Chapter 159

Chapter 159
## Chapter 159

Harald sat in his drawing room, having already laid out the spirits and glassware in anticipation of his visitor.

A short time later, a figure draped in a heavy, obscuring cloak slipped silently into the chamber. Once inside, the guest pulled back his hood to reveal his identity and offered Harald a respectful nod.

“It has been quite a while. Do you still recall who I am?”

“What a ridiculous thing to ask. It feels as though your manhood ceremony was only yesterday, yet here you stand as the established head of your house, Viscount Lesta.”

“It warms my heart to see you in such robust health, Viscount Harald.”

Given their mutual connection through Thorkel, the pair shared an easy, familiar rapport. However, the jovial mood was fleeting. As soon as the initial pleasantries concluded, Harald’s demeanor shifted into something more serious.

“But what brings you to my door at such a late hour? As a lord of your standing, a formal daytime visit would have been the expected course.”

“I had hoped for that as well, but the nature of my business is far too delicate for a public appearance.”

“Is the situation so dire that it must remain hidden even from His Grace the Duke?”

“To put it plainly, it is a matter we should resolve ourselves, as bringing it to him would only serve to provoke his ire.”

Lesta offered a weary, cynical smile as he took a seat and reached for his drink.

“I would prefer to wet my whistle before we dive into the heart of it.”

“As you wish. The vintage was decanted specifically for my guest, after all.”

The two men lifted their glasses and swallowed the burning liquid in unison. Lesta felt the sharp, potent fragrance bloom in his senses as the warmth traced a path down his throat.

“Truly a remarkable wine.”

“A prize from my private cellar. Has it loosened your tongue?”

“Quite effectively.”

Lesta placed his glass back on the table with a resonant thud, the mirth vanishing from his features. The information he was set to relay was grim, even by his standards.

“The conduct of certain lords has become peculiar of late.”

“Peculiar? In what sense?”

“A significant number are voicing distress over the Duke’s recent maneuvers. To be blunt, they are terrified of being absorbed into his direct administration.”

The northern territories had remained relatively stable during the period when the Imperial Family’s influence had withered. If anything, the local nobility had celebrated the crown’s impotence. With the only body capable of checking their power paralyzed, they assumed they could weather the coming storms in isolation and peace.

But the moment Lucian announced his crusade to liberate the First Prince, a wave of trepidation washed over them.

“As you are well aware, Viscount Harald, eras of instability turn landholders into ambitious warlords. To bolster their own standing, these wolves inevitably begin to hunt the smaller packs around them.”

“Are you suggesting they fear His Grace will initiate a campaign of internal conquest to consolidate his power?”

“Even if he chooses vassalage over total destruction, the prospect is equally grim for them. It signifies the end of their autonomy; they would go from being sovereign rulers to mere functionaries under his thumb.”

“This seems a bit premature. His Grace has yet to mobilize a single battalion, has he?”

“That is true, but their instincts are not entirely flawed. Since His Grace has committed to the rescue of the First Prince, the expansion of his resources and territory for the sake of the war effort is a logical necessity.”

Moving forward, it was almost a certainty that dominant lords would begin devouring weaker neighbors to survive the coming conflicts. To remain stagnant was to invite being hunted by a larger predator. Even those without a thirst for conquest were now forced to expand just to ensure their continued existence.

“Even the peers who previously backed His Grace are wavering now that the throne is silent. They are beginning to whisper that his protection may no longer be required.”

“From where I sit, it sounds as though they want a champion to defy the Empire on their behalf, but they have no desire for a sovereign who actually exerts authority over them.”

“They cling to the delusion that if they simply hide in the North, a new Emperor will eventually emerge and restore the old peace. It is a pathetic mindset.”

Lesta made a clicking sound of pure disdain. If survival were that simple, would history call this an age of ruin? Anyone with their sights set on the throne would not stop at the capital’s gates. The North was infamous for its defiance even during the height of Imperial power. Consequently, it was a thorn in the side of any aspiring ruler. Whether to unify the realm or satisfy their ego, an Emperor would eventually march to bring the North to heel.

“I recognize that treasonous whispers are spreading among the nobility. So, what is your intent? Are you suggesting I ask His Grace to offer them some form of reassurance?”

“No. I propose the exact opposite. I want to assemble those of our mind and demand the restoration of the Northern Kingdom. Not as a symbolic gesture, but as a formal, functioning monarchy.”

“…!?”

Harald’s eyes snapped wide at the startling proposition. To officially resurrect the Northern Kingdom meant converting the independent lords into royal subjects. It was an escalation—throwing oil on the fire of the very anxiety Lesta had just described.

“What sort of game are you playing?”

“It is no game. Consider the consequences if this current air of dissent reaches His Grace’s ears.”

“Well…”

Harald mentally reviewed Lucian’s track record. Simultaneously, he weighed the sheer martial dominance of Asagrim. No matter the angle, it was unlikely Lucian would feel threatened by the grumbling of a few minor houses. It would be a different matter if the entire region rose up, but loyalists like Harald and Lesta remained firm. With minimal effort, Lucian could crush the dissenters and force them into submission.

“…It would hardly be a setback. In fact, he might seize the opportunity to settle the North’s loyalty once and for all.”

“That is precisely the issue.”

“I don’t follow.”

“If the North is completely pacified by his hand, we lose our purpose. Specifically, Thorkel and I have been utilized to manage the shadows where His Grace cannot look. That role would be rendered obsolete.”

Harald wanted to dismiss the thought as paranoia, but he couldn’t. Regardless of their bond with Lucian, there were boundaries for those who headed their own houses. Once Lucian’s direct control blanketed the North, he would deploy his own sworn retainers to govern, rather than leaning on outside allies.

“It might be different if we had secured an unshakable foundation of trust with him, but it is far too early for that. I still require chances to prove my worth.”

“So your plan is to spearhead the movement for the Northern Kingdom? To act as a deterrent against those considering rebellion and to pivot the political landscape?”

“If it interferes with His Grace’s broader strategy, we don’t actually have to see the restoration through. The goal is to demonstrate our utility—to show that we can handle these local irritations so he doesn’t have to squander his focus on them.”

Harald found himself drawn to the logic. It was a calculated move, but the core idea—insulating Lucian from Northern squabbles by handling them internally—held merit.

I am just as guilty. I have been leaning on His Grace’s strength instead of providing my own, simply because I relied on him too heavily.

While it wasn’t inherently bad for Lucian to unify the North, it was their responsibility to ensure the region was managed so he never felt the need to intervene personally. Having reached a decision, Harald gave a firm nod.

“Very well. What are your specific requirements of me?”

“To begin with…”

Lesta beamed at Harald and began to lay out the nuances of his strategy. The two men remained in deep consultation until the sun began to crest the horizon.

—

“The situation is deteriorating.”

Malcolm, making his way toward Asagrim, scowled as he stared at the ground. He had nearly stumbled over the remains of a family, their bodies poorly hidden under a shallow layer of earth. Malcolm’s son stepped back, his face pale with dread at the sight of the bloodied corpses.

“W-was it a bandit raid?”

“Most likely. They even took the clothes off their backs.”

“But we aren’t even that far from the provincial capital…”

“It appears the local patrols have been abandoned.”

“What? For what reason?”

“Who can say.”

Malcolm didn’t finish his thought. In reality, he knew the answer well enough. With every lord hemorrhaging gold to fund the coming war, they were slashing budgets elsewhere, and public safety was the first to go. However, speaking such truths aloud was dangerous; one never knew who was listening. He had to be particularly cautious about saying anything that could be interpreted as a slight against the local ruler, especially this close to their seat of power.

“Keep moving.”

“Will we make it? Perhaps we should find a mercenary for protection…”

“We lack the coin. And with the roads this dangerous, the asking price will be astronomical.”

“Damn it.”

Malcolm’s son let out a frustrated sound. Their travel funds were already dwindling because of the hyperinflation of basic goods. If the cost of protection had spiked as well, they might not be able to afford their next meal.

“We have no other choice. Hand me one of the mallets from our pack.”

“Are you planning to fight with a tool?”

“It provides more hope than an empty hand.”

“Actually, you’d be better off with nothing at all.”

Both Malcolm and his son went rigid at the sound of the voice behind them. Turning, they were met by a group of bandits with cruel, mocking grins. They had been lying in wait in a trench dug alongside the road, hidden from view.

“Quite the harvest today. To think another pair would walk right into our laps so soon.”

“…We carry no wealth. You will find nothing of value on us, so let us pass in peace.”

“That isn’t a problem. If you have no gold, we’ll take whatever else you have. They say you shouldn’t turn your nose up at even the smallest scrap, don’t they?”

Malcolm’s heart sank as he saw the murderous glint in their eyes. These weren’t men driven to crime by hunger; they were predators who had grown fond of the kill. They were the sort who would slaughter a pauper just for the entertainment.

“F-father.”

“Get the mallet ready.”

“I already told you, you’re better off without it. If you struggle, the knife just ends up twisting in the wrong places. You look like a man with one foot in the grave anyway, so why make this painful?”

The outlaws closed in, their smiles slick with malice. They moved with the slow, deliberate pace of hunters who knew their prey had nowhere to run. Just as Malcolm and his son braced themselves, gripping their heavy tools with white-knuckled desperation—

“Don’t fret. Your end will be much swifter.”

*Slash!*

Following the frozen tone of that voice, a streak of cold steel flashed through the air. In an instant, the head of the bandit on the right was severed from his shoulders. The remaining men stared in confusion at their companion’s falling body.

“Wh—what just happened?”

*Slash!*

Even as they struggled to process the attack, the relentless light of the blade continued to dance. With every shimmering arc, another bandit was decapitated and slumped to the dirt. By the time the survivors realized they were under assault, most of their number were already dead, leaving only three.

“What the hell—!”

*Slice!*

Before the final trio could even let out a cry of terror, their heads were sent spinning into the air simultaneously. Watching the bandits get systematically butchered before they could even draw breath, Malcolm and his son were paralyzed by shock. A moment later, the same calm voice spoke again.

“Are either of you injured?”

“…!?”

Startled, the pair looked toward the speaker. There stood a man in travel-worn, ragged attire. At first glance, he looked like a common sellsword, but Malcolm recognized the truth of the man instantly.

A knight.

And he wasn’t some soft-handed noble from a protected court; he was a veteran who had walked through the valley of death a thousand times. A stench of iron and blood that heavy only clung to those who had ended countless lives.

Observing Malcolm’s palpable fear, Vincent—the knight who had once served in the ranks of the Black Lions—let out a soft, knowing chuckle.