Lord of Caldera - Chapter 169

Chapter 169: Chapter 169

“Well, if you’re willing to bear the consequences, then I have nothing more to say,” Sylas continued with a wry smile.

The Marquis let out a frustrated groan, sighing heavily as his confident, calculating demeanor faded to reveal the burdened expression of an old man facing a dilemma.

“Alright, let’s hear your proposal,” he said finally.

“Are you rejecting the prospect of becoming the great ruler who divides the North?” Sylas teased.

“Don’t mock me,” the Marquis snapped back.

Sylas’s smile only grew. The Marquis continued, “Even if my ambition comes to fruition, as you suggest, it would be nothing more than a castle built on sand. What good would that do?”

What the Marquis desired was a dynamic between a ruthless chief like Ragnar and himself, the respected hero. But if he allowed the Emperor to eliminate an entire noble family, that image would shatter.

He’d be reduced to nothing more than a necessary evil, a reluctant commander under Ragnar’s thumb. The other northern lords would harbor a grudge, waiting for the war to end, at which point he’d be constantly struggling just to survive.

“In that case, I might as well join your plan. So, what do you propose?” the Marquis asked.

With his plan working out, Sylas allowed himself a pleased smile before speaking.

“It’s simple. Right now, Ragnar is using northern heritage to unify the North.”

The barbarians and the imperial citizens had originally been one people, after all. Ragnar aimed to reunify them and eventually secede from the Empire. Sylas’s plan was to use this idea against him.

“We create our own Chief of Chiefs.”

Not long after, the entire North was in an uproar. The cause was a letter that had been sent to all the northern lords.

“The Platinum Council? What’s the meaning of this?”

“They’re resurrecting a council from an old legend?”

“Wait, did they say even the barbarians would attend?”

At first, some dismissed it as the Marquis’s senility, but as the prominent lords confirmed their participation, opinions shifted.

“What? The seven border lords are all attending?”

“And a barbarian Chief of Chiefs? Could it be another Aggrim?”

By this point, it was no longer something they could ignore. The mere mention of a “Chief of Chiefs” held enormous weight. Aggrim, the last Chief of Chiefs, had nearly torn the North away from the Empire, leaving a nightmarish legacy passed down through generations.

The final line of the letter was especially potent:

“You are free to refuse the invitation. However, if you do so, you will have no voice in what may decide the North’s fate.”

The lords, unwilling to be excluded from such a momentous event, hurriedly prepared for the Platinum Council.

“Summon the guards! I must meet the Marquis immediately!”

“Cancel all plans! This is a matter that could determine our family’s survival!”

Every invited lord moved swiftly. The long-dormant tradition of the Platinum Council was truly being revived.

“Chief, the entire North is in an uproar,” a subordinate reported.

“Good news,” Ragnar laughed from within a lavish tent. The revival of the Platinum Council was no longer just a symbolic gesture; it was a reality.

“Raise a toast! To the rebirth of the Platinum Council!”

Cheers erupted as the tribal chiefs raised their cups. Yet one among them wore a disapproving expression. Ragnar noticed and turned to him with a subtle smile.

“Rogain, why the sour look? Something on your mind?”

“I just wonder if this is necessary, Chief. With our strength, couldn’t we just crush them?” Rogain muttered openly, his words a privilege granted by his close loyalty to Ragnar.

“We’ve all come together, and six of the border lords are already under our banner. Isn’t this force even greater than Aggrim’s? Why bother convincing them?”

“I understand your feelings,” Ragnar replied, setting his cup down as if offering a gentle rebuke.

“We’ve fought for so long against those under the Empire. Many of our people carry grudges.”

“…”

“But grudges alone won’t achieve a great cause. Our enemy is not the North; it’s the Empire that created this situation.”

If the Empire—and specifically, the first Emperor—hadn’t divided the North, they wouldn’t have spilled each other’s blood for so many years.

Ragnar didn’t hate the northern people. To him, they were kin, deceived long ago by a wicked Emperor and still suffering for it.

“I’ve heard that even now, they are neglected by the imperial family. Despite the accomplishments of their ancestors, the Empire treats them as if it’s throwing scraps to beggars.”

If even some of these northern lords shared discontent with the Empire, aligning with Ragnar would become much easier. It would bring the North closer to true unification and solidify Ragnar as the rightful king of the North.

“That’s why you must understand. You are now my right hand. For the future, we must lay aside old grudges,” Ragnar instructed.

“…Understood,” Rogain replied reluctantly, nodding in agreement despite his dissatisfaction.

As Ragnar lifted his cup once more, a thought crossed his mind.

He won’t be there, will he?

Sylas’s face flashed across his mind. This was Bjorn’s lord, the one with two knights of equal strength to Ragnar himself under his command. Despite his small frame, he had faced Ragnar without a trace of fear. For reasons he couldn’t quite place, Ragnar found Sylas unsettling.

He feels strangely like a natural rival.

Sometimes, people had an inherent compatibility or incompatibility, even beyond physical strength. Some rivals were challenging in ways that made no sense, even if they weren’t as strong.

Ragnar couldn’t shake the feeling that Sylas was his natural enemy. But he soon shook his head.

According to his research, Sylas didn’t have northern blood; he was an Easterner who had only managed to seize a small piece of land through sheer tenacity.

The Marquis wouldn’t let him participate, not if he’s sane.

At best, Sylas might send Bjorn as a representative, and if that was the case, Ragnar had nothing to worry about. Councils could change course swiftly, and Sylas’s influence was bound to be limited.

Satisfied, Ragnar downed his drink, as if to wash away the lingering unease in his chest.