Chapter 41: The Den of the Social World

The ten-day journey was nothing short of torture for Zenon.
A swaying carriage, an inefficient route, tasteless travel rations—everything was far removed from the rational and comfortable environment he had built back in the Arkwright territory.

When the massive gates of the royal capital, Londinium, finally came into view, Gray shouted with excitement.
Zenon, however, felt only relief that this unpleasant trip was at last coming to an end.

The royal capital was vast—its people, its goods, its very energy—all were on an entirely different scale from Arclight.
Yet, what Zenon saw was not its splendor, but the inefficiencies lurking beneath it.

The tangled maze of streets born from unplanned expansion.
The ornamental fountains that disrupted the flow of pedestrians.
The irrational zoning that so clearly displayed the divide between rich and poor.

A gigantic labyrinth.
To Zenon, the city’s structure was nothing more than a flawed system.

The Arkwright family’s mansion in the capital stood on prime land near the city center, but it had been unused for years and carried a faint scent of dust and neglect.

The old butler who greeted them bowed with an expression that was a mix of disdain and pity.
No doubt the “third son from the frontier” had already become a favorite topic of gossip in the capital’s noble circles.

“Welcome back from your long journey, Zenon-sama. His Majesty the King has granted you an audience in three days’ time.”

“I see.”

Zenon replied curtly and immediately ordered maps of the capital and genealogies of the major noble houses to be brought to him.

A battle in enemy territory always began with reconnaissance.

Gray, however, could not hide his unease.

“Zenon-sama, these three days before the audience are crucial. It is our chance to show the nobles that we are not crude countryfolk. We’ve already received several invitations to evening parties. I recommend we start with a visit to the neutral Marquis’ household…”

“Useless.”

Zenon dismissed the suggestion in a single word.

“My objective is direct negotiation with the king. Catering to other nobles’ moods along the way is an unproductive waste—of time, of effort, and of facial muscles.”

“Y-you can’t be serious! Socializing is the true battlefield of nobility!”

“Then I refuse to step onto that battlefield. I fight by my own rules.”

Yet, that firm conviction was shattered the very next day.

A single letter from the royal house arrived—an invitation, in name only, to a soirée hosted by the Chancellor.
A line in the missive made the order absolute: His Majesty the King may also attend.

“…Tch. What a nuisance.”

Zenon clicked his tongue in irritation.
This was clearly a test—to evaluate the “foreign element” that was him within the Petri dish of the royal capital’s aristocracy.
It seemed escape was not an option.

That night, the Chancellor’s mansion, famed as the most extravagant in the capital, was filled to the brim with nobles clad in glittering attire.

Radiant chandeliers illuminated jewel-studded gowns and uniforms embroidered with gold and silver thread, creating a dazzling spectacle.

The air reeked of sweet perfume and false laughter—born from meaningless small talk and subtle probing.
All of it swirled together into one massive vortex of vanity.

(…The epitome of inefficiency.)

Standing at the entrance, Zenon felt an overwhelming disgust.

This space contained not a shred of productivity—only self-indulgence, pride, and greed.
How many starving peasants could be fed with the cost of this one night?
How many miles of road could be paved if all these jewels were sold?

His mind began to convert everything before him into numbers—into cost-benefit analyses.

“Is that him…?”
“The third son of Arkwright?”
“How beautiful—and yet, how cold his eyes are…”

Whispers spread through the hall as Zenon and Gray entered.
A mix of curiosity, contempt, and faint caution rippled through the crowd.

“Ah, Zenon-sama! What an honor to have you here!”

Several stout nobles surrounded him, smiling in a way that was both flattering and calculating.

“Word of your territory’s success has reached even the capital. Tell us, what sort of magic have you used?”

A roundabout probe.
Zenon cross-referenced their faces with the noble registry in his memory, then replied flatly:

“No magic. I merely cut unnecessary expenses, removed corrupt personnel, and judged all matters by their cost-effectiveness. That’s all.”

The bluntness of the statement left the nobles momentarily speechless.
A string of unvarnished facts, devoid of any social grace.
They could only exchange awkward smiles, unsure how to respond.

“…Zenon-sama, perhaps you could be a bit more diplomatic…”

Gray whispered behind him, but Zenon ignored it.

He glanced at the glass of champagne a waiter had brought and frowned.

(Sugar and alcohol—the worst combination for sound judgment.)

He likewise ignored the colorful hors d’oeuvres.

(Pretty to look at, but nutritionally unbalanced. Eating such things would only reduce afternoon efficiency.)

Even here, his thoughts were no different from when he was managing his territory.
This so-called social world was, to him, nothing but an irrational, incomprehensible den of chaos.

Leaving the nobles behind, he moved to the wall and began quietly observing the crowd.
Who was speaking intimately with whom.
Which factions held what influence.
Even from this meaningless chatter, useful data could be extracted.

But to the nobles of the capital, his “rational” behavior appeared very differently.

“How arrogant…”
“He ignores our greetings?”
“As expected of a frontier upstart—no sense of decorum.”

Zenon’s reputation was steadily—and irreversibly—sinking in real time.

He, however, cared nothing for their opinions.
His only concern was how to escape this unproductive space as soon as possible.

Then it happened.

The lively chatter in the hall died down all at once.
Every gaze turned toward the grand staircase.

A young man was descending gracefully, several attendants in tow.

Golden hair gleamed under the chandelier.
He wore a spotless white military uniform bearing the royal crest, every detail immaculate.
His face was sharp, his posture confident, and his eyes burned with the light of justice—a leader of men.

Crown Prince Alphonse von Belstein.

He noticed Zenon.

And the righteous light in his eyes hardened into unmistakable hostility.

Zenon met that gaze head-on, expressionless.

In the very heart of the den known as high society—

The light of a kingdom built on tradition and chivalry,
And the shadow of a frontier that worshiped logic and efficiency—

Two young lions faced each other, and in that instant, both instinctively understood:
They would never see eye to eye.

Silent, yet fierce sparks flared between them.