Rise of the F-Rank Hero-Chapter 141: Silent Confrontation

The sun rose over the capital, casting long, golden beams across the Royal Guest Palace.

Inside the master suite, the light filtered through the gap in the velvet curtains, hitting Oliver directly in the eyes.

He groaned, trying to shield his face, but his arm felt like lead. In fact, his entire body felt like it had been trampled by a stampede of rhinos.

"Ugh..."

He tried to sit up, but a heavy weight pinned him down.

Isolde was draped across his chest, fast asleep. Her silver hair was a chaotic halo spread over his face and the pillows. The sheet was tangled around her waist, leaving her bare back exposed to the morning chill—though her skin radiated a supernatural heat that kept him uncomfortably warm.

She looked peaceful. Angelic, even.

Unlike the room.

The room looked like a hurricane had passed through. One of the pillows was torn, feathers scattered across the rug. The heavy oak bedside table was knocked over. And—Oliver squinted at the ceiling—there was a distinct scorch mark on the velvet canopy of the bed.

Right, Oliver thought, his memory hazy but vivid enough to make him blush furiously. She wasn’t kidding about the debt. Or the interest.

He carefully tried to slide out from under her, inching toward the edge of the mattress.

"Mmm..." Isolde stirred, her arm tightening around his neck like a vice. She opened one crimson eye, looking lazy and incredibly satisfied. "Going somewhere, Master?"

"To freshen up... where else?" Oliver croaked. His voice was hoarse, his throat dry.

Isolde smirked, stretching like a cat, her joints popping audibly. She released him and rolled onto her back, not bothering to cover herself, displaying the faint marks on her skin with pride.

"Pity. I was just getting comfortable."

"You’ve been comfortable for six hours," Oliver muttered, swinging his legs off the bed. He winced as his feet hit the floor. His back had scratch marks that stung in the cool air. "I, on the other hand, need a healer."

From the corner of the room, a mechanical whirring sound signaled the end of privacy mode. Seraphine’s eyes flashed open.

"Good morning," the android chimed. "Scanning room environment. Analysis: Bed frame structural integrity compromised by 15%. Ambient temperature increased by 4 degrees. Conclusion: Excessive caloric expenditure detected."

Oliver rubbed his face. "Not a word, Sera. Just... get me some water."

Knock. Knock.

"Lord Oliver? Lady Isolde?" A polite, muffled voice came from the hallway. "Her Highness Princess Elisha invites you to join her for breakfast in the Solarium."

Oliver panicked, kicking a pile of shredded clothes under the bed. "W-We’ll be right there!"

****

Thirty minutes later, washed, dressed, and with a heavy layer of healing magic applied to his back, Oliver walked into the Solarium.

It was a beautiful glass-walled room overlooking the gardens. Princess Elisha sat at the head of a long table laden with fruits, pastries, and cured meats. Lisa and Amy were seated on one side.

Sophia was nowhere to be seen.

"Good morning," Elisha greeted them with a bright smile, though she noticed the dark circles under Oliver’s eyes.

"Morning," Oliver mumbled, pulling out a chair. Isolde glided in beside him, looking radiant, her skin glowing with vitality.

"You woke quite late," Elisha noted, pouring tea. "I was worried you might be fatigued from the move."

Oliver opened his mouth to make an excuse about the comfortable beds, but Isolde beat him to it.

"Blame Oliver," she purred, leaning her chin on her hand and looking at Elisha. "He made me do exercises the whole night. Cardio is very important, you know."

Pfft. Lisa choked on her croissant, coughing violently into a napkin. Elisha froze, the teapot hanging in mid-air, her cheeks turning a distinct shade of pink.

"E-Exercises?" Elisha stammered.

"Intense ones," Isolde clarified with a wicked grin. " lots of stretching."

Oliver stared at his plate, wishing a dungeon trap would open up and swallow him whole.

On the other side of the table, the air pressure dropped.

Amy was smiling. It was a terrifying, frozen smile. In her hand, she held a heavy silver goblet. As Isolde spoke, Amy’s grip tightened.

CREAAAK.

The silver groaned in protest. Slowly, effortlessly, the thick metal stem of the goblet bent to a ninety-degree angle.

Everyone stared at the ruined cup.

"Amy?" Lisa whispered, patting her friend’s back nervously. "What’s the matter?"

Amy ignored her. She stood up, the screech of her chair echoing in the silent room.

She walked around the table, carrying her plate and her mangled goblet. She stopped right next to Oliver, on his unoccupied side.

She sat down, pulling her chair unnecessarily close to his, until their shoulders were touching.

Everyone was bewildered.

"Amy?" Elisha asked, confused. "Is the seating uncomfortable over there?"

"Nothing," Amy said breezily, stabbing a sausage with her fork. "I just feel like sitting here."

She turned her head and shot a glare at Isolde—a look that promised murder.

Isolde just swirled her tea, unfazed. "Childish." 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

Amy’s eye twitched.

Oliver, sensing that a magical duel was about to break out over the bacon, desperately looked for a distraction.

"So!" he said loudly. "Where is Sophia? She’s usually the first one up."

Lisa, recovering from her coughing fit, answered. "Oh, she went to her morning training. She’s at the royal mage tower, testing some new spells before we leave. You know how she gets."

"Right, right. Diligent," Oliver nodded vigorously.

Elisha clapped her hands, trying to salvage the mood. "Well! Let’s not waste further time in chit-chat. The food is getting cold, and I am hungry."

She reached for a slice of toast.

Isolde picked up a strawberry, bit into it slowly, and licked her lips.

"Indeed," she drawled, her eyes flickering to Amy. "I am famished too. One works up quite an appetite after such an... intense workout."

SNAP.

The fork in Amy’s hand broke in half.

Oliver closed his eyes.

I am not going to survive this breakfast.

****

The breakfast table had turned into a battlefield.

To the untrained eye—like Lisa’s or Elisha’s—it just looked like two women enjoying their meal with a bit of awkward tension. But to Oliver, whose senses were honed by survival instincts, the air between Isolde and Amy was thick enough to stop an arrow.

Isolde picked up a slice of melon, bringing it to her lips with deliberate slowness.

"You should eat more, Amy," Isolde purred, her crimson eyes dancing with amusement. "You look a bit... frail. It takes a lot of stamina to keep up in a dungeon."

Amy didn’t look up. She was cutting her steak. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. The knife was carving deep grooves into the fine porcelain plate.

"I have plenty of stamina," Amy said, her voice sugary sweet but brittle. "I don’t rely on... cheap tricks to get ahead. I prefer honest work."

"Honest work?" Isolde chuckled softly. "Is that what you call staring from the sidelines while others do the heavy lifting?"

Amy’s hand froze. The mana around her flared—invisible to the others, but Oliver felt the hair on his arms stand up.

"Some of us," Amy whispered, "wait for the right moment to strike. We don’t just throw ourselves at the first opportunity like desperate stray cats."

Crack.

Isolde’s melon slice froze halfway to her mouth. Her smile didn’t waver, but the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

"Oh?" Isolde tilted her head. "Better a stray cat that gets the cream than a house pet that gets locked out in the cold."

Oliver stared at his oatmeal. He was sweating. Please stop, he prayed. Just let me eat my porridge in peace.

Lisa looked between them, confused. "Are... are you guys talking about cats? I didn’t know you liked pets."

Elisha frowned slightly. "Is the room cold? I feel a draft."

"Analysis," Seraphine chimed in from behind Oliver’s chair, her voice monotone. "Atmospheric pressure is fluctuating rapidly. High probability of localized storm. Recommended action: Evacuate to a hardened shelter."

"Shh, Sera," Oliver hissed.

Meanwhile, sitting at the end of the table, Ariana was completely oblivious to the impending magical apocalypse. She had stuffed two croissants into her mouth and was currently eyeing a tray of glazed tarts.

"Mmph! Thish bwwerry jwam ish amazhing!" Ariana mumbled, crumbs falling onto her robe. "Owwiver, you gotta twy this!"

Oliver looked at her with pure envy. Ignorance really is bliss.

****

Elisha cleared her throat, sensing the conversation needed a hard reset. She dabbed her mouth with a napkin and sat up straighter, adopting her royal demeanor.

"Speaking of heavy lifting," Elisha said, her voice cutting through the tension. "I have news regarding the expedition."

The silent war paused. Amy released her grip on the steak knife. Isolde lowered her fork.

"I spoke with the King late last night," Elisha continued. "He was reluctant at first—he cares a great deal about the image of the kingdom’s might—but after reviewing the casualty reports from the first attempt, he has agreed to your plan, Oliver."

Oliver let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. "That’s good news. So we’re going with the scalpel approach?"

"Yes," Elisha nodded. "No armies. No retinues. Just an elite strike team."