Gon's Harem System
Chapter 162: Arrival at the castle

Chapter 162: Arrival at the castle

"Yes, Your Grace," they chorused, their voices steady despite the weight of the command.

The Duke gave a curt nod, satisfied, and clapped Gon on the back once more before stepping away.

At that moment, Milo sauntered into the courtyard, his staff swinging lazily in one hand.

His dark cloak fluttered behind him, and his lips curled into a familiar smirk, exuding his usual blend of nonchalance and arrogance. "Well, isn’t this touching?" he drawled, eyeing the scene with mock amusement. "Ready to roll, Gon? Or do we need another round of family farewells?"

Gon rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide a grin. "Let’s go, smartass." He hefted his pack and strode toward the carriage, Milo trailing behind with an exaggerated yawn.

*****

The capital crested the hills like a slow-rising dawn, its jagged skyline slicing through the late afternoon haze, King Roderic’s palace loomed ahead, a fortress of gleaming white stone that seemed to drink in the sunlight and spit it back out in glints of gold, Gilded spires stabbed at the clouds, sharp and arrogant, while faint magical runes pulsed along the walls, soft blue glyphs that flickered like a heartbeat, whispering power into the air.

The carriage rattled over the uneven road, wheels grinding against stone, and Gon shifted forward, elbow propped on the sill, his sword clattering against the wooden bench beside him.

His dark eyes narrowed, not just at the palace’s grandeur or the promise of mages he’d soon cross blades with, but at the real prize, the women it might hold.

Nobles’ daughters with silk gowns and sly smiles, mage trainees with fire in their blood and curves worth a second look, maybe even a princess if the rumors held, Gon’s mind raced with the possibilities.

He’d been cooped up all day in this creaking box, the air thick with dust and the sour tang of horse sweat, and the thought of fresh faces, soft ones, preferably, kept his grin sharp.

He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, imagining the looks he’d get when he strode in, sword at his hip, Hanan’s best on full display.

The palace wasn’t just a battleground, it was a hunting ground, and he was damn well ready to prowl.

Across from him, Milo slouched against the padded seat, legs sprawled out like he owned the place.

His sword, a sleek thing with a worn leather grip, rested sheathed at his hip, ignored for now.

Instead, his fingers danced with a tarnished silver coin, flipping it end over end with a lazy rhythm, clink, catch, clink, catch.

His face was a mask of boredom, eyes half-lidded, lips quirked in that smug little way that made Gon want to knock the coin out of his hand just to see him flinch.

They’d been stuck together since dawn, Milo’s dry comments and endless coin tricks grinding against Gon’s patience like a dull blade.

He didn’t like the guy, not his casual swagger, not his indifference, not the way he acted like this trip was some chore while Gon burned to make his mark.

"Nice place, huh?" Milo said, barely glancing out the window, his tone flat as the coin flipped again.

Gon shot him a look, jaw tightening.

"More than nice, Fights, glory, women, everything’s there, You’d see it if you stopped messing with that coin."

Milo smirked, catching the coin mid-air as it glinted in the dusty light.

"Women, sure, Bet they’ll love it when you trip over your sword trying to impress them."

"I’ve got a plan," Gon said, turning back to the window.

"You’re just gonna sit there flipping that thing like it matters."

"Maybe it does," Milo replied, shrugging.

"Keeps me busy."

The palace grew closer, its gates now visible, iron teeth flanked by silver-armored guards, their helmets glinting like mirrors.

Beyond, the courtyard churned with shadows, hints of movement promising the chaos Gon craved.

He leaned harder against the sill, the wood creaking under his weight, and pictured it, a noble girl blushing at his grin, a mage trainee sizing him up with a spark in her eye.

Milo could rot with his coin for all he cared, this was his shot, and he’d take it.

The carriage jolted to a stop, its wheels crunching against the gravel as the iron gates of King Roderic’s palace loomed overhead, black teeth twisted into a jagged grin, flanked by royal guards in silver armor that caught the fading light like polished coins.

Their helmets dipped in unison, a silent wave ushering the vehicle through, and beyond the gates, the courtyard sprawled wide, alive with the hum of arriving mages.

Some wore flowing robes stitched with shimmering threads, others clanked in battered armor, their arms laden with swords, staves, or trinkets that pulsed with faint, eerie light.

The air buzzed with voices, the clatter of steel, and the sharp tang of mana, thick as the dust kicked up by restless boots.

The Duke’s four guards disembarked first, their emerald-and-black tunics stark against the silvered chaos.

They moved with clipped precision, one gesturing respectfully as they swung the carriage door wide.

Gon didn’t wait for a second invitation.

He stepped down, boots hitting the stone with a solid thud, his sword swinging at his hip as he straightened up.

His eyes swept the crowd, not for threats or rivals, not yet, but for the faces that might quicken his pulse.

A flash of red hair here, a glimpse of a curved silhouette there, he was a hunter on the prowl, and this place was teeming with prey.

Milo could’ve been a ghost for all he cared, Gon didn’t spare him a glance as he strode ahead, shoulders squared, chin high.

Milo trailed behind, lazy as ever, his sword sheathed and untouched while that damn coin flipped between his fingers, clink, catch, clink, catch.

His boots scuffed the ground, a deliberate drag that grated on Gon’s nerves, but Milo’s face stayed blank, unbothered by the noise or the bustle.

A wiry palace steward stepped forward, clipboard clutched tight, his gray eyes flicking over them with professional indifference.

"Names and province," he said, voice flat as the stone underfoot.

"Gon of Hanan," Gon replied, barely looking at him.

"Milo of Hanan," Milo added, catching the coin mid-flip.

The steward scratched their names off his list with a quick nod, then moved on, swallowed by the crowd.

Gon’s gaze roamed free now, picking out shapes in the chaos.

A tall, muscular woman caught his eye first, leather armor hugging her frame, an axe slung over her shoulder like it weighed nothing.

She threw her head back, laughing loud enough to cut through the din, her voice rough and warm.

Zara, he decided, filing her away as a prospect, strong, bold, maybe worth a chase.

Then his eyes snagged on a boy with dark hair, lean and tense, gripping a curved blade so tight his knuckles blanched.

The kid’s stare hit Gon like a thrown knife, cold, hard, promising blood.

Someone with a grudge, Gon thought, a flicker of unease brushing his spine before he shoved it aside.

Trouble could wait.