Extraordinary Rise: Starting Contract with the Silver Dragon Countess

Southern Empire, Imperial Capital Whirlpool Fortress.

A bustling avenue runs through the city center and is called Canglan Avenue.

The families who can settle on this wide street, named after the rushing canal flowing alongside it, are the most direct manifestation of the wealth and power of the Southern Empire.

The streets are lined with the mansions of nobles and wealthy merchants from various dynasties, each with its own unique architectural style, yet all exuding luxury and status.

The most prominent and largest residence, with its high walls and wrought iron gates engraved with intricate family crests—intertwined silver shuttles and ivy—is the mansion of the June family, one of the ancient noble families of the empire.

As a powerful family that has stood the test of time since the founding of the empire, the Jun family's residence is never deserted.

Ornately decorated carriages rumbled by, carrying visiting dignitaries from all sides.

Well-dressed servants and messengers frequently came and went, and occasionally officials in uniforms from different departments of the empire could be seen hurrying along.

This place is like a heart that never stops beating, connected to the core of the entire empire's power through countless blood vessels.

This day seemed no different from any other.

The young servant, responsible for receiving ordinary letters and packages in the front courtyard, was mechanically processing yet another wave of deliveries.

Until a slightly rough hand handed him a letter.

The servant instinctively reached out to take it, but stopped when his eyes swept over the envelope.

This is an extremely ordinary-looking letter, made of common material, without any of the sealing wax seals commonly used by nobles, nor any coat of arms or signature indicating the sender's identity.

The only unusual thing was a simple symbol outlined in some dark ink in the center of the front of the envelope—it looked like a twisted and broken anchor, or some kind of ancient nautical mark, exuding an air of strangeness and mystery.

The servant frowned. The Marquis's mansion received hundreds or even thousands of letters every day, but such a letter, with its unknown origin and lack of even basic etiquette, was highly suspicious.

He opened his mouth, ready to refuse to accept the item of unknown origin, as required by the rules.

"Please deliver this letter to the old steward of the Imperial Household Department, thank you."

The person delivering the letter had a deep, hoarse voice, and at the same time, he quickly shoved something into the hand with his other hand.

The servant felt a weight in his palm; there were several gleaming imperial gold coins.

The words of refusal caught in my throat.

He quickly looked up and saw only a figure wrapped in an old gray cloth coat. The person had already stuffed the letter into his hand, then lowered his head, turned around, and quickly merged into the bustling crowd on the street outside, disappearing in the blink of an eye.

The servant squeezed the gold coin in his palm, then looked at the strange letter, hesitating for only a few seconds.

He quickly stuffed the gold coins into his inner pocket, then mixed the letter into a pile of ordinary letters awaiting processing, thinking to himself that since it would all eventually pass through the butler's eyes anyway, one more letter wouldn't make a difference.

The letter was quickly delivered to the old steward of the inner palace along with other items.

An elderly butler with gray hair and impeccably dressed was wearing glasses and routinely sorting things quickly.

When he picked up the letter, which had no signature and was only printed with strange symbols, his previously smooth movements suddenly froze.

He brought the letter close to his eyes, and after seeing the symbols, his eyes widened suddenly, and his pupils contracted sharply.

Those calm, even somewhat cloudy eyes instantly became as sharp as an eagle's.

The old butler's voice lost its usual calmness, trembling slightly. He abruptly raised his head, his gaze flashing like lightning as he looked at the young servant who had delivered the letter:
"This letter! Where is the messenger? Where is he?"

The servant was startled by the old steward's sudden change in attitude and stammered in reply:
“Let’s go… let’s go, Mr. Ryan.”

He shoved the letter into my hand and left immediately.

"You scoundrel!" the old butler hissed, but immediately realized that getting angry at the young servant would be pointless.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, and pressed on with the question:
"Think carefully, what were the characteristics of the person who delivered the letter? Clothing, height, accent, every detail!"

The servant struggled to recall, his face showing confusion and difficulty:
"Features... seem to be nothing special."

He was dressed like an ordinary poor person, wearing a dusty old coat and a hat pulled low... Ah, I remember now!

He's old Hack, the guy who sells violets on the street corner. He usually sets up his stall there; someone must have paid him to make this trip!

The old steward's eyes lit up, and he immediately gave a stern order:

"You, go find that flower seller Hack right now! Find him and bring him to me. Be quick, but don't tell anyone!"

Watching the servant's hurried departure, the old butler clutched the letter, which felt light yet incredibly heavy, and could no longer attend to any other matters at hand.

He turned and strode with a pace that seemed out of place for his age, walking quickly through the long corridor lined with portraits of family members from past generations, toward the core area of ​​the family, the study where the current head of the family resided.

The leather shoes tapped on the marble floor, making a crisp, tense clattering sound.

Now that the old Marquis Gringoire June is getting on in years, he has long since handed over the daily affairs of the family to his eldest son, Garland June.

Garland is in his prime, acts steadily and decisively, and is quite adept at both political and economic circles in the capital. He is recognized as the de facto controller of the family.

The old butler disregarded the proper etiquette of knocking. Upon receiving a deep "Come in," he pushed the door open and slammed the heavy oak door shut behind him.

The study was filled with the smell of cigars and fine leather.

Garland June was sitting behind his large desk, reviewing a document, when he saw the butler barge in so erratically, and his brows furrowed slightly.

"Sir, there's an emergency."

The old butler strode forward, placed the letter on the polished mahogany table, pointed to the strange symbol with his finger, and said in a very low voice, "Look at this."

Garland June's gaze fell on the envelope.

It started as a casual glance, but the next moment, his pupils suddenly contracted, and his body tensed up almost imperceptibly for a second.

He put down his pen, picked up the letter, and brought it close to his eyes, scrutinizing the symbol as if to confirm every detail. The study was so quiet that only the soft crackling of the firewood in the fireplace could be heard.

A few seconds later, Garland June slowly raised his head, his gaze shifting from the envelope to the old butler. His eyes were deep and complex, churning with shock, memories, and intense wariness.

He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, his face regaining its usual composure, but his voice carried an undeniable gravity:
"This matter ends here."

You, me, and the servant who brought the message in.

Besides, I don't want a fourth person to hear about or talk about this letter or this symbol, understand?

“Yes, sir, I understand,” the old butler replied solemnly.

Garland's gaze returned to the envelope, his eyes cold:
"Find the flower vendor. Once you find him, don't question him or make a sound. Just take him directly to the secret underground room of the old house."

No one is allowed to approach or speak to him without my personal order.

If he cooperates, give him enough food and water and let him rest for a while.

If he doesn't cooperate...

Garland didn't finish his sentence, but the chill in his unfinished words made the temperature in the study seem to drop several degrees.

"Yes, I'll take care of it right away."

The old butler bowed, asked no more questions, and quickly turned to leave to carry out the order.

The study door closed again.

Garland June sat alone in the large armchair, staring at the eerie symbol.

The sunlight streaming through the stained glass window cast shifting patterns of light on his face, but it couldn't penetrate his deep, unfathomable eyes.

Those simple symbols, like a rusty key, suddenly pierced the lock of memories sealed for many years.

Some things he thought had long been buried by time or disappeared with the downfall of a family seemed to be trying to crawl out of the shadows of the past and knock on the door of the present.

Whether this is a blessing or a curse, an opportunity or a trap for the deeply rooted Zhu En family remains to be seen.

All he knew was that the peaceful days might be coming to an end.

The light from outside the window moved slowly, creeping from one end of the desk to the other, while the flames in the fireplace gradually waned, turning into dark red embers.

He remained silent for a long time, and finally, as if he had made up his mind, he leaned forward and reached out his hand.

My fingers paused almost imperceptibly as they touched the edge of the envelope, then I picked it up decisively and tore open the seal.

There was only a thin sheet of paper inside.

He unfolded the letter and glanced at the concise words on it.

The reading speed was not fast, even slow; each word seemed to be weighed in the mind.

As Garland June continued reading, the expression on his face began to change.

The initial solemnity was gradually replaced by surprise, which then turned into an incredulous shock. Finally, all outward emotions were forcibly suppressed, settling into a bottomless pool.

The letter was short, but he read it three times, as if trying to extract the meaning from every hidden punctuation mark and every stroke.

After reading it one last time, he put down the letter, leaned back in his chair, tilted his head back, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, his chest heaving, and then exhaled the hot breath long and deep.

Only his own breathing could be heard in the study.

He sat there alone, like a pensive stone statue, until a cautious, rhythmic knock came from the door.

"Come in," Garland said, his voice a little hoarse.

The old butler pushed open the door and entered, his posture even more respectful than before, his voice very low:
"Sir, the person has been found. The flower seller, Hack, has been taken to the secret room."

As you instructed, no one was allowed to speak to him excessively.

Galan opened his eyes, his gaze now clear and resolute. He stood up, carefully folded the letter, placed it in his inner pocket, and went to the secret room.

The underground chambers of the June family mansion are deep and dry, with magic lamps embedded in the walls providing a steady but not bright light that elongates and distorts shadows cast on the stone walls.

Old Hack, who sells violets, huddled in a hardwood chair, his face filled with fear and confusion.

I don't understand how simply helping a slightly intimidating stranger deliver a letter has gotten me into such huge trouble and led me to this place.

Garland June waved for the guards to step outside. He stood before old Harker, not immediately sitting down, his tall figure casting an invisible shadow of oppression in the dim light.

He didn't intimidate, but simply asked a few questions in a calm tone: the client's appearance, clothing, accent, how much money was given, what was said, and whether there were any unusual actions or habits.

Old Huck was so frightened he was incoherent, but under Garland's calm guidance and repeated questioning, he still managed to describe the situation haltingly:

"He has a scar on his face, a long one, running from his eyebrow to the corner of his mouth... He has a fierce look in his eyes, and his gaze is cold when he looks at people."

He was wearing an old gray coat; the material was okay, but it was very worn, as if he had been traveling for a long time.

His voice was a little hoarse and very deep… He gave me a whole gold coin and asked me to deliver this letter to the front gate of the Marquis's mansion, hand it to the person who received it, and instructed me to give it to the old steward.”

As the details were pieced together bit by bit, Garland's heart sank and then rose again.

The location of that scar... that slightly hoarse voice... every feature is like a puzzle piece, perfectly fitting the image of someone in my memory who was believed to be deceased.

When old Huck could no longer recall any useful information, Garland waved for someone to take him away and "properly settle him."

He didn't look at the trembling old flower vendor again, and turned to walk out of the secret room.

Standing alone before the stone steps leading to the ground, Garland June stopped in his tracks.

The dim light illuminated half of his face, and at the boundary between light and shadow, his expression was complex and indescribable.

Flint Salgado.

He kept pondering the name in his mind.

That friend who once talked about the future with him on the deck of the Royal Naval College, practiced tactics together on simulated nautical charts, and got drunk with him in taverns, that talented and ambitious young nobleman.

The "traitor to the empire" who was accused of "colluding with sirens," whose family was wiped out overnight, and who is said to have died in the pursuit.

She even had to call him brother-in-law!
He is not dead.

He miraculously survived the relentless pursuit that year and disappeared from everyone's sight.

And now, at this incredibly sensitive moment, he has returned.

Silently, with such a hidden symbol, a letter carrying astonishing information knocked on the door of the Junen family.

Garland didn't think Flint had come back to reminisce about the past. He understood Flint as well as he understood the pride and stubbornness in his own bones.

Blood feuds, the destruction of one's family, the stigma one suffers, and years of fleeing... these things can corrode a person like poison, or forge a person like lava.

Flint's decision to return at this moment can only have one purpose—revenge.

He seeks revenge against the eldest prince, Gregor, who was the mastermind behind the framing of the Salgado family and the resulting tragedy.

This thought cast a heavy shadow over Garland's heart.

Yes, Gregor is in a bad situation. His recent operation against the mermaid queen was a disastrous failure, resulting in the loss of a huge force, including an entire naval fleet, which caused a huge uproar in the court and among the people.

His Majesty's wrath was real; stripping him of his power, confining him to his quarters for reflection, and purging his faction—these punishments were all carried out thoroughly.

Politicians in the capital were whispering among themselves, discussing whether the eldest prince had lost power.

But Garan Jun, a nobleman who had been caught in the power struggles of the Southern Empire for many years, saw things more clearly.

Greg's core support base remains intact. His noble-born, ruthless mother and the vast family power behind her will never sit idly by and watch their greatest political asset perish.

His Majesty the Emperor may be angry, but how long can that anger last?

Has trust in Greg's abilities truly vanished?

This major setback is less of an end and more of a painful period of hibernation.

As long as Greg is alive, he is far from being out of the game.

Those who kick someone when they're down may very well suffer a backlash when the tide turns again.

Flint's timing in making his move was impeccable, but it was also extremely dangerous.

Once the June family gets involved with Flint, or rather, with the forces Flint represents, they will immediately be drawn into the center of this storm.

Garland reached into his robes again, his fingertips touching the thin letter.

The cool touch calmed his chaotic thoughts slightly.

At the end of the letter was an address and a date.

To go or not to go?

The risks are obvious. This could be a trap, a conspiracy, or it could drag the entire family into an abyss of no return.

But... that was Flint, the brother he could once entrust his back to, his family.

Garland June straightened his back, and the last trace of hesitation on his face disappeared.

He took a step, stepped onto the stone steps, and walked towards the ground.

He needed to go there in person; he needed to see with his own eyes what the "dead" Flint Salgado had become, what he had brought back, and what he wanted.

Perhaps he could still try to persuade his old friend, driven by hatred and walking on the edge of danger, to be more clear-headed and less mad about colliding head-on with the entire imperial machine.

At the very least, he wanted to hear Flint tell him his plan in person.

After that... we'll make a decision.

……

Three days later, at dusk.

In an unassuming, even somewhat chaotic, area of ​​the city, the long-established pub "Oak Barrels & Anchors" is now experiencing its busiest time of day.

The pungent smell of cheap tobacco, the rich aroma of cheap broth simmering all day, and the slightly sour, foamy scent of ale mingled in the warm air, along with rude laughter and the clinking of glasses.

The dimly lit space, with its wooden tables and chairs worn smooth and shiny, was filled with this feeling.

Garland June avoided the crowds at the main entrance and circled around to the back of the tavern via a narrow alley on the side.

He was wearing an inconspicuous dark gray travel cloak with the hood pulled low, covering most of his face.

Following the instructions in the letter, they knocked on the wooden door leading to the private room upstairs.

The door was opened a crack from the inside, and a middle-aged man who looked like a bartender glanced at him warily, stepped aside to let him in, and then quickly closed the door, shutting out the noise from downstairs.

A narrow staircase leads to the second floor, and at the end of the corridor is a single room.

Galan pushed open the door and entered. The private room was much quieter and cleaner than the one downstairs.

A heavy oak round table, a few chairs, a faded nautical chart hanging on the wall, and a faint fire burning in the fireplace, barely dispelling the chill of the early spring evening.

Garland removed his hood, revealing his meticulously combed dark brown hair and his composed face, a face that had long held a high position.

He didn't sit down, but stood by the window, lifting a corner of the heavy curtain to watch the sparse lights gradually illuminate the alley below.

The wait wasn't long.

Just a few minutes later, the same rhythmic knocking came from outside the door.

The bartender opened the door again, and a tall figure wrapped in a dark windproof coat flashed in.

The person locked the door behind them before turning around to face Garland.

The newcomer wore a wide-brimmed hat and a finely crafted silver-gray metal mask with a matte, anti-reflective texture, which appeared cold and mysterious in the flickering firelight of the fireplace.

However, even with his face covered, his upright and slender figure, especially the gray eyes that looked through the eye holes of the mask, made Garland's heart skip a beat.

It's so familiar, even after so many years, even through the mask.

"Galan, it's been a long time!"

"...Flint, it really is you!"

Garan slowly exhaled, uttering the name he thought was long buried beneath the dust of his memory. (No)
He lowered the curtains, walked to the table, and didn't sit down immediately. His gaze was fixed on the other person, as if trying to penetrate the metal to confirm whether it was really the person he knew but who seemed completely unfamiliar.

For the next few minutes, a peculiar atmosphere filled the private room.

There were no excited hugs, no exaggerated exclamations, only cautious small talk tinged with distance.

They talked about the changes in the capital over the years, the vague current situations of a few insignificant acquaintances from their memories, the weather, and the stew recipe of this tavern that supposedly hasn't changed in thirty years.

His words were calm, even somewhat distant, deliberately avoiding any topics that might touch on dangerous areas.

Garland didn't ask "How did you survive?" and Flint didn't bring it up either.

The disaster that led to the downfall of the Salgado family and Flint's "death" was like an invisible glass wall between the two, and they were both careful not to touch it.

In the end, it was Garland who shattered this carefully maintained facade of calm.

He leaned back in his hard chair, placed his hands clasped on the table, and calmly focused his gaze on the mask opposite him, asking a seemingly ordinary but actually probing question:
"How have you been all these years...?"
It seems you're adapting well.

He carefully chose his words, avoiding terms like "escape" or "hiding".

Flint was silent for a moment.

He didn't answer immediately, but raised his hand, seemed to hesitate for a moment, and finally slowly took off the metal mask from his face.

The face revealed beneath the mask caused Garland's breath to catch in his throat almost imperceptibly for a moment.

It was a weathered face, its skin rough, deeply marked by the sea breeze and the hardships of life.

A hideous, twisted scar ran diagonally from his left brow bone across his nose and down to near the right corner of his mouth, ruining his originally handsome features and adding an inescapable air of menace to his entire being.

But those eyes remained bright, sharp, and familiar—the eyes of Flint Salgado. (End of Chapter)