The southern frontier of the Empire finally appeared before them.

After thirty days of relentless travel, Tyrion and Hammel reined in their horses atop a ridge overlooking the border.

Unlike the northern provinces, there were no vast farmlands here.

Only towering sea cliffs crashing endlessly against jagged black rocks.

Dark fortifications carved into the stone itself.

Steel watchtowers rising like skeletal fingers toward the sky.

And below—a sprawling coastal market clinging to the cliffs.

The place was alive.

Too alive.

Merchants shouted over one another, voices hoarse and aggressive as they hawked salted fish, strange sea-creatures, blackened shells, and relics dredged from the depths. Sealers dragged massive carcasses across blood-stained stone, their boots slipping in slick trails of gore.

The air was thick with salt, decay, sweat—

and something fouler.

Women screamed from alleyways and upper balconies—some in drunken laughter, others in sharp, desperate cries that twisted into agony. Rough hands grabbed, bargains were made in hushed tones, and lewd whistles cut through the chaos.

Pirates roamed openly, their laughter loud and crude, blades hanging at their sides without fear. Some staggered through the streets, drunk beyond reason, bumping into others like they might collapse at any moment. Fights broke out without warning—shouting, cursing, fists slamming into flesh.

Nearby, the deafening clang of metal rang out from smithies carved into the cliffside. Sparks flew as blacksmiths hammered relentlessly, forging weapons and ship parts alike. Massive hulls of half-built ships loomed over the docks, workers shouting orders as they hauled timber and iron into place.

Everything moved.

Everything shouted.

Everything felt on the verge of breaking.

The people here were different.

Dark-skinned men and women moved through the chaos with hardened expressions, their eyes sharp and unwelcoming. Their clothing was worn but practical, dyed in deep blues and blacks, blending with the sea and stone. Many bore scars—marks of survival in a land where the ocean itself seemed hostile.

Even the gulls circling above sounded less like birds—

and more like something screaming.

And beyond it all—the territory of House Valyrion.

The moment they crossed the massive black stone gate marking the entrance to the Southern Province—

everything changed.

Imperial soldiers who had been patrolling the roads vanished.

Not retreated.

Disappeared.

Only the people of the South remained.

Watching.

Silent.

Hammel smiled faintly.

"So..."

"We've entered Valyrion territory."

Tyrion looked around in confusion, his gaze lingering on the chaotic market below.

"They're gone..."

Hammel nodded.

"The Emperor's authority ends here."

"For the most part."

He turned toward Tyrion.

"You should remove your mask now."

"We're on the same side."

"The son of House Valyrion has nothing to fear inside his own domain."

Tyrion hesitated.

Then slowly removed the black mask covering his face.

Almost instantly—figures emerged from every direction.

From rooftops overlooking the market.

From watchtowers embedded in the cliffs.

From the shadows between merchant stalls and sealing docks.

Dozens.

Then hundreds.

Southern soldiers wearing black-and-navy armour bearing the sea-dragon crest of House Valyrion surrounded them.

The captain stepped forward.

The instant he recognized Tyrion—

he dropped to one knee.

Every soldier followed.

"Young Master Tyrion."

"Welcome home."

Even the merchants and sealers paused.

Some bowed their heads.

Others simply watched in silence.

Tyrion blinked.

"...Uh..."

Before he could answer—several soldiers surrounded Hammel.

Steel swords were drawn.

Crossbows aimed directly at him.

"Holy Knight Hammel."

"You are under arrest."

"Do not resist."

Hammel's expression remained calm.

His right hand slowly rested upon the hilt of his sword.

One movement.

That was all it would take.

Tyrion immediately panicked.

"W-Wait..."

"I..."

His mind became completely blank.

He had no idea how nobles were supposed to command armies.

The soldiers never moved.

Neither did Hammel.

The tension became unbearable.

Even the market seemed to hold its breath—

though distant screams, drunken shouting, and the clang of metal still echoed faintly from below.

"Tyrion."

Hammel's calm voice brought him back to reality.

The holy knight never looked away from the soldiers.

"I believe they're waiting for your order."

"...R-right!"

Tyrion straightened awkwardly.

"Release him."

"He is my guest."

The soldiers exchanged uncertain glances.

No one moved.

Then a heavily armoured commander stepped forward.

His rank insignia identified him as one of the Southern Commanders.

He bowed respectfully.

"Young Master."

"We have received direct orders."

"Every Church-affiliated individual is to be captured..."

"...alive or dead."

Silence.

Something inside Tyrion shifted.

The fear disappeared from his face.

A slow smile appeared instead.

Then—

he laughed.

"Hahaha..."

The commander frowned.

Tyrion looked directly into his eyes.

"You've all become rather arrogant."

"I suppose..."

"I'll have to teach you some manners."

His voice became colder.

"Hammel is a guest of House Valyrion."

"Nothing else matters."

His eyes swept across every soldier—

and even the watching crowd.

"Not the Emperor."

"Not the Empire."

"Not even the Church."

"When someone enters my house as a guest..."

"They are under my protection."

He took one step forward.

"And you think..."

"...you have the right to argue with me?"

The commander's expression changed.

"Young Master, I only intended—"

Tyrion never let him finish.

"Hammel."

A brief pause.

Then Tyrion spoke with absolute authority.

"Kill him."

The commander barely had time to widen his eyes.

A silver flash crossed the air.

Hammel's sword left its sheath.

One strike.

Clean.

Effortless.

The commander's enchanted armour split apart as though it were paper.

His body separated into two halves before either piece struck the ground.

Silence.

Blood stained the black stone road, slowly seeping toward the edge of the cliff.

Some of it dripped down into the sea below.

Hammel calmly returned his sword to its sheath.

Click.

Every soldier froze.

No one dared breathe.

Even the hardened sealers and merchants stood motionless, their expressions unreadable.

Then—as if rehearsed countless times—every one of them stepped aside simultaneously.

They stood in perfect formation.

Creating a straight path toward Castle Valyrion.

Tyrion walked forward without another word.

His cloak fluttered behind him like a shadow.

His expression remained completely indifferent.

Like a true heir of the South.

No one noticed—

that inside his mind...

complete chaos had erupted.

What the hell did I just do?!

Why did I order him to kill that man?!

I only wanted them to release Hammel!

Oh God...

I've already ordered someone's execution...

What kind of world have I transmigrated into?!

His heartbeat pounded against his chest.

His palms were soaked with sweat beneath his gloves.

Yet his face remained perfectly calm.

Every soldier.

Every merchant.

Every sealer watching him saw only one thing—The terrifying confidence of Tyrion Valyrion.

None of them realized...

...their young master was seconds away from having a panic attack.

As they continued deeper into the Southern Province—

the deafening marketplace slowly disappeared behind them.

The shouting merchants.

The crashing waves.

The drunken pirates.

One by one...

their voices faded.

Only disciplined footsteps remained.

The roads widened.

Every building became taller.

Stronger.

Military barracks replaced taverns.

Training grounds stretched across entire districts.

Thousands of soldiers sparred in perfect formation.

Steel clashed against steel.

War drums echoed through the streets.

Everywhere Tyrion looked—

soldiers.

Knights.

Officers.

Siege engineers.

No ordinary civilians remained.

This...

was the military heart of House Valyrion.

Far ahead—

Castle Valyrion finally came into view.

It did not resemble the elegant white castles of the northern Empire.

It looked more like a fortress carved from the bones of a mountain.

Black volcanic stone formed walls thicker than city streets.

Hundreds of towers overlooked both the sea and the surrounding cliffs.

Every wall carried enormous siege weapons.

Harpoon launchers large enough to pierce some dragons.

Chain-linked twin ballistae designed to bind wings in mid-flight.

Barbed harpoons enchanted through alchemy so they burrowed deep into dragon scales before unfolding like hooks.

Massive cannons reinforced with mana crystals lined the battlements. 

Beside them rested gigantic metallic nets woven from alchemically treated steel, capable of restraining creatures many times larger than ships themselves.

Rows of dragon-killing spears stood ready behind the walls—each longer than the masts of imperial warships. and valyrion fleet and warships

Even the defensive walls shimmered faintly.

Countless magic formations covered every stone.

Alchemy.

Enchantments.

Barrier arrays.

The entire castle had been transformed into a single impregnable weapon.

A fortress built not against men...

but against monsters.

As they approached the main gate—Tyrion noticed something unexpected.

Nearly fifty maids stood waiting in perfect formation.

All dressed in elegant black-and-blue uniforms bearing the crest of House Valyrion.

Yet...

his eyes stopped on only one.

The woman standing in the very centre.

She looked to be in her early forties.

Graceful.

Dignified.

Yet tears continuously rolled down her cheeks.

Tyrion frowned.

...Why?

His heart suddenly tightened.

A warmth spread throughout his chest.

Something familiar.

Something comforting.

His horse had barely stopped when his body moved on its own.

Without permission.

Without thought.

He jumped from the saddle.

Walked forward.

Then—fell to his knees before her.

The woman gasped.

The next instant she wrapped both arms around him.

Holding him as though afraid he might disappear again.

"My young master..."

Her voice trembled.

"You've finally come home..."

Tyrion could not understand why—but tears also began forming within his own eyes.

His mind resisted.

Yet this body's memories overflowed like a broken dam.

The scent.

Her embrace.

Her warmth.

Everything felt...

like home.

The woman gently wiped away her tears before helping him stand.

"Master..."

She forced herself to smile.

"Please stand."

"There are many people watching."

She carefully brushed the dust from his clothes before leading him toward the castle entrance.

Behind them—several knights approached Hammel.

"Hand over your sword."

Hammel remained motionless.

"No."

His hand rested calmly upon the hilt.

"I do not surrender my weapon."

The atmosphere immediately became tense.

Tyrion turned around and raised one hand.

"He is a guest of House Valyrion."

"Treat him accordingly."

One senior knight bowed respectfully—

yet did not move.

"Forgive us, Young Master."

"But guests still obey House Valyrion's laws."

He looked directly at Hammel.

"Holy Knight."

"You will accompany us."

"Under our supervision."

For a brief moment—

Hammel and the knights stared at one another.

Neither side stepped back.

Eventually—

Hammel nodded once.

"I expected nothing less."

Tyrion watched them for a moment...

until the distance between them slowly increased.

For some reason—his thoughts no longer remained on Hammel.

Instead—they were being swallowed by memories that did not belong to him.

The woman beside him gently guided him toward a side corridor.

Instead of entering through the magnificent central hall—they descended briefly into an inner passage before climbing another staircase hidden inside the walls.

Tyrion finally asked,

"...Why are we taking this route?"

"Wouldn't the main hall be faster?"

The woman smiled softly.

"We must first arrange suitable quarters for your guest."

Only then did Tyrion suddenly freeze.

Hammel...

Right...

I completely forgot about him...

The realization startled him.

His own memories were beginning to merge with Tyrion Valyrion's.

Names.

Places.

Emotions.

They surfaced naturally now.

The woman walking beside him...

was not merely a servant.

She was his mother's elder sister.

His aunt by blood.

After Lady Valyrion move to capital of southern , she had remained in the castle.

Serving both as Mistress of the Household...

and Minister of House Affairs.

She had practically raised Tyrion herself.

Tyrion looked toward her.

"...Au—"

He tried to say,

"Aunt."

Instead—his mouth betrayed him.

"...Mom."

The woman stopped walking.

Her eyes widened.

For several long seconds—neither of them spoke.

Then...

fresh tears rolled silently down her cheeks.

Without another word—she gently held his hand.

As though he were still the little boy she had raised. Okay, Tyrion, you can call me Mom. no one is around. 

Together—they climbed the final staircase.

The enormous doors before them slowly opened.

The moment Tyrion stepped inside—another flood of memories crashed into his mind.

This castle...

was unlike any fortress within the Empire.

Everything was black.

Black stone.

Black iron.

Dark timber.

No unnecessary decorations.

No golden ornaments.

No colourful stained glass.

Only disciplined elegance.

Every corridor had been designed for defence.

Arrow slits overlooked every passage.

Hidden murder holes lined the ceilings.

Steel portcullises could isolate entire wings within seconds.

Even the floors concealed ancient magic circles prepared to repel boarding enemies.

House Valyrion had never built a royal palace.

They had built the greatest naval fortress on the continent.

One capable of surviving a dragon siege...

or a war against the entire Empire.