Lord of Caldera - Chapter 178

Chapter 178: Chapter 178

In the next instant, a dragon soared.

A harsh wind swept through the area, scattering piles of snow and exposing the dirt underneath. Newly budding leaves were torn from their branches and flung through the air. And it didn’t stop with just one swing; each movement of his sword unleashed another gust.

“Dear gods…” someone muttered, awestruck by the scene before them. Every time Sylas swung his sword, the air seemed to tear apart, leaving aftershocks that pulsed through the camp. Anyone caught within the range of those strikes wouldn’t stand a chance.

‘Not even a horseman could withstand that.’

Though Sylas’s sword wasn’t unusually long, they could feel its deadly aura. It was as if the weapon could cut through both rider and horse with a single stroke, cleaner than any massive blade could manage. And he wasn’t even using his full strength—this was a demonstration. If he were truly fighting for his life, those strikes would be faster and even more powerful.

“An absolute calamity,” one noble murmured, unable to hold back his thoughts. The sheer force of Sylas’s technique made them shudder. The realization struck them that a single sweep of this blade could obliterate ranks of soldiers, and if such a fighter charged into an enemy formation…

In the silence that followed, someone muttered to himself, “The enemy commander wouldn’t stand a chance.”

With one last swing, Sylas finished, stopping his sword mid-air. Even he felt astonished at the strength he had displayed. The raw power of his movements far exceeded what he had imagined.

‘Even with my body strengthened, this kind of force seems impossible,’ he thought. All he had done was demonstrate the basic technique, yet his strikes had effortlessly torn through everything in their path.

A sudden realization struck him, sending a shiver through his body.

‘So this swordsmanship was actually designed for someone with awakened ancient bloodlines!’

Sylas had stumbled upon an unexpected blessing. In his previous life, he’d never even learned the Flame Sword technique—let alone unlocked his ancient bloodline. Had he awakened his bloodline earlier, he surely would have been taught the technique, as anyone with the potential to become a great knight would have been. It was as if he had picked up a gold coin only to find it had turned into a diamond.

“Ahem,” Sylas cleared his throat, trying to keep his composure. It would be absurd if he, the one aiming to awe others, was more astonished than the audience.

“How does it feel?” he asked, addressing the nobles.

The Marquis was the first to respond, snapping out of his daze. He still looked visibly shaken.

“What… do you mean, ‘feel’?”

“I’m sure some of you know that I wasn’t this powerful before,” Sylas replied, drawing a tense silence from the nobles.

“So…?”

“Why do you think I’m this strong now?”

The Marquis bit his lip, the answer painfully clear: the dragon’s heart. Any hope he’d had of denying Sylas’s success was slipping away, replaced by bitter regret. The thought gnawed at him—if only he or one of his loyal knights had consumed it instead, then this incredible power would be theirs. Every noble there shared that thought, recognizing the undeniable advantage the dragon’s heart had granted Sylas.

“What a waste,” they thought, closing their eyes as they silently lamented the missed opportunity. In truth, Sylas’s power stemmed from the awakening of his ancient bloodline, but the nobles had no way of knowing this.

“Consider my strength as my proof. Do you accept it?” Sylas asked.

“I accept…” came a reluctant reply.

“I will acknowledge it,” said another.

The nobles’ murmurs grew as they hesitated to fully admit it. But before they could voice further objections, a deep voice interrupted.

“I accept it,” declared Ragnar, the Great Chief.

“W-what?” gasped the nobles.

The one who had the most reason to deny Sylas’s success was, ironically, the one now acknowledging it. Ragnar faced the astonished nobles with a stern expression.

“We are here in a sacred place to select a king, not to play political games,” he stated firmly.

The nobles, realizing his intent, fell silent. They understood: he was telling them to stop pretending they hadn’t seen the obvious truth. Even Loghain, Ragnar’s loyal follower, chimed in.

“I also acknowledge it. As for the other candidates, I leave it to them,” he said.

“I concur,” added Bjorn, another candidate, following suit.

With half of the candidates’ support, Sylas turned to the remaining nobles, his tone mocking.

“I don’t need your approval.”

“What?”

“I took on the trial alone, claimed the dragon’s heart, and made it part of my being. I’m sure of my worth in the eyes of the Goddess, so why should I sully my honor by seeking approval from any of you?”

Sylas’s veiled sarcasm cut deep, and the nobles’ faces turned red with humiliation.

“How dare you!” someone hissed, their pride wounded.

“I will acknowledge it,” Viscount Thorburn declared unexpectedly.

“What?” gasps came from all around. Given the insult, it would have been easy to refuse. Sylas himself was surprised, raising an eyebrow at Thorburn.

‘The Viscount was supportive before, but I thought it was purely political.’

But here he was, offering genuine support. Ragnar observed Thorburn with quiet admiration.

“Is there still a warrior left among us?”

“I am no warrior, Great Chief,” Thorburn corrected, though he added, “But I have never forgotten that I am both a lord and a knight.”

“That is all,” he finished simply.

His choice was one of personal honor, leaving the nobles lowering their heads, red with shame. It wasn’t anger now, but rather the sting of true embarrassment.

“…I too acknowledge your success,” another noble said.

“As do I.”

One by one, more nobles offered their acceptance. The soft ripples spread until nearly two-thirds had recognized Sylas’s success, prompting a satisfied smile from him.

‘This is why I like the North,’ he thought. Nobles were often hypocritical, ruthless, and dishonorable regardless of time or place. That was precisely why honor was such a powerful restraint for them. And at least here, Northern nobles had a certain pride—a sense of struggle from ages long past.

‘Not that everyone has it,’ he mused, glancing at the Marquis, who looked begrudgingly forward.

“What is the next trial?” the Marquis asked stiffly. While he couldn’t deny Sylas’s achievement after a majority vote, he clearly wasn’t about to offer personal approval.

“Next is a hunt,” Sylas replied.