian Qiao had a nightmare again. It was the same nightmare he'd had every day for decades.

When he woke up from the dream, his head was covered with cold sweat, as if he'd just been fished out of the water.

"Director, I compiled the design drawings from the second group. Please have a look." A well-dressed woman knocked on the office door and walked inside, placing a thick pile of drawings on the desk.

Jian Qiao picked up the top sheet and looked at it. This was a design drawing of a jade necklace. The fancy style was very novel, but the workmanship was somewhat difficult.

As a top jewelry designer, Jian Qiao quickly identified the problems and flaws. He reviewed the drawings one by one. His expression was very calm, and he didn't make any comments.

As the leader of the second group, the woman was a little bit unsure of his thoughts, so her face showed some uneasiness. When she opened her mouth and was about to ask, a woman with a haggard face and emaciated body rushed into the office. She fell on Jian Qiao's desk and swept away the tall stack of design drawings.

The group leader took a step back. Her expression lacked surprise. Yet another woman who was fascinated by Jian Qiao had come to the door. Sleazebag!

As she thought about this, the second group leader raised her head surreptitiously and gave Jian Qiao a quick glance.

It was the first time she'd looked the director in the face since entering the room to hand in the designs. Of course, the reason for this wasn't that she despised or looked down on him. The reason she didn't dare look at him was because she'd end up staring in a daze.

Jian Qiao's skin was always morbidly pale, and his jet-black eyes were full of mist, as if they could devour all light. He was handsome, but his beauty didn't contain a trace of youthful vigor, sunlight, or clarity.

If you had to describe it, it was more like a flower in full bloom, sweetness mingled with the smell of corruption. He was gorgeous, mysterious, and fascinating, but also gloomy, decadent, even deathly.

Sometimes, the group leader felt that the man sitting in front of her wasn't real, but made of fog, like he could dissipate with a gentle wave of the hand.

In the midst of these thoughts, the woman who threw herself on the desk said plaintively, "Jian Qiao, did you know that I'm dying! Marry me, please!"

She reached out her hand and tried to grab Jian Qiao's tie, but was dragged away by the secretary who'd just arrived.

Jian Qiao remained in his chair, watching the scene quietly. His dark eyes were still filled with thick fog, and there was no emotional reaction at all. He'd heard a lot of painful begging, and he'd seen a lot of desperate faces.

"Stop making trouble! Director Jian has nothing to do with you. Why on earth would he marry you? Director Jian is the one who paid for your cancer treatment. Don't go too far!"

The secretary was really angry, so the tone was particularly harsh.

This woman had merely stayed alone with Jian Qiao all night.

To be more precise, Jian Qiao sat on the sofa and listened to the woman chatter through the evening. The next morning, he paid her generously to compensate her for an entire night of dry mouth.

Nothing happened between the two. Jian Qiao, who'd suffered from incurable insomnia for years, needed to be accompanied at night, or listen to some meaningless words. It was the only way he could force back the nightmares that followed.

Man or woman, didn't matter. As long as the person could talk all night without letting deathly stillness and loneliness fall, Jian Qiao would welcome them. And his actions caused misunderstanding and speculation from the outside world, so a "scumbag" label was slapped on his head.

This woman had accompanied Jian Qiao for one night, but she obviously didn't know what the word "boundary" meant. From pursuit to chasing to crazy entanglement, the woman's behavior had escalated step by step, and then went completely out of control.

Half a month ago, the woman called and said she had cancer, begging Jian Qiao to marry her because of her short remaining time. Jian Qiao paid the woman half a million for cancer treatment, but he naturally ignored the marriage request.

The secretary reminded him to check the truth of the matter before handing out the money, but Jian Qiao had lightly said, "Life is very important, just give it to her."

Life is very important, so we must live well. This was the philosophy Jian Qiao had always believed in.

Only half a million to let a woman live, it was really not much for him.

But his good intentions didn't bring good results. The woman took a knife

from her bag, sliced through the secretary's arm, then thrust it madly into Jian

Qiao's heart.

The severe pain penetrated Jian Qiao's body, and his misty eyes showed surprise for the first time. He held the woman's stabbing wrist and asked in a hoarse voice, "Why?"

He didn't understand why the woman would kill.

"Because I love you, so even if you die, I'll take you with me! We'll never be separated." The woman was smiling agitatedly, with incomparable satisfaction on her happy face.

Love? Was it because of love again?

So, when love couldn't be obtained, did it destroy?

Jian Qiao lowered his head, looked at his blood-stained chest, and laughed for the first time.

The nightmare of so many years ago had finally floated up from the deep river bottom, grabbed hold of his ankle, and dragged him into the dark abyss that had been waiting for so long. The mist in his eyes finally cleared, but there was still no light in them. Death had taken away all the light.

***

"My lord, at last you're awake! How wonderful, the city of Desolette is saved!"

The moment he opened his eyes, these words entered Jian Qiao's ear.

He covered his chest and slowly sat up, only to find that the speaker was standing next to his bed with tears in his eyes, and he looked terribly frightened.

The other person had red hair and deep-set eyes, which was obviously the

look of European and American people. The words he'd just spoken were in English, not Chinese.

Jian Qiao pressed hard against his heart and felt a slight pain, which proved he was indeed alive.

The man standing by the bed grasped his thin wrist and did his best to console him, "My lord, please stop torturing yourself. Your parents have gone to heaven and will never come back. What you should do now is live well! Your people need you, your city needs you, your servants need you too! Please cast off these shackles of despair and be glad again!"

The man used Old English. The grammatical structure and wording were very different from modern English.

As a modern person, Jian Qiao should not understand these words, but what was amazing was that he could understand the meaning as if it were his mother tongue.

He immediately looked at a glass screen placed on the opposite side of the bed. From the blurred silhouette he saw a young man leaning against the pillow, a man as pale as himself, thin and gloomy, but his features were even more profound and beautiful than his own.

The former Jian Qiao had died, but now he seemed to be in another time and space, living as someone else.

Realizing this, Jian Qiao slowly lowered the hand pressing his chest. Instead he held his forehead and heaved a sigh.

His sigh was deep and exhausted, but he was grateful.

In any case, it was good for him to continue to live, even if he faced those

endless nightmares again, and was dragged into the abyss by another sudden

disaster....

Five years later...

Several luxurious horse-drawn carriages were driving in a thick, dense fog. In the depths of the heavy mist, one could faintly see a series of low, dilapidated stone buildings.

The doors of the carriages depicted a delicately lined anemone flower, the heraldic device of a certain nobleman.

The sky, the earth, and everything around them was gray, and the clammy air penetrated through the gaps in the windows, carrying the odor of mildew and rotten wood.

In the lead carriage, a man tightly closed the window and muttered, "God, the smell is so bad!"

He covered his nose and mouth, revealing only a pair of brown eyes filled with disgust.

He was wearing a white shirt and red velvet jacket, black velvet breeches, and leather boots. He had sprayed heavy perfume on his neck and wrists, his cheeks were powdered and colored with rouge, and his long red hair was tied behind his head with a white silk ribbon. He was as exquisitely dressed as a nobleman.

But he wasn't a nobleman. He was just a nobleman's servant.

As long as the master they served had great enough wealth, lower class people like him could live more luxuriously than third-rate nobility.

He took a perfumed handkerchief from his pocket, wafted it several times in the air, then complained in a mocking tone, "It's hard to imagine the great Grande would be such an inferior place!"

The other servant sitting beside him also sneered, "Five years ago, the city of Desolette was a hundred times better than this!"

But that wasn't true.

Desolette was named for the word "desolation". The city of Desolette was originally a deserted city. The people there were hungry from morning till night. They couldn't even afford enough clothes to cover their bodies.

Even the old earl and countess who ruled the city fell seriously ill because of the lack of food throughout the year. Later, they couldn't afford medical treatment, and eventually both passed away.

But Grande's name was from the word meaning "great". Grande City was indeed a great city, and it was also the richest city on the continent of Tortus. Although it was part of the Gloria Empire, it possessed completely independent political, military, and legislative powers.

It was said the wealth of the Lord of Grande was the highest in the entire continent of Tortus. If Charles III hadn't married the eldest daughter of the lord of Grande, he likely wouldn't have become king. The huge dowry and massive army brought by the queen helped the king clear all obstacles.

Therefore, Grande City was even more famous than Polsa, the capital of Gloria, and it was a paradise that everyone yearned for.

The two servants belittled Grande as nothing, but this was merely the inferiority complex of an upstart comparing himself to others. They came from the city of Desolette, which used to be the poorest part of Tortus.

But it wasn't anymore.

After the death of the previous earl, their young master Earl Jian Qiao made great efforts to develop floral horticulture and the mining industry. He invented unique fragrance-making techniques and jewelry processing technology, which lifted Desolette City out of poverty. In just five years it had become one of the richest cities on the continent of Tortus.

Today Desolette City was rich in rare perfumes, flowers, cosmetics, and jewelry, and these commodities were precisely the treasures every noble cherished most. They were willing to spend a lot of money to buy such luxury goods from Desolette.

Every year the taxes paid by the city of Desolette increased, and the increase was very large, which finally attracted the attention of Charles III. Because of this, in the beginning of spring that year, Earl Jian Qiao, the ruler of the city, received an invitation to attend the king's birthday celebration for the first time.

Going to Polsa to attend the king's birthday was a signal of whether a nobleman had reached the top of the pyramid. There was no doubt Jian Qiao had achieved it.

Because of this, his sobriquet had changed from the former "Lord of the Deserted City" to the current "Earl of Flowervale".

One would inevitably encounter bandits on the way to Polsa, so every nobleman brought his own knights, and these knights together were no small military force.

Charles III had no confidence in his ability to suppress this force. He made all the nobles go to Grande first to unload their weaponry and equipment and leave behind the members of the knightly orders. Then they could bring two servants into Polsa to participate in the banquet.

Jian Qiao had brought a dozen knights, and he had to arrange these people in Grande before he could meet the king.

The mist outside the window blurred Jian Qiao's vision.

He slightly pursed his lips, revealing a look of uneasiness.

Because of his childhood experience, he hated dense fog, but unfortunately the continent of Tortus was a place that was shrouded in rain and dense fog throughout the year. Clear sunny days were as rare as diamonds on the ground.

He rubbed his temples and between his eyebrows in an attempt to drive the memories of his past life from the depths of his mind, but he was distracted by a noise outside the window.

Through the dense mist, he could see the vague shape of a gallows. On it hung the body of a man with his head covered by a hood. The man's body kept twitching, and his feet were surrounded by a crowd of ragged commoners. These people were waving their fists and shouting loudly, "Hang him, hang him, hang him...."

The dying man's body soon grew stiff. After the executioner cut him down, a group of people swarmed around, quickly stripped his clothes, and then ran away.

Those who had managed to snatch the clothes gave triumphant smiles, those who hadn't wanted to swear, and the children clapped their hands and happily jumped about.

The pale corpse was in full view of onlookers without any covering, but it didn't cause alarm.

The people living here didn't seem to be affected by death, nor did they feel compassion. Since they couldn't get any sunshine year round, they naturally didn't know how it felt to bathe in warmth. The nobles above the common people only knew wasteful extravagance, indulgence, and vying for power.

This was the continent of Tortus, a land laden with poverty and callousness, but also full of opulence and sensual diversions.

People, plants, and animals, everything in this place grew savagely. Gray was its main color, and gloom was its most essential trait.

Jian Qiao stared at the empty gallows with unfocused eyes, then hastily looked away.

This place was like a reflection of his true heart, so he couldn't face it directly.

...****************...

The execution shut the nagging mouths of the two servants.

After passing through the small town in the fog, the great Grande was before them.

"It is said that Rege, the second son of the Duke of Grande, is a very domineering person. A few years ago, an earl lightly nudged his shoulder as he walked down the street, which offended him. He cut off the man's arm on the spot."

After holding back for a while the servant spoke again. He couldn't control his mouth.

The other servant looked at the master who was sitting in the front seat with his eyes closed, dozing. He whispered in agreement, "That's true, I heard the same thing! Lord Rege's temper is very hot. Gloria's most powerful nobles don't dare to be presumptuous before him."

"So we must be careful this time not to offend this Lord Rege. Although he isn't the eldest son of the Duke of Grande and has no inheritance rights, his sister is the Queen of Gloria. Her Royal Highness will definitely pressure her father to pass on the title of duke to her younger brother."

"Ah, that's for sure. Lord Rege will certainly inherit Grande and become the most powerful nobleman in Tortus."

"They say his only hobby is collecting beauties. Should we buy some women

from a bordello to present to him?"

"It's best to prepare a few. When I get to Grande, I'll go out and inquire about the most famous madam in the city."

The two murmured to discuss. Jian Qiao, who was sitting in the front seat, suddenly raised his hand and swayed it left and right. This meant not to make trouble.

The two servants hurriedly halted their thoughts about finding beauties.

In Jian Qiao's opinion, the only way to maintain a good relationship with the legendary Duke's son was to stay away from him and not meet him at any time. Since he didn't know the other man's nature, there would be no chance of a contradiction.

However, this really wasn't so. When a person's edge is too sharp, even if they don't meet, other sharp-edged people will be rancorous or even hostile.

Contradictions always grow in the dark.

...****************...

A tall man was holding a paintbrush and slowly applying color to the canvas.

On the red velvet sofa not far in front of him, a curvaceous noble lady was reclining lazily, wearing a thin Roman gown. Her golden hair slid down her curved shoulders, spreading all over the ground. In this country full of heavy gray fog, blond hair was as precious as sunshine.

People with blond hair were always able to attract a lot of love and favor.

The lady pulled the neckline of her gown very low to reveal her décolletage,

glanced down at herself to confirm she was lovely, and then looked at the man

who was painting intently.

The man also had dazzling blond hair. It was tied behind his head with a black silk ribbon, revealing an extremely handsome face. This face was prone to making people absent-minded. They couldn't help but think of the god of the sun who lived high in the sky and rarely saw the earth year round.

The man wasn't like the noblemen nowadays who liked luxurious dress. Generally speaking, he was a bit rough. He wore a white silk shirt unbuttoned, revealing a broad chest. Both sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, showing his strong forearms. Below this he wore tight-fitting trousers and a pair of black boots.

The simple clothes gave prominence to his exceedingly tall and straight figure.

The silk shirt exuded a unique luster and appeared very textured. This was a rare fabric from the East that very few people in the entire aristocracy could afford. The price of a single piece of cloth was worth more than its weight in gold.

However, when worn by the man, the luster of this expensive fabric was far less attractive than the sexy creases that appeared when his strong muscles stretched the fabric.

Have you ever seen a lion patrolling the savanna? As they prowl, the muscles of their bodies tense, bunch up, and lengthen. The untamed fierceness is fascinating and unnerving.

The man standing before the canvas was such a lion. Even in a static pose, he was full of breathtaking vitality.

He was dangerous, but at the same time casual and indolent.

The lady gazed at him with infatuation, but his eyes were only on his

paintbrush and the canvas.

Suddenly, a man dressed as a nobleman opened the door and hurried into the studio. Without looking at the beautiful lady, he walked straight to the blond man and murmured in a low voice, "Rege, the Earl of Flowervale is here. His perfume shop and jewelry store robbed us of a lot of business. Would you like to meet him? Don't forget, Miss Lilith turned down your invitation because of her infatuation with him. Haven't you been pursuing her recently? He's your rival!"

The blond man stepped back two steps, squinted at the lady lying on the sofa, and did not react to these provocative words.

The nobleman gritted his teeth and spoke again, "Rege, I know you have your principles, but Grande is your territory. The Earl of Flowervale robbed your interests and seduced your woman in your own domain. Isn't that an offence to you?"

Rege hooked the corner of his lips, a trace of contempt in his unconcerned smile.

But this contempt was not aimed at the Earl of Flowervale, but at the nobleman in front of him. He knew too well what this man wanted to encourage him to do. A small lord without a fief naturally could not offend an earl with an independent city-state, so he needed a strong backing.

He meant Rege to be this backing.

Rege stared at the canvas, then looked up at the lady who wasn't very far away. He continued to add details with a brush.

As the lord's eyes followed, he thought of a better argument. "Lately, everyone in fashionable society is saying that Lord Rege chases women around all day, but the Earl of Flowervale is chased by women all day. In terms of charm, the Earl of Flowervale is superior overall. When someone compares you like this and you lose, aren't you offended?"

Rege's busy brush stopped on the canvas.

At this moment, the lady lying on the sofa spoke up. "It's said the Earl of Flowervale has the power to charm people at a glance. Anyone who's seen him falls madly in love with him. God, is he coming to Grande? I can't wait!"

The lady held her pounding heart with her snow-white hands. Her cheeks blushed shyly.

With a soft click, Rege threw away the paintbrush in his hand and picked up the black coat that was randomly placed on the windowsill. His voice sneered, "Let's go and meet this Earl of Flowervale. If he's nothing like the legend and has no charm or elegance at all, I'll grab him by the back of the neck and parade him up and down the street. I'll let everyone appreciate this so-called charm."

Rege strode along the winding corridor, and several knights in silver armor accompanied him.

An attendant came up panting, holding a long sword studded with jewels.

The Duke of Grande, who met him head on, asked harshly, "Where are you going? What are you doing with so many people?"

Rege glanced at him carelessly. His steps never paused.

Seeing his son's back quickly disappear, the Duke of Grande was so angry his head began to smoke, but there was nothing he could do. Rege's character was too strong, he wasn't under his control at all.

The walls on both sides of the corridor were covered with portraits of beauties. Some had blonde hair and blue eyes, some had red hair and brown eyes, some wore a veil or wore splendid clothes, and some were completely naked. All without exception were love objects Rege had ardently pursued, unrivalled beauties who were famous throughout Tortus.

Just like a hunter will display the head of a stag above a fireplace, these lifelike paintings and the devastatingly beautiful women depicted in them were Rege's trophies.

In the Gloria Empire, and in the entire continent, there was no woman he couldn't get.

However, in recent times, he really had suffered a few setbacks. Miss Lilith, the lady he had been enthusiastically pursuing, had turned down his overtures because she was infatuated with the Earl of Flowervale.

This aroused his competitive spirit and curiosity.

Even if Lord Duncan hadn't mentioned it, Rege would have found time to meet this rival in love.

The Earl of Flowervale—this title was certainly very romantic, but he didn't know if the man would turn out to be unworthy of the name.

Rege buckled his long sword around his waist as his thoughts rambled. When he reached the end of the corridor, he stopped out of habit. His gaze went to the painting on the highest part of the wall.

Unlike the previous portraits, this was a panoramic scene. A deep blue spring emerged from a lush, green forest, and a slender girl lounged at the water's edge. Her body was covered with white gauze as thin as a cicada's wings. Her golden hair was scattered in the water like clouds and mist, beautiful as an elf. She was turned slightly to the side, looking at the person outside the frame, and her thin shoulders gave a slightly frail feeling.

There was no doubt her skin was crystal clear, her figure was peerlessly graceful, her temperament was veiled in mystery, but her face was blank.

As her creator, Rege hadn't even portrayed her facial features.

At that moment, Rege looked up at the blank face with yearning and confusion in his eyes.

Lord Duncan came up to him and asked in a low voice, "Why haven't you painted her face yet?"

Rege who was still staring at the painting shook his head. "A dream can't be painted with a mortal paintbrush. Unless God holds my hand and leads my consciousness personally, I can't paint even a ten-thousandth of her beauty. She's the goddess of my dreams."

Lord Duncan nodded with sudden enlightenment, but the moment he lowered his eyes he revealed a look of disapproval.

What dream goddess? It was a delusion, nothing more. Weren't real women beautiful?

...****************...

"Why did we stop?" Rege opened the curtains and looked outside.

He was sitting in Lord Duncan's carriage with a mountain eagle painted on the door, the emblem of the Duncan family. The carriage was now parked on a narrow country road. On both sides of the road there were steep ridges. Below them were fields planted with grain seedlings.

If another carriage approached from the opposite direction, the road would definitely be blocked. If the two sides wanted to pass each other, the only way was to send one of the carriages back until it retreated to a broad section of road hundreds of meters away, then stop on the side of the road where it was wide enough.

Lord Duncan pointed to the road engulfed by thick fog and said triumphantly, "No need to go further, we'll stop here. We'll meet the Earl of Flowervale on a narrow path. He's certain to recognize my family coat of arms. Based on superior wealth, power, and position, he'll definitely ask me to give way first. When I don't let him by, see what he does."

In an instant, Rege understood Lord Duncan's plan.

When the Earl of Flowervale saw the family crest, he would think the other party was just a lowly lord. He would never take the initiative to retreat.

And Lord Duncan wouldn't step back either. The two sides would fight.

After the hostilities began, what would happen next? Obviously the more powerful side would send knights over to smash the ignorant carriage, cut the horses from their traces, and shove the carriage down the ridge. The people inside would tumble over and eat a mouthful of black mud.

All nobles did such things, because they had long been accustomed to rampant bullying and tyrannically abusing their power.

In the rigorously hierarchical continent of Tortus, people with high titles could punish people with low titles at will. That was the right granted to them by law.

But if the Earl of Flowervale tried this, he would fall into Lord Duncan's trap. Because he would never imagine that sitting in Lord Duncan's humble carriage was the legitimate son of the Grande family.

When he insulted Lord Duncan, he was also insulting Rege. For a duke's son it would be an unbearable humiliation.

And when that happened, no matter how cruelly Rege retaliated, it would be reasonable, fair, and legal. Not even the King could complain.

In order to calm Rege's anger, the Earl of Flowervale would have to bow down and issue a formal apology, then give up a huge sum in recompense.

When he thought of this, Rege curled his lip with boredom.

Lord Duncan knew he was too impatient to play such simplistic tricks, so he tempted him, "Don't you want the Earl of Flowervale's perfume-making technology? Don't you want to learn how his beautiful jewels are crafted? When he falls into our trap we can get these two fortunes from him fair and square. Your sister's position in the palace seems to be precarious, she needs your support very much."

These final words hit Rege's weak spot. His eyes darkened slightly, then his expression of contempt and impatience faded.

Yes, he needed money and status, otherwise he would not be able to protect the people he cherished most.

During their conversation, the clatter of horses' hooves on the road surface came from the thick fog. A red carriage gradually appeared, then quickly came to a halt a hundred meters away.

"My lord, the road ahead is blocked by a carriage with a mountain eagle painted on the front. It's the emblem of the Duncan family," the coachman reported.

Duncan? That seemed to be a petty lord who didn't even have a fief.

Jian Qiao's two servants poked their heads out of the carriage window, one left and one right. They examined the scene carefully, out of fear the coachman would make a mistake and offend one of the great nobles of Grande. After all, the coats of arms of many families were similar.

"Ah, how surprising that all his manservants wear powder, such extravagance!" Lord Duncan spoke in a sour tone as he stared at the two servants across the way.

Nowadays there was a trend of luxury and excess. Both men and women used perfumed powder to whiten their faces and rouge to redden their cheeks when going out. But fine powder and rouge were very expensive. Generally only nobles would beautify themselves like this, the common people couldn't afford it.

This was the first time Lord Duncan saw a servant wearing cosmetics. It was not a small expense.

If even the servants were dressed so gaudily, what was the appearance of the Earl of Flowervale himself?

Lord Duncan drew a corresponding picture in his heart. The Earl must be painted white, cheeks dyed red, dripping with jewels, glittering with gold, and dressed extremely lavishly.

According to current aesthetics, such was considered beguiling and beautiful.

Rege, who had also painted this grand picture in his mind, unconsciously raised his thick eyebrows. His eyes filled with heartfelt disgust.

He could admire women who wore heavy makeup, but he couldn't stand it on men. The fake white skin and red cheeks resembled a clown, and the smell of powder was more repellent than dirty water in a gutter.

That wasn't beauty, it was repulsive!

A man should show his power like a lion.

Thinking of this, Rege had already lost his appetite. He closed the curtains and said impatiently, "I want to go back now. I'm firmly convinced the Earl of Flowervale is a man of false reputation."

"My lord, before you leave, I beg you to consider the situation of Queen Moen." Lord Duncan hit the key point.

Rege rubbed his forehead. His voice was filled with taxed patience, "Then we'll wait. I just hope the honorable appearance of the Earl of Flowervale won't injure my eyes."

At the same time, the two gorgeously-dressed male servants had retracted into their carriage. They said confidently, "It is indeed the emblem of the Duncan family. He's blocking our road. We should send over a few knights to teach this ignorant man a lesson!"

Jian Qiao stared at the motionless carriage on the other side and waved his hand. "Let the Knights not act rashly and wait patiently. I believe the other party has also seen our family crest. Based on courtesy and respect he should take the initiative to give in. But he shows no intention of yielding, which means he's relying on something. This Lord Duncan has a knack for business. He's a shrewd man, and shrewd men don't commit acts of folly."

The two male servants had long been accustomed to obeying their master's instructions in everything. They quickly stretched out their hands and signed to settle down the carriages behind them.

The knights who had drawn their swords and prepared to defend the dignity of their master saw this gesture, and they all stayed in the carriages.

Lord Duncan hadn't realized what the people opposite were signaling. Rege revealed an interested smile. "The Earl of Flowervale won't come to offend you."

"What?" Lord Duncan replied blankly.

In his concept, nobles didn't know what courtesy, restraint, or tolerance were. What they did best was humiliate or even kill those who offended them. If a great aristocrat was provoked by a person of low status, and did not retaliate, he would certainly not be able to gain a foothold in the upper class.

His weakness could cause him to lose dignity and thus lose respect. A person who wasn't respected would inevitably become a target for other nobles to trample on. He wouldn't be able to protect himself at all.

To put it bluntly, the so-called great nobles were just a group of vultures. Chasing blood, hunting for prey, and eating carrion were their biggest hobbies.

The Earl of Flowervale, who'd entered the upper echelon for the first time, needed to establish his prestige. He couldn't tolerate being picked on by a little lord. Once word of this matter spread, he would be ridiculed throughout the empire. Not to mention the great nobles, even commoners would look down on him.

It was even possible that Charles III might drive him out of Polsa and ban him from attending the birthday celebration.

Fighting for right of way on this road was equivalent to fighting for his own dignity. He would never yield.

Duncan was firmly convinced of it.

But matters exceeded his expectations. The red carriage was parked motionless in the thick fog. There was no angry scolding. No armed knights in full battle rig jumped out to slash at them with swords.

The two snow-white horses standing in front of the carriage raised their necks and sneezed twice. That was the only movement.

Duncan waited for an hour, then another hour. His elated expression slowly distorted into irrepressible anger. What the hell was the other side doing over there? Why didn't he march over here in a fit of temper?

Rege, who had originally been extremely impatient, held his forehead and laughed in a low voice. The Earl of Flowervale's fashion sense might be rubbish, but his brain was quite clever.