Chapter 83: Players and Meddlers

The capital of Demont Province, Mandez City.

“The Silent One,” Mandez Demont, had been one of the first Six Knights to follow the late King Fleven before the founding of the Elfin Kingdom. He had served as the lord commander of the Black Armor Army, conquering lands across the realm as the king’s most loyal follower.

After the kingdom was established, he and the five other greatest contributors to the crown, “Old Stubborn” Veli, “Head Wolf” Loman, “Pureheart Knight” Vilford, “Swiftwind” Krit, and “Prophet” Habs, were all granted hereditary archduke titles. Together they governed the kingdom’s six northern and southern provinces and ushered in the first golden age of the Elfin Kingdom alongside the late king.

The six major provinces of the kingdom were all named after them.

Now, however, the city named after that great hero lay beneath an invisible pall of pressure.

Inside the archduke’s manor, in the council chamber. The room was luxurious, but the atmosphere was glacial. Archduke Demont sat at the head of the table in silence.

With one finger, he tapped rhythmically against the golden armrest of his chair.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Each sound made the hearts of the advisers and the messenger recently returned from the royal capital twitch violently. No one dared even breathe too loudly. Cold sweat beaded across their foreheads. Everyone knew that when the archduke was silent, his fury was at its worst.

Spread open before him on the table was a letter from the royal capital.

The handwriting belonged personally to the grand princess. The wording was elegant and courteous, every sentence polished and sincere.

The meaning of the letter, however, was very simple.

The royal family had already been informed of Baron Haus’ death and the fall of Coldsteel City. Following investigation and deliberation by the Noble Council, Baron Haus had been found guilty of colluding with the undead. His crimes were unforgivable, and his death deserved. As for the rebel army that seized Coldsteel City, their actions fell under the “Pioneer Knight” clause of the Lionheart Code. The royal family would therefore make no official intervention.

The princess had even “kindly” reminded the archduke to discipline his remaining heirs properly to avoid producing another disgrace like Haus, while also offering condolences for his loss.

The royal family would not interfere if the archduke sought revenge, but the royal treasury was currently depleted and unable to provide military support. Unless, of course, Archduke Demont first paid the full taxes he had owed over the last five years.

Every word in the letter was polite.

Taken together, however, they formed a resounding slap across Archduke Demont’s face.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

A lazy, mocking voice suddenly shattered the deadly silence.

A handsome middle-aged man dressed in luxurious clothes lounged against one of the pillars, casually tossing a gold coin in his hand. His appearance was refined, but there was something frivolous about his demeanor, and his face carried the grin of someone thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.

“Archduke, you really swallowed a massive loss this time.” He seemed utterly unaffected by the murderous tension filling the room and continued in the same mocking tone, “The dead man was your son, wasn’t he? Yet forget military aid, the royal capital didn’t even offer verbal support. From what I hear, they even suppressed the voices of the traditional nobles from Veli and Loman Provinces.”

He flicked the gold coin high into the air and caught it neatly.

“And just like that, what should have been an open rebellion got redefined by Her Highness as a ‘righteous uprising.’ A Pioneer Knight, no less. Ah, such an honorable title. Your face must really sting right now.”

He smirked wider.

“I also heard the young bandit who took Coldsteel City is quite handsome. Her Highness is at that romantic age, after all. Maybe she’s fallen for him already…”

“Enough,” Archduke Demont finally spoke, his voice cold and hard as iron. He shot the man a look of pure disgust, his gaze briefly sweeping over the towering figure standing behind him like a statue, a large man with dull, lifeless eyes.

They had worked together for two years now, yet Demont still hated the man just as much as he had on the first day.

If this fool had not personally arranged the transaction with the undead, and if his “bodyguard” were not monstrously powerful, Demont would have crippled the loudmouthed bastard long ago.

“Kost. Mind your tongue. My tolerance for your insolence is not unlimited.”

“Yes, yes, I talked too much.” Kost chuckled and gave a shallow bow, though there was not the slightest trace of apology in his eyes.

Demont could not be bothered with him any further. Truthfully, this outcome had been expected from the start. The archduke had never truly hoped for royal “support.” His real goal had been to secure the legal high ground first and pave the way for future independence. Ideally, he would gain the backing of the southern traditional noble factions. At worst, he hoped sympathy would keep them from interfering in the coming war.

Haus? Of course Demont knew exactly what kind of person his youngest son had been: a complete waste of space whose only real talent lay in squeezing wealth from the common people.

Dead was dead. It was not as though he only had one son.

What truly enraged him were two things.

First, Coldsteel City had fallen.

That strategic stronghold was critically important. Its loss severed access to his most valuable iron mines and the supply chain surrounding the Borderlands Forest. Worse still, the secret passage he had painstakingly established to bring in undead reinforcements had been completely cut off. Even Yuri, the Gold-rank expert he had sent there, had ended up decapitated. The entire plan had been seriously delayed.

Useless trash. All of them.

Second, he had not expected the princess’ faction to abandon its previously conciliatory stance so completely. This time, there was no more polite probing between nobles. They had elevated a rebellious uprising into a righteous cause and openly dragged his own ambitions of rebellion into the light. Every line dripped with mockery, yet he could not openly retaliate.

That airtight style, elegant on the surface yet hiding knives beneath every word, undoubtedly came from the detestable brat beside the princess, the “Tattooed Count,” Owen.

Demont’s expression darkened. A petty schemer who rose through tricks and manipulation dared to flaunt his penmanship before a lion.

“Seems our princess may be young, but she’s hardly naïve,” Kost continued gleefully, adding fuel to the fire as he watched the archduke’s shifting expression. “Honestly, sending that report to the royal capital was pointless from the beginning. Even children in this province can tell what sort of ‘preparations’ you’ve been making these past years. There’s no way the princess and that Tattooed Count don’t know. The royal family never intended to reconcile with you in the first place.”

Archduke Demont let out a cold snort thick with killing intent. Ignoring Kost now, he turned his gaze toward a dark corner of the room. A hunched figure stood there silently, wrapped from head to toe in a tattered cloak.

“Envoy.” The archduke’s voice was utterly emotionless. “The Nightfall Project has been obstructed. We can’t wait any longer. How is the biological conversion progressing?”

The hunched figure stirred slightly. Beneath the hood, two ghostly blue flames flickered to life. “The ritual preparations are nearly complete.” The undead envoy’s voice was dry and rasping.

Demont’s gaze sharpened as he stared into those dancing soul-fires. “I asked whether it can be accelerated.”

“Heh heh heh…” The envoy released a wheezing laugh like air escaping a broken bellows. “A ritual of this scale can only begin during the next full moon of Veils, the Moon of Magic. Humans truly are impatient creatures… such a flaw of short-lived races.”

Demont looked at the thing with naked contempt. The creature had been human once, yet after becoming undead, it had discarded even the most basic sense of racial identity. As expected of a species of utterly selfish monsters. “And the Black Knights?” he asked instead.

“More than half have already gathered,” the envoy replied. “But the transport of further forces has been affected. If you are in a hurry, Archduke, then you must first reclaim Coldsteel City.”

With a single sentence, the problem had been thrown back into his lap.

Until the biological conversion ritual was completed, his main forces could not move.

At last, Archduke Demont’s fury found a clear outlet. His eyes became terrifying as he turned toward one of the generals below. “Deliver my orders to Pascal. Tell him to immediately assemble every force available around Coldsteel City. And send Frost Wolf to him as well. Tell him this.”

The archduke spoke one word at a time, each syllable squeezed through clenched teeth and reeking of bloodlust.

“They are to achieve total victory in a single battle. If they fail to retake Coldsteel City, they can kill themselves to atone.”

“Yes, sir!”

The general was so terrified he nearly lost his soul. He scrambled out of the chamber in a panic.

At that moment, Kost, who had been watching the whole affair like a theater performance, stretched lazily and said, “Well now, this sounds entertaining. Count me in. I’d like to join the fun.”

Archduke Demont frowned, unable to understand what game the man was playing now.

Kost shrugged, but beneath his usual carefree grin lingered something darker. “My informant spotted something very interesting among that boy Nolan’s people. That item originally belonged to a poor colleague of mine who recently disappeared.” His smile widened slightly. “I’m very interested in this man who managed to kill my colleague and survive Yuri.”

Demont waved dismissively. “Do whatever you want. I only care about results. Now get out. All of you.”

The order sent everyone in the chamber fleeing as though granted amnesty. Even Kost gave an exaggerated hand-over-heart salute before leaving with his bodyguard.

In the blink of an eye, the massive council hall was empty save for Archduke Demont himself. Slowly, he rose and walked toward the window, clasping his hands behind his back as he looked down over his domain. The setting sun stretched his shadow long and twisted across the floor, mirroring the darkness in his heart.

His gaze traveled beyond the city to the bronze statue standing in the distant square: “The Silent One,” Mandez Demont.

Loyalty?

His fingers brushed the ornate family ring symbolizing the glory of House Demont, the emerald gemstone atop it reflecting the dying light of sunset.

The Demont family were descendants of heroes. They had bled for the kingdom, only to end up standing equal to the other five houses while bowing their heads before a usurping royal line with a different surname.

Why?

Back then, the Fleven bloodline had died out without heirs, allowing the current House Alde to seize the throne by sheer luck. That injustice had lasted far too long.

Now that the Fleven family had vanished into history, the oath of loyalty sworn by their ancestors no longer held meaning.

House Demont had grown tired of living beneath others.

“Nolan…” the archduke muttered to himself. “You’ve got courage, boy. Your skull will make an excellent ornament for my new throne.”