The Most Satisfied Reincarnate

There were myriad ways to navigate life within the bustling embrace of this city, but one path stood out prominently among them all—the path of the mercenary. The city's guild, although providing a temporary abode, demanded a fee as a guarantee of one's commitment.

While most mercenaries in the city possessed their own homes, those hailing from distant lands found themselves seeking refuge within the guild's rented chambers. Vesta, burdened by tension and apprehension, had been unable to find solace until he heard Desmond's words. The mere thought of allowing his daughter to reside with the young mercenary had kept him on edge, unable to rest.

If Desmond were an ordinary child like Gregory, concerns would dissipate effortlessly. However, being the son of the esteemed Master Witch, Vesta's mind wandered to the grim possibilities. The unsettling notion of his son being kidnapped and held hostage for a ransom haunted his every thought.

Providing Desmond with money was not an optimal solution, nor was renting a mansion for his stay. Entrusting a child to a lone guardian with only a first-class swordsman's skills posed considerable danger. Any mishap that befell Desmond would inevitably cast blame upon Vesta, the Guardian tasked with his protection.

Thus, the guild stood as the wisest choice, even if it barred mercenaries from renting their own accommodations.

"Goodness gracious! You nearly shortened my lifespan," Vesta exclaimed with a mixture of relief and joy, repeatedly patting Desmond's shoulder. However, his jubilant laughter abruptly ceased as he locked eyes with Desmond, his expression turning solemn. Vesta then shifted his gaze to the stoic Annie, her unwavering stare inviting his suspicion.

"Are you absolutely certain you registered as a mercenary?" he asked, his voice laced with doubt.

"Yes," Annie replied promptly, her response further fueling Vesta's uncertainty.

"In that case, let us proceed to the guild. I shall accompany you," Vesta declared, pivoting on his heels to make arrangements for their carriage.

Perplexed, Desmond continued to study Vesta intently, his eyes refusing to blink. He glanced at Annie, detecting a flicker of confusion within her gaze.

"What is happening, young master?" Laura, who had been attentively observing their interaction, inquired. She, too, found herself befuddled by their predicament. Despite Vesta acknowledging Annie's status as a mercenary, the Guardian seemed hesitant to allow them to proceed.

Meanwhile, Diana, upon hearing her father's words, felt a surge of elation, relishing the chance to spend a bit more time with Desmond. She turned around unexpectedly, her gaze meeting his, which caused her cheeks to flush crimson. Hastily, she shielded her face with both hands and nestled against her father's back.

Before Vesta could embark on the carriage, however, a thunderous clamor of footsteps and the approach of another horse-drawn carriage echoed in the distance—the direction from which they had come. Vesta halted abruptly, narrowing his eyes alongside Desmond and his maids, as they collectively assumed a guarded stance.

Notably, it was not just one carriage in sight, but a retinue of men bearing an array of weapons—axes, swords—mounted on horseback, as if providing vigilant protection for the carriage.

To their surprise, the newcomers seemed to be heading directly toward Desmond and Vesta, stirring a commotion that caught the attention of the nearby soldiers. Those stationed on the elevated tunnel focused their gaze upon the group, preparing to invoke their spells, while those on the ground brandished their weapons, ready for action.

"Halt!" a soldier positioned at the entrance of the barracks bellowed, crossing his sword to bar the advancing horse from progressing any further.

"This is a private area! Return or state your business!" the soldiers persisted, their expressions stern and unwavering. Despite the overwhelming number of the newcomers, the soldier confronting them displayed no hint of fear in his resolute gaze.

The coachman, positioned at the front, locked eyes with the soldier before shifting his attention to Desmond. His gaze held an air of solemnity, as if there were stars twinkling within them.

"We have come to retrieve our young master," the coachman declared, his words reverberating through the ears of the soldiers. Their gazes shifted, exchanging bewildered looks. Which young master was he referring to? The city housed numerous individuals bearing that title.

Desmond, on the other hand, stood dumbfounded upon hearing the coachman's words. The coachman's piercing gaze and his mention of "young master" left no room for ambiguity—it was undoubtedly Desmond he spoke of. His mind raced with astonishment, though he refrained from vocalizing his thoughts. Glancing at his maids, he noticed the same bewildered expressions mirrored on their faces.

Then, his eyes met Vesta's, silently pleading for answers.

Vesta, acutely aware of the direction the coachman's gaze had landed, cast an inquisitive look toward Desmond. While suspicions still lingered, a careful assessment of his surroundings revealed no immediate danger.

"Allow them to enter," Desmond calmly commanded, his voice steady as he considered the soldiers stationed on the walls and the distance between himself and Vesta. "But please maintain a minimum distance of 5 meters from me," he added, emphasizing his need for personal space.

As soon as Desmond spoke, the soldier obstructing the horse-drawn carriage lowered his weapon, his gaze remaining vigilant upon the group of horsemen.

Once the newcomers had distanced themselves by at least 5 meters, the coachman broke into a warm smile and gracefully descended from the carriage. "Greetings, young master," he respectfully addressed Desmond, bowing in deference.

Still bewildered, Desmond took a few seconds to regain his composure before returning the greeting. "Greetings," he responded, his gaze fixed on the coachman. "May I inquire as to your identity? I was unaware my parents had any subordinates outside of the capital city."

Desmond's words reverberated clearly, causing the surrounding individuals, who had initially relaxed under the assumption that Desmond recognized the group, to tense up once more, preparing for any potential aggression.

Vesta, in particular, positioned himself behind Desmond, his weapon unsheathed and emanating an imposing aura. Hearing Desmond's words, he felt a chill run down his spine, as did those around him. What in the world was happening?

Simultaneously, as Vesta readied himself, magical fluctuations began to stir behind him. However, the fluctuations abruptly dissipated as his gaze fell upon Annie, who had extended her slender hand in the direction behind him.

Meanwhile, the coachman remained frozen in bewilderment, his posture still slightly bent. Sneaking a glance at his young master, he found Desmond staring back at him with a blank expression.

What is transpiring? The coachman pondered, yet before he could straighten himself, the carriage door creaked open, revealing an elderly man garbed in black butler attire, with hair to match.

"Young master," the old man addressed Desmond politely. Judging from his appearance, he appeared to be in his sixties. However, as the surrounding individuals, including Vesta, turned their attention towards him, an indescribable shiver crawled up their spines.

What in the world? Vesta's mind raced as he instinctively unsheathed his weapon, pressuring the old man with an intense presence.