“What the hell are all of you doing!” the bailiff shouted at the village chief. “There’s not a single grain collected yet!”

“But sir… we just received the order yesterday,” the chief explained.

“Yesterdaaaaay mooooorning!” barked the bailiff. “I’m sure you’d have collected something if you’d started the moment I gave the ooooor-der!”

“But sir, I—”

“Bloody excuses, nothing but blooody excuses!” The bailiff struck his staff into the dirt, the Baron’s banner quivering with the impact. “That’s all you worthless peasants ever have to offer!”
“The Loooord Baron will be here to inspect the progress,” said the bailiff, twirling his mustache. “You’d better hurry if you don’t want to get in trooouble.”

The village chief panicked. He didn’t know what to do. It was still very early in the morning; most of the village had just started their day, likely sitting down to breakfast. There was no way they could begin collecting right away.

Suddenly, from the distance, came the sound of carriages approaching. Two magic vehicles came into view. At the front was a luxurious carriage that moved without horses—the latest marvel of magical technology. Its driver guided it with a staff in hand. Behind it trailed a magic wagon. Both stopped near Bailiff Fulke and the village chief.

“Ah, my Loooord Baron,” said Bailiff Fulke with his usual sycophantic tone.

The village chief froze as the figure emerged from the carriage—Reginald Kerrick, Baron of the region. Age had lined his face, but his bulk was still imposing, broad and swollen from years of excess. The villagers’ cruel nickname, “the filthy pig,” clung to him like a second skin, though this pig strutted in silks and gilded trim. Six armored guards marched from the wagon to his side, their polished helms flashing in the fresh morning light, shields and spears forming a wall of steel around him. A younger man followed close, in his mid-twenties—his grandson, Oswin Kerrick. Round-bellied and soft-faced, he was a smaller reflection of the Baron’s indulgence. Their arrival brought a hush over the village, souring the morning air as though the day itself recoiled from their presence.

“The village chief greets my lord Baron Kerrick,” the chief said, his voice shaky.

“Hmph.” Kerrick looked at the chief with disgust.
“Mr. Fulke, progress report,” Kerrick demanded.

“Unfortunately, my lord, there is no progress to report,” Fulke said, his eyes fixed on the village chief. “This old fool failed to begin the collection even after I gave the order.” He jabbed a finger at the chief.

“And when did you issue the order, Fulke?” Reginald asked.
“Yesterdaaaay mooorning, my lord.”

“That’s plenty of time to gather at least something.” Reginald glanced around. “And I see not a single grain present.”

“My lord, we needed to prepare before collecting,” the chief pleaded. “The communal barn had to be cleaned first—”

–SLAP!–

The chief fell to the ground.

“What Fulke told me was right. Instead of working, all you do is make excuses,” Reginald sneered. “I need that wheat tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!? But the bailiff said the deadline was in three days!” the chief cried, stunned by the sudden change.

“There’s been a change in circumstances. The deadline is tomorrow,” Reginald replied with chilling indifference.

“That deadline is impossible, my lord,” the chief begged, clutching at the Baron’s knee. “Please, have mercy. Grant us more time.”

“Don’t touch me, peasant!” Reginald raised hands.

“HEY!”

The shout came from the barn. Ellie stood defiantly in the doorway, her face flushed red with anger.
“Stop hitting my grandpa!” she cried, rushing to her grandfather’s side. “Are you okay, Grandpa?” she whispered, holding him close.

“Heh-heh-heh… what do we have here?” Oswin stepped forward. “Is she the one, Grandfather?” he whispered.

Reginald’s lips curled into a disgusting, lustful smile.

“You know, Grandfather,” Oswin said slyly, “tomorrow’s deadline is rather tight. Couldn’t we allow them three days instead?”

“No can do, my boy,” Reginald replied, his eyes fixed hungrily on Ellie. “With bandits everywhere, we can’t delay our subjugation campaign.”

“Ho-ho, is that so…” Oswin knelt before Ellie. “You know, we could exempt your village from the tax—if someone agreed to serve at the lord’s manor.” His hand reached for her cheek.

“Hands off!” Ellie slapped him away.

“Ohh, feisty…” Oswin smirked. “I love cute, fiery girls—especially once they’re chained to my bed.”

Ellie’s face twisted with disgust.

“You boys sure enjoy throwin’ your weight around,” a man’s voice cut in.

Everyone turned. A hooded figure in a worn green cloak stepped from the barn.
“Nobility’s supposed to protect the weak, not prey on them,” the man said.

“Ash,” Ellie whispered.

“Who is this vagabond!” Reginald roared.

Ash lowered his hood. Golden hair spilled down his back, catching the light. His face was pale—so pale it seemed drained of life itself—framed by a thin mustache and a pointed beard. His sharp brown eyes burned with defiance, daring the world to challenge him.

“A man of the Xelshin warrior tribe, are you? What business do you have here?” Reginald demanded.

“Leave them alone,” Ash said flatly, stepping closer to Ellie.

“And if I refuse?” Reginald chuckled.

“Then things may get ugly.” Ash stopped at the gate.

Reginald laughed. “Intimidate a Baron, will you?” He sneered at his guards. “Teach this vagabond a lesson.”

Ash didn’t move as the guards charged, spears leveled at him.

Suddenly, a shadow leapt down from the barn roof, landing between Ash and the attackers.

–BAM! BAM! POW! CRASH!–

In an instant, they were flung back at Reginald’s feet.

From the dust rose a massive figure: a tigerkin, nearly seven feet tall. His black fur slashed with white stripes gleamed in the light. Crimson eyes blazed—not cruel, but resolute. His crisp white uniform and half-cape shimmered, silver bracers polished like mirrors. He stood like a guardian from legend—fearsome to foes, a shield to the weak.

“You’re late, Tyrone,” Ash said calmly.

“Oh, c’mon, Your Honor. It’s Tyronicus now,” Tyrone sighed, his heroic pose faltering.

“Enough with the chuunibyo antics, Another figure leapt from the barn roof—Miki Matsuda, brown hair tied in a neat ponytail, her almond eyes calm and sharp. Her crisp white uniform matched Tyrone’s, though she wore it with elegant discipline.

“Miss Matsuda,” Ash said, “I assume the investigation is complete?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” she answered crisply.

“Who are you!” Reginald bellowed, fear lacing his voice.

Ash ignored him. He raised both hands, and from the barn flew two objects: a book into his right hand, a mask into his left. Slowly, he placed the mask over his face.

The mask was stark and ceremonial, white with sweeping gold trim. A red gem gleamed at its center, and sharp lines carved into its surface gave it a sense of cold authority and hidden power.

Reginald’s eyes widened. “It can’t be…”

Ash cast aside his cloak. A brilliant white light flared around him, forcing Ellie to shield her eyes. When it faded, he stood revealed in a uniform far more regal than his companions’. Gold chains and aiguillettes draped across his chest, silver and gold embroidery edged his cape, and at his breast shone the insignia of the book—etched in precious metal. His presence radiated absolute authority.

Tyrone and Miki straightened, hands behind their backs.

Meanwhile Reginald, Oswin, and Fulke froze in shock.

They were in the presence of a Judge of the Great Covenant.

“Order!” Tyrone thundered.

“The Supreme Court of the Great Covenant is now in session. The Honorable Judge Ashton Blackwell presiding.”