"Using yourself as a test subject? That's insane."
Having inherited the goblins' bloodline modification techniques, Hel knew better than anyone how dangerous bloodline transplantation really was. Calling it a nine-in-ten-death procedure was no exaggeration. No wonder those involved in bloodline research were labeled lunatics—and why the Savant government worked so hard to suppress them. If such people were ever allowed to grow unchecked, how many transcendents would even remain in Savant?
"Well, hopefully my academy life will be a little quieter," Hel said with a faint smile. He then looked at Tina, still collapsed weakly on the ground, and extended his small hand toward her.
"Need a hand? If you'd like, I can help you transfer to another academy."
"But… what would I have to give in return?"
Tina didn't immediately accept his kindness. Though she might've been tricked by unscrupulous brokers before, she was no fool. Growing up in the back alleys had taught her a simple truth: nothing in the world is free.
"There's no price," Hel said easily. "Let's just call it… making a friend."
Tina hesitated. She knew better than anyone that 'free' was the most expensive word in the world—but she also understood another truth: a wise person bends with the wind. Noble youths prized face above all. Hel seemed kind enough, yes—but she didn't know him, not really.
So, swallowing her anxiety, she reached out her hand—only to freeze when she saw how filthy it was. Her face paled instantly. She hurriedly pulled her hand back, wiped it against the inside of her cloak until the grime was mostly gone, and only then, with visible fear, offered it again.
She had no idea whether this noble young master would be offended by her clumsy manners—but she did know that the worst thing she could do now was to refuse him.
Hel, however, didn't even glance at the dirt. He simply grasped her hand firmly and pulled her to her feet—and even invited her into his carriage.
And so, the convoy bound for the Nation of Scholars resumed its journey.
They rolled on beneath the afternoon sun, heading ever deeper toward the southern valleys. Overhead, a plump white pigeon flapped its wings and soared past them, disappearing into the bright southern sky.
To the north of Savant lay Caramel City—though, truth be told, that hadn't been its original name.
Only after the Caramel family spent generations buying up nearly every house and piece of land—nine-tenths of the entire city and most of the surrounding countryside—did the place become known as Caramel City.
It was, in every sense, their city—their fortress, their dominion. Even the royal family of Savant itself wouldn't dare meddle in its affairs.
After all, Caramel City sat within the borders of Uniel, an empire where slavery still persisted. And so, within these walls, aside from the Caramel family and their loyal vassals, nearly everyone else was a slave.
Even travelers passing through, or locals whose families had lived on this land for generations—once they stepped inside Caramel territory, they were treated as property of the family.
Wealthy merchants, fallen nobles—none escaped that fate. In the eyes of the Caramel family, the only people worthy of being called "human" were other great nobles with power and influence.
The family's arrogance came from three things: their web of royal marriages linking them to neighboring kingdoms, their vast, nation-crushing wealth, and the existence of a secret army—a battalion of high-ranking transcendents known as the Blades of Caramel.
It was said that this force alone could topple an entire nation. But for many years, the family's patriarch had kept it hidden away from the public eye.
Inside the study of Caramel Keep, an old man with a head of white hair slammed his palm across the face of a young family member, knocking him sprawling to the floor.
"Montgomery!" the old duke roared.
"How many times have I told you—no trouble! Don't cause trouble! And what do you do? You go out and stir up a disaster!
We've already lost our markets in the Nation of Sacrifice and the Nation of Freedom, and the family's finances are strained as it is—and you still have the nerve to make things worse?"
"Father!" the young man cried out from the floor.
"That bastard killed your two granddaughters! He cost us the market in the Nation of Sacrifice! How could I not avenge them?"
"Fool!"
The Duke snatched up his cane and raised it high, ready to strike again—but a middle-aged man nearby quickly stepped between them.
"Father, please—he was only trying to avenge our family. Even if he made mistakes, at least his heart was in the right place. And… what if his ambush had actually succeeded?"
"Succeeded?" the Duke's beard bristled in fury.
"You're hoping he succeeded?" He glared at his eldest son, eyes blazing with fury.
"If he'd succeeded, the first ones the Church would suspect would be us! We'd have the royal family pressing us from one side and the Church hunting us from the other—and you think we could still do business after that?"
"But Father," Montgomery muttered, "even if we did strike, the Church has no proof…"
The Duke froze—then brought his cane down hard across Montgomery's backside.
"Proof? You talk to me about proof?!" he snarled.
"When you ravaged that fallen noble's daughter, what proof did you need then? When you drag girls from the countryside every night, what excuse do you use? You think anyone ever asked you for evidence?"
He kicked the young man twice more, his voice echoing with bitter rage.
"Listen well, Montgomery—this world is survival of the fittest. The strong are right, and the weak are meat for the table! If not for the centuries of power and connections our family has built, we'd have been someone else's feast long ago!"
Finally, the eldest son grabbed his father's arm, pulling him back gently. He gave Montgomery a look of thinly veiled contempt, then turned to the Duke with a soothing tone.
"Enough, Father. He's still young—let him go out and wander for a few years. A little hardship might finally make him grow up."
"Hmph. We'll see about that later." The Duke took a few deep, ragged breaths before turning his sharp eyes back to his eldest.
"Where are the Blades of Caramel now?"
"They should be closing in on the unit Montgomery sent out earlier," the eldest replied.
"Good. And the other matter—have you given the order?"
"Of course, Father. When the time comes…" A cold smile crept across his face. "…that Mandrake Duke will die in the Nation of Scholars."