Lord of Caldera - Chapter 188

Chapter 188: Chapter 188

The Marquis turned sharply, irritated by the impatience around him. The noble he’d scolded fell silent but continued to fidget with his fingers, unable to shake his unease. Finally, Viscount Torburn stepped forward to diffuse the tension.

“Calm yourself. All we can do is wait—no need to let nerves get the better of us.”

The noble hesitated, stammering but ultimately unable to find his words, turning away in frustration. Viscount Torburn sighed, sensing the noble’s underlying concern.

The Imperial Court, no doubt.

By now, word of the Platinum Assembly and the North’s search for a king would have reached the palace. With such events unlikely to sit well with the Imperial Court, the lords here would undoubtedly face consequences if their gamble didn’t produce a new Northern king.

And with not a single candidate returning, the nobles’ anxiety was understandable.

All they can do now is hope for the emergence of a worthy Northern king, thought Torburn. Silently, he gripped his staff tightly, praying that the one who would ascend would be the candidate he had backed.

A month and ten days after the candidates had set out, the first of them returned: Karl, the Marquis’s heir.

“Forgive the delay,” he announced, stepping into camp. “I have slain a dragon.”

Though weathered by snow and dust, Karl bore no serious injuries. He carried with him the head of a reptilian creature slung across his back.

“The head of a Lesser Dragon.”

“…Confirmed.”

Viscount Torburn examined the head and murmured with a detached expression. The surrounding nobles wore similar expressions. Karl’s return elicited little emotion from anyone present.

It’s impressive that he did it alone, but…

Lesser Dragons hardly count as true dragons.

The Lesser Dragon was half-dragon in every sense, barely worthy of the title. Though they acknowledged it as a dragon among the candidates, it was uncertain if the North itself would do the same.

Unperturbed, Karl met their gazes and asked, “Have any other candidates returned?”

“Not yet. You are the first.”

“I see.”

Karl nodded, keeping his composure as he retreated to his private tent. There, alone, he allowed himself a smirk.

Of course. What a foolish test, thinking anyone could actually hunt a real dragon.

In Karl’s view, the entire trial was a joke. He’d nearly died taking down a Lesser Dragon—an embarrassment of a dragon, as far as he was concerned. Without the Marquis’s support and the family’s artifacts, he likely would have perished or returned severely injured.

Who else could possibly survive this?

No matter how strong, only the living could claim victory. The title of a great hero was meaningless if it was worn by a corpse. Returning with his limbs intact was a victory in itself; all he had to do now was enjoy the failures of his fellow candidates when they returned, broken or dead.

“Looks like the third trial won’t be necessary after all,” he chuckled, settling into a warm bath.

A few days later, when the second candidate returned, Karl felt further convinced of his success.

“I have brought back a drake,” announced the newcomer, Dorian, presenting a dragon head that dwarfed the Lesser Dragon in size.

Dorian’s prize was objectively more impressive, but as Viscount Torburn inspected the head, he found himself at a loss for words. After a long silence, he finally managed to ask, “Are you… alright?”

Dorian said nothing. Admitting he was unwell would seem weak, yet pretending otherwise felt absurd. The cost of taking down a drake had been too high.

“You did what you had to do, hunting a dragon alone,” Dorian said with a bitter smile, glancing at his own arm—a twisted, misshapen limb. It was clear it would never return to normal, and the cost of potions required to restore it would be exorbitant. Amputation seemed the only solution to prevent necrosis.

“I’ll need to go for treatment… it’s painful.”

His arm was merely the most visible injury; his entire body was covered in wounds. While treatable, any further delay could prove fatal.

Viscount Torburn watched him with a solemn gaze before speaking. “You have earned the title of dragonslayer in this age.”

“A dragonslayer… for a mere drake?”

“Indeed, you are a true dragonslayer.”

Having risked his life to battle a dragon, none could call Dorian a coward. Following Viscount Torburn’s lead, the surrounding nobles bowed one by one. Even if everyone else denied it, they would recognize him as a dragonslayer and hero. Dorian felt the weight of their respect sink into his heart.

“Haha,” he chuckled, hiding his red-rimmed eyes. Seeing the noble recognition Dorian received, Karl merely shrugged.

He’s finished.

What good was universal respect if it left him unable to participate in the next trial? A brief flicker of glory, nothing more. Karl felt assured in his own choice; surely the other candidates would be in no better condition, and in the end, he would be the one left standing.

But Karl’s expectations began to shift soon after. The next candidate to return was Rogain.

“A drake’s head,” Rogain announced, casually dropping the massive trophy. Everyone stared in shock. Despite taking down a drake like Dorian, he looked relatively unscathed.

“How… how are you holding up?” Viscount Torburn asked, marveling at Rogain’s appearance.

“Barely alive,” Rogain replied, grimacing. “Feels like every bone in my body’s fractured. A small price to pay for hunting a drake alone.”

The gathered nobles fell silent. Rogain’s body bore numerous scratches and bruises, signs of repeated blows and hard impacts.

“I’m going to rest,” he added.

“Please do,” Torburn replied, watching in awe as Rogain departed. They had underestimated him, thinking him little more than Ragnar’s subordinate.

It’s just luck, Karl told himself, clenching his teeth. He hadn’t expected Rogain to return in such good shape, but luck could only take someone so far. Surely, the next candidate would return battered, if at all.

“I’ve brought down a salamander,” announced Bjorn, returning soon after.

In his hands was the severed head of the fire-spewing creature, still radiating intense heat.