Chapter 195

Chapter 195
## Chapter 195

The messenger’s absolute certainty forced Marquis Bernhardt to shove down his mounting irritation.

The subordinate understood perfectly that if the proof he claimed turned out to be a fabrication, his own head would not be enough to compensate for the insult. Because he maintained his stance so resolutely, without even a flicker of doubt, it was almost certainly the reality of the situation.

Regardless of that fact, however, the Marquis only found himself more baffled.

“Are you suggesting that a human frame is capable of such a feat?”

His shock would have been far less pronounced had the entrance been cleaved by a blade. throughout the annals of time, warriors reaching the rank of Sword Saint had occasionally produced such miracles.

But to wrench a city gate apart using nothing but physical grip?

Unless the individual was a giant-blood or a scion of the dragons from the ancient myths, it was a biological impossibility.

“I struggle to credit it myself. Even now, I catch myself wondering if it was some fever dream. Yet, how can I contradict what occurred directly in front of my own eyes?”

“Hmph.”

A dry, mirthless chuckle slipped from the Marquis’s throat.

What manner of person was this upstart from the North?

He had been aware that the youth held some level of combat skill, but he had pegged him as a strategist—a man of intellect and shadow, much like himself. And yet, when confronted with a barrier that logic could not bypass, he had apparently dismantled it through sheer, unadulterated violence.

Defining the boy’s true nature was becoming an elusive task.

“Hoo, very well. I shall take your word for it for the moment.”

Releasing a heavy breath, the Marquis redirected his attention to the parchment and resumed his reading. Regrettably, the contents offered no comfort. With every subsequent phrase, the Marquis’s features twisted into an increasingly dark scowl.

—The Duke’s strength was at a magnitude I could not even begin to calculate. He betrayed no hint of fatigue while sundering the gate; his gait remained as effortless as if he were merely wandering a garden. Had he intended it, he likely could have shattered the barrier with a single strike of his fist.

It was a preposterous assertion.

A standard city gate required the repeated impact of a heavy battering ram to be breached, yet he spoke of a simple punch? Was he implying the boy’s hand carried more kinetic force than a specialized siege engine?

—Furthermore, the Duke was not the only individual present with such terrifying martial capability. Though their methods vary, the Sword Saint he arrived with also wielded power beyond comprehension. Even if the Duke had lacked such vigor, the gate would have been effortlessly partitioned by the Sword Saint’s edge.

The Marquis winced visibly at the mention of that title.

Since the time of Eisen Brightner, only one soul had been permitted the title of Sword Saint. It was Felicia, the woman recognized as the inaugural female Sword Saint.

—The internal energy Felicia Brightner unleashed was sufficient to tear apart not only the wood of the gate but the stone of the surrounding fortifications. Had she rotated her hand even a fraction more, that is almost certainly what would have transpired.

“Brightner, he dares write!”

The Marquis’s fury erupted at the sight of that loathed surname.

How could he dare attach the name Brightner to Felicia? She was his biological offspring; her rightful name was Roglan. Even if she herself had cast the name aside, the reality of her lineage could not be erased.

Since he frequently vented this sentiment to his subordinates, Emil surely knew the Marquis’s sensitivity on the topic. Therefore, the decision to use “Brightner” in the correspondence was a calculated move—either a piece of blunt counsel or a direct provocation.

—Lord Marquis, regardless of the justifications, I have been unsuccessful in my objective, and the burden of that failure is mine alone. Since this will inevitably cause Your Grace significant distress, I will submit to any sentence you deem fit. However, before that occurs, I implore you to hear this.

Do not strike at Lucian.

Do not antagonize Felicia.

And do not weave any further deceptions.

—The Duke and the Sword Saint are entities capable of altering the trajectory of a war by their presence alone. Unless they are permitted to eventually fade through the natural passage of years, trying to ensnare them with minor schemes will only trigger a catastrophic reversal. Please, allow them to depart without incident and address them as the ruler of a sovereign territory…

The Marquis crushed the parchment in his hand the instant he finished the final sentence.

The aura of surrender that soaked every word was offensive enough, but to be instructed to leave them unmolested? To endure such a slight without even a single counter-move?

“…I recall the day Sir Emil first entered my service. He was an incredibly impressive warrior. His speech was saturated with self-assurance, and his talents were as remarkable as his sense of honor.”

“M-My Lord.”

“Yet in this writing, I find no sign of that formidable knight. Only a diseased cur whining with its tail tucked between its legs.”

“…!”

Marquis Bernhardt barked at the trembling messenger with a freezing tone.

“Go and inform Sir Emil of this: I recognize the intent of his words, but the advice of a man crippled by terror is more useless than silence.”

“Y-Yes, Excellency!”

The messenger scrambled out of the hall, vanishing before the Marquis’s temper could find a target.

After incinerating the offensive letter, Marquis Bernhardt hollered to the armored men stationed outside.

“The individuals invited to the feast will be arriving shortly! Everyone, make ready to receive them!”

—

The five thousand troops Lucian had led were on the brink of total physical collapse.

In order to strike Marquis Bernhardt before he could prepare, they had pushed through weeks of marching with only the most fleeting moments of sleep. Had they not been seasoned veterans shaped by years of discipline, they would have dropped dead long ago at such a grueling tempo. At this stage, pride and duty were secondary to the agonizing craving for rest.

Yet, in contrast to their broken bodies, the spirits of the men were at an all-time high.

“Long live the King!”

“Praise the King of the North! The Scion of the Dragon!”

“Hold on. Isn’t the blood of the dragon reserved for the Imperial Line?”

“The Grand Ducal House of Valdek shares that same Imperial ancestry!”

“When you put it that way, you’re absolutely right!”

Even as they limped, the soldiers laughed and spoke without pause, showering Lucian with adulation.

It was the deep-seated hope of every common soldier that the master they followed was someone of legend. But Lucian had showcased a monstrous level of physical dominance that far exceeded “legendary” right before their eyes. How could those under his banner not feel a surge of pride?

Furthermore, possessing such a leader meant that defeat was a remote possibility. To the rank and file, the presence of Lucian and Felicia was viewed as a divine promise of triumph.

“I still feel as though I am wandering through a daydream.”

“Don’t worry. You aren’t alone. I still can’t wrap my head around what we witnessed yesterday.”

“Let me ask you plainly. Is it truly achievable for a human being to bolster their physical form to that degree?”

“It would be theoretically possible if one possessed limitless mana and a physical vessel capable of channeling that energy without failing.”

“I am asking precisely because that entire premise is an impossibility.”

Unlike the foot soldiers who cheered without analysis, the dialogue among the knightly class was far more somber. To the perspective of those mastered in the way of the blade, the strength Lucian had exhibited shattered all established norms.

He had channeled a volume of mana that no human anatomy should be able to hold, using it to push his muscles and bones far beyond their breaking point. If any knight among them had attempted the same, their internal organs would have disintegrated before they could even harness a fraction of that power. The knights were left to ponder how Lucian had bypassed those biological laws.

“Do you harbor doubts regarding the source of His Majesty’s strength?”

“S-Sir Felicia!”

The whispering officers jumped at the sound of Felicia’s voice. Of all the people to overhear them, it had to be her.

“If you have formulated any theories, please, share them. I am intrigued to hear the extent of your speculation.”

“W-We crave your pardon! We have behaved in a manner unworthy of our rank!”

“We shall never breathe a word of this again, we beg your mercy…!”

The knights lowered their heads in a panic, sweat pouring down their faces.

In truth, claiming Lucian had done “something a human cannot do” could be read as a dangerous accusation. If a feat was beyond humanity, it was often linked to forbidden magic or demonic pacts. Even if their words were born of simple wonder, for a knight to question the nature of their king was a severe breach of protocol.

However, Felicia remained composed, showing an unexpected lack of resentment.

“I am not censuring you; I am soliciting your opinions. Do you truly have no theories?”

When the anticipated punishment failed to materialize, one knight eventually spoke up with great caution.

“Is it perhaps that the Imperial lineage is exceptionally potent within His Majesty? If the Dragon’s Blood has truly awakened, then such power might be explained.”

“You are close. It is a similar concept, yet fundamentally different.”

“Similar?”

“His Majesty consumed a Dragon’s Heart.”

The knights stared at Felicia, their mouths hanging open in shock. He hadn’t simply been born with the blood; he had literally internalized the core of a dragon.

“D-Did he slay a dragon?”

“For the specific narrative, you should consult the Sons of the Snowfield once we have returned home.”

Felicia left them with those cryptic instructions and walked away. Predictably, as soon as she had put a few yards between them, she heard the knights break out into a frantic, noisy debate.

Lucian chuckled as he observed Felicia moving away from the group, acting as though she were oblivious to the chaos she had caused.

“You did that by design, didn’t you?”

“Did what, Your Majesty?”

“Withholding the full explanation.”

At Lucian’s observation, Felicia gave a small nod and answered.

“I may not be well-versed in the intricacies of statecraft, but I understand this: even if the message is identical, the listener’s perspective shifts based on the charisma of the storyteller.”

“So rather than providing a technical report yourself, you’ve left the storytelling to the men of the snowfields?”

“They were present when Your Majesty claimed and utilized that power, and they view you with genuine, primitive awe. Rather than me describing the underlying mechanics, those rough men are far better equipped to turn a fact into a myth.”

“You are remarkably shrewd.”

“I still have a vast distance to cover to match Your Majesty’s wit.”

“That is certainly true.”

Lucian traded a light-hearted quip and shared a laugh with Felicia. But after a moment, the mirth drained from his expression, replaced by a heavy seriousness.

“Felicia.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“There is no requirement for you to restrain yourself.”

Felicia stiffened at the underlying meaning of his statement. When she stayed quiet, unsure of how to frame her response, Lucian spoke once more.

“Marquis Bernhardt is currently powerless against us. No matter how much he claims the West as his domain, it is irrelevant now that we are standing in the center of his power. At best, he could manage a mutual destruction; at worst, only the House of Roglan would be annihilated. The Marquis is acutely aware of this reality.”

In simpler terms, within certain boundaries, she was free to act. As long as she didn’t initiate a total slaughter, her pursuit of personal justice against her former tormentors was something they would be forced to swallow. Given that they were destined to be enemies on the battlefield in the future, this was her final opportunity for personal closure.

“But…”

Felicia started to object to Lucian’s suggestion. Even so, pushing too hard was a gamble. If a true conflict ignited, the surrounding nobility would not remain neutral. As he had noted, it could lead to a scenario where they had to accept their own ruin alongside their enemies. A storm of pragmatic worries clouded her thoughts.

However, Lucian’s next words were impossible to ignore.

“Felicia. Do you not hunger for retribution?”

“…!”

Felicia’s hands tightened into fists without her realizing it.

How could she not crave it?

In the halls of House Roglan, every member of the family had been aware of Felicia’s potential. But that potential had been systematically crushed before it could ever bloom. They had ripped the practice sword from her grip and replaced it with cleaning tools and rags, sneering at her that such things were the only items she was fit to hold. Even now, the simple recollection of those days filled her heart with a cold, sharp hatred.

“Ignore the political consequences or the worry that you might be inconveniencing me. Speak from your honest heart.”

“I…”

“Do you not want your revenge?”

At the second inquiry, Felicia squeezed her eyelids shut. It was no longer possible to lie to herself. The bitterness that had festered for her entire life surged in response to Lucian’s voice and finally broke through.

“I want revenge…!”

Even at the risk of causing Lucian trouble. Even if her own selfish desires sparked a civil war. Even so, she wanted her justice.

At Felicia’s admission, Lucian’s face broke into a broad, satisfied grin.

“Then let us go. We shall see your revenge through.”