Lord of Caldera - Chapter 165

Chapter 165: Chapter 165

“Hah.” Ragnar let out a laugh. It was so absurd that he wasn’t even angry.

“And what is the reason?”

“There is someone I have already chosen to serve.”

“You mean that pretentious Emperor?” Ragnar’s voice held a trace of anger, but Bjorn shook his head.

“No, it’s someone else.”

“What?”

“It’s me.” With a thud, Sylas sat down in a chair. He extended a cup towards the stunned Ragnar. “Pour me a drink already. How long are you going to hog it?”

Ragnar stared at Sylas for a moment.

‘Is he crazy?’

At first, when he spoke so casually, Ragnar assumed it was bravado, an attempt to seem strong in front of his overwhelming force. But on closer inspection, it seemed different.

‘He shows no fear.’

Neither the title of Chief of Chiefs nor the sight of the massive army seemed to affect the young man before him in the slightest.

Sylas picked up a cup and waved it in front of Ragnar. “The drink.”

“…”

“The drink.”

Is he serious? Ragnar genuinely wondered if he should strike him. Would it be so wrong to slap him once?

‘I must remain patient.’

Here, he needed to show the calm dignity of a Chief of Chiefs. Forcing a casual air, Ragnar lifted the bottle. “Here’s your drink.”

“Good.” Sylas finished the cup in one swift motion, feeling the heat burning from his tongue to his throat. Setting the cup down with a decisive clink, he wiped away a stray drop.

“It’s not a particularly fine drink,” Sylas remarked.

Ragnar’s forehead twitched. Was he really considering hitting this kid? As he deliberated, Sylas chuckled lightly.

“Stop eyeing my vassals and just leave. Or try to convince me if you want.”

“Convince you? Are you suggesting I take you instead of your vassal?”

Sylas let out a dry laugh. “Dream big, huh? You’re not even capable of handling that.”

A gust swept by, though it wasn’t truly wind. It was the murderous aura in the air pushing back, causing the hair on the back of Bjorn’s neck to stand up.

“Choose your words wisely, boy. If my patience runs out, so will your life.”

“And if my life ends, so will yours.”

A crackling sound came as Sylas’s knuckles shifted. Ragnar was poised, ready to snap Sylas’s neck in a second, his face like that of a beast. Just as he was about to rise from his seat—

“Stop right there.”

“Move, and you die.”

Two shadows flickered behind Sylas, prompting a smirk from Ragnar.

“From the likes of you?” he sneered.

“The likes of us, indeed.”

“Are you blinded by your own strength?” Ragnar’s mocking tone provoked a glare from the two knights behind Sylas. Ragnar’s expression shifted at the palpable intensity radiating from them.

A warrior knows another warrior when he sees one. Ragnar’s instincts warned him. If both attack, it’ll be dangerous.

He was stunned. In this era, he thought no one could rival his awakened bloodline. But now, not one, but two stood before him. Sylas noticed Ragnar’s hesitation and spoke.

“Let me clarify: threats don’t work on me.”

“Ha, threats? You’re mistaken,” Ragnar replied, attempting to appear unaffected.

“It’s pointless to pretend you’re calm after threatening to break fingers.”

“This brat…” Ragnar barely restrained a curse. He forced himself to sit back down, casting a long look over Sylas.

Who on earth is this?

The boy looked no older than sixteen or seventeen. Yet he acted with the composure of a seasoned warrior. Moreover, he was accompanied by knights who even Ragnar, with his awakened bloodline, would struggle against. The more he pondered, the more complicated things became.

Forcing the Veldaine family to yield is impossible.

Ragnar clicked his tongue inwardly. Whatever the details, this boy was no ordinary figure. And Bjorn, too, wouldn’t be quick to abandon him.

Still, he couldn’t leave without achieving something.

“A letter inviting you to the Platinum Council will arrive soon.”

“The Platinum Council? That hasn’t existed for over a thousand years,” Sylas replied, raising an eyebrow.

It was a long-forgotten council from a time before the Empire, back when the North was a unified people. All the northern rulers would gather to decide their collective future—a name that now only existed in history books.

“But if there’s the will, even lost traditions can be revived.”

“And who, exactly, revived it?”

“Marquis Serge approved it,” Ragnar replied.

Bjorn’s eyes widened. Marquis Serge was the most powerful noble in the North, comparable to the Corleone family in the East. If he supported it, many other lords were likely to follow.

“If you can’t join my ranks, then I’d hope to have your support at the council,” Ragnar said.

“And if I refuse?”

“It’s not for you to decide,” Sylas interjected.

Ragnar narrowed his eyes. “The Platinum Council is exclusively for the northern rulers. Those without northern blood or land have no place there.”

“Is that so?” Sylas shrugged nonchalantly. Ragnar shot him a glare before turning back to Bjorn.

“And if you reject even this proposal—”

Ragnar’s cup shattered in his hand. Though the shards scattered, his fist remained unscathed.

“Then everything in your domain will be destroyed.”

With those final words, Ragnar rose and turned his back—a figure clearly intent on walking the path of conquest. Sylas watched him leave, murmuring to himself.

“Breaking a glass even a child could crush? Trying to show off your grip strength?” he smirked.

A twitch flickered at the edge of Ragnar’s eye as he heard the remark from behind. Should he just crush him? Control yourself, beast within. He maintained a forced calm as he mounted his horse.

“I hope you make the wise choice.” Those were his final words as he led his army away from Veldaine.

As tension lifted, soldiers around them heaved sighs of relief. Sylas finished his last drink and stood up.

“I will participate in the Platinum Council,” Sylas declared as soon as he walked in. Bjorn looked at him, slightly troubled.

“But didn’t he say you’re not allowed?”

“And why can’t I participate?”

“Excuse me?”

“I have northern blood and land, don’t I?”

Northern blood did run through his veins, though not that of a noble lineage but of a common resident. And land? Well, technically, he had some—land he had taken wholesale from Philip.

“The council is only for northern rulers,” Bjorn replied, unsure.

“Then it’s perfect for me, isn’t it? The ideal northern ruler: Sylas Corleone.”

“…”