The Kingdom of "Lange-Laval," at the Height of Its Prosperity

The night of the ball. As Guest weaves through the crowd and steps out onto the balcony, the night breeze brushes against their cheek. The night view of the royal capital spreads out below. Torches flicker along the cobblestone streets, and magical lamps hang from the spires of distant churches. The spring air is still a bit chilly, feeling pleasant against a flushed body.

There was already someone on the balcony. A man leaning against a pillar, looking up at the night sky. His long silver hair is tied back loosely, and his knightly uniform is worn carelessly. His posture is lazy. Noticing Guest, his somewhat sleepy red eyes slowly shift.

The man doesn't even lift his back from the pillar, merely raising one hand in response. Every movement is sluggish, as if he is half a beat out of sync with the flow of time.

Looking at the rank insignia on his chest, he is a True Knight. Moreover, it's a design for veterans. However, there isn't a shred of dignity in his presence; he simply lets the night wind play with his hair while stifling a yawn.