Mushoku Tensei: the Apostle of God

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Eris's tenth birthday arrived amidst layers of anticipation.

Yet compared to the original timeline, the flutter of a butterfly's wings had wrought significant changes this time around.

Sauros placed extraordinary importance on this celebration. The number of nobles invited, the scale of the banquet—everything far surpassed the modest affair of Eris's fifth birthday five years prior.

The aristocracy, ever attuned to political undercurrents, interpreted this as a gesture of reconciliation. A year after Sauros's ruthless purge of the Thomas faction in Roa, this banquet seemed a deliberate olive branch—a signal to consolidate loyalty among his vassals.

Naturally, they flocked to it.

Thus, though the Boreas estate's invitations clearly stated "evening banquet," the gates were already bustling by early afternoon.

Luxurious carriages rolled to a halt at the open estate entrance. Men, women, youths, and maidens clad in resplendent attire stepped down with practiced grace, forming orderly lines to enter.

Why not allow carriages past the gates?

No noble wanted horses defiling their pristine, fountain-adorned courtyards.

Guards conducted thorough inspections before permitting carriages to depart, while beastgirl attendants performed gentle pat-downs on arriving guests.

In typical Asuran fashion, such a setup would inevitably invite mischief:

Male nobles groping beastgirls under pretext.

Beastgirls "accidentally" brushing against female guests.

Certain individuals exchanging hushed negotiations in shadowed corners.

Yet today, without exception, every guest behaved with impeccable restraint.

Almost too rigidly.

Because Sauros himself stood just inside the gates—ramrod straight in formal wear, a glass of wine in one hand, his cane in the other—laughing boisterously with Roa's elite.

Unthinkable in years past. Even during Eris's fifth birthday, he'd remained aloof in the reception hall.

His visible presence broadcasted the banquet's significance.

None dared risk offense.

Beyond the scrutinized queue, another crowd loitered outside the estate: minor nobles and social climbers without invitations. Dressed in flamboyant silks, they preened like peacocks, their chatter already veering toward improvised revelry.

To these opportunists, such gatherings were fertile ground for schemes.

"The latest shipment from the bandits—all 'fresh.' Care to inspect?"

"How fresh?"

"Guaranteed. Sixteen head, waiting at the usual place in Weting Town."

"Price?"

"No charge! Consider it… a favor for Night-Lion's inquiries about the east district permits—"

A gaunt, hawk-nosed "noble" whispered to a portly man with a monocle. Then, like a wave receding, the surrounding noise dimmed to silence.

The two turned.

Every eye had locked onto a single figure approaching from the street.

A young man, casually carrying a basket. Dressed in plain swordsman's garb—no blade at his hip—he might as well have been a servant out for groceries.

Common. Unremarkable. Out of place amidst the peacocks.

The onlookers stared, then erupted in derisive murmurs.

"Whose retainer is this?"

"A guard? Without even a sword?"

"Some country bumpkin."

"Here to deliver vegetables to the Boreas kitchen?"

"Pfft. Look at that baby face."

The monocled noble sniffed. "Disgraceful. Whoever owns him clearly didn't train him properly—"

His critique died mid-sentence.

The youth walked past the entire queue of waiting nobles. Straight toward the gates.

His pace seemed leisurely, yet he covered ground with unnatural swiftness.

The guards snapped to attention. Abandoning their current inspection, they bowed deeply.

Without breaking stride, the young man nodded—and stepped across the threshold.

Silence swallowed the courtyard.

The monocled noble's jaw hung open. He glanced sideways, seeking solidarity in shared humiliation, only to find his companion gaping like the rest.

Even the actual nobles in line wore expressions of shock.

Well. If everyone looked foolish…

That meant no one did.

Flawless logic.

Smugly, he polished his monocle.

——

Allen paused just inside the gates, basket in hand.

Behind him, the genuine noblewomen's gazes prickled his back—sharp with curiosity, edged with something hungrier.

Beyond them, the rodent-nobles still gawked.

The scene reminded him of red-carpet parasites from his past life.

The capital had its share, but never this blatant. Even underground factions there mimicked aristocracy better than this.

Here, a single glance sufficed to distinguish:

Who was selling.

And who was being sold.

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