Lord of Caldera - Chapter 269

Chapter 269: Chapter 269

“Is there even a need for a king? I am the king of the South!”

This declaration was made during a time when the title of king had not yet been restored. Despite this, Count Brahim openly declared himself king, disregarding the watchful eyes of others.

Naturally, the imperial family sent emissaries to caution him, but the count responded without a flicker of hesitation.

“If His Majesty oppresses me, I will have no choice but to protect myself.”

In other words: “If you keep nagging me, I’ll rebel.”

The imperial family was furious but refrained from taking action. A rebellion by Count Brahim would not end as a mere skirmish; it could destabilize the Empire itself.

“Drakkenfels can mobilize more troops than any other lord. His arrogance is insufferable, but we must feign ignorance for now.”

“Do you suggest we ignore such brazen insolence?”

“We have no choice. If he truly rebels, the imperial family will be in jeopardy.”

“But what about the other lords? Shouldn’t they also raise their forces to assist?”

“They may come, but whether they will genuinely support us is uncertain.”

Faced with the Emperor’s demands, the court nobles faltered. In the past, when the imperial family fulfilled its duties, the lords had reciprocated with unwavering loyalty.

But in recent times, the imperial family had subtly encouraged disputes among the lords, exploiting their weaknesses without offering any real assistance. Now, asking them to send forces to quell a rebellion?

“They’ll likely just make excuses about their own difficulties.”

“In the end, the burden of suppression will fall entirely on the imperial family.”

“Even if we succeed, the cost will be enormous.”

As a result, the imperial family remained paralyzed, and Count Brahim’s arrogance only grew.

But his reign of unchecked power did not last. Count Brahim died suddenly, having indulged in excessive debauchery. While the imperial family celebrated his demise, it marked the beginning of calamity in the South.

“I am the rightful heir to my father!”

“Nonsense! Even if it was verbal, he named me his successor!”

“The uncles are lying! As his grandson, I am the true heir!”

Count Brahim, who had sired many children during his lifetime, left behind no designated heir. Each claimant declared themselves the rightful successor, plunging the South into chaos.

The land was too valuable to relinquish—so much so that even the imperial family had to tread carefully. None of the claimants backed down, and the entire South became embroiled in the conflict.

That was thirty years ago, and the dispute showed no signs of resolution.

“And now, they’ve granted Drakkenfels as a reward?”

“There’s no way the claimants will yield without a fight.”

While it was true that the land officially had no owner, as no heir had been confirmed, and the right of appointment rested with the imperial family, it was absurd to think anyone would accept Sylas without resistance. The more likely scenario was that someone would quietly eliminate him, claiming it was an unfortunate accident.

“This is outrageous…!”

Count Bill clenched his fists, his face flushed with anger. He had always thought of himself as a loyal servant of the imperial family. Naturally, he expected his son, now a hero, to be justly rewarded.

But this? This was blatant treachery.

“Did I dedicate my loyalty to the imperial family only to witness such disgrace?”

Regret and fury simmered within him. This was an insult too great to bear.

“Your Majesty…!”

Just as Count Bill was about to cry out, Sylas knelt abruptly before the Emperor, cutting him off. The move startled not only the nobles but even the Emperor himself.

Sylas’s face was filled with unfeigned joy.

“Jackpot.”

Sylas inwardly celebrated. To think they would grant him that land, the land flowing with milk and honey, without hesitation.

“What a windfall! I expected barren wastelands, but they’re giving me a goldmine instead.”

His joy was so immense he could barely control his expression, the corners of his mouth threatening to reach his ears.

The Emperor, noticing the unexpected reaction, faltered.

“Y-you seem pleased.”

“How could I not be? I cannot express enough gratitude for Your Majesty’s boundless generosity!”

“I-is that so? Then I am glad to hear it…”

The Emperor trailed off, puzzled. Why was he so happy? The infamy of Drakkenfels was well known among the nobles of the Empire.

“Let me make one thing clear,” the Emperor added cautiously. “The imperial family can offer no further support. Should any issues arise within the estate, you must resolve them on your own.”

In other words, the imperial family would not intervene, even if disputes erupted.

But Sylas’s smile did not waver.

“Of course, Your Majesty. A lord who cannot manage his estate does not deserve to be called a lord.”

“….”

At this point, the Emperor was at a loss for words. If Sylas insisted on handling everything himself, what more could he say?

The other nobles, too, were dumbfounded.

“What is he thinking? How can he be so pleased with such a troublesome reward?”

“Does he not know about the disputes and only cares about the land’s wealth?”

Sensing their confusion, Sylas suppressed a chuckle. Certainly, the Emperor had handed him a massive headache disguised as a reward.

But the so-called disadvantages only applied to someone incapable of taming the land. For Sylas, they were irrelevant.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I’ll make excellent use of the land you’ve so graciously handed over.”

With genuine gratitude for the Emperor’s foolishness in giving up such a valuable jewel, Sylas bowed deeply once again.

—

The Missing Part

“Ah-hem, it is truly a joyful thing to see a hero so delighted with their reward.” Despite feeling uneasy, the Emperor set aside his concerns regarding Sylas. After all, there was no way to undo things now.

“Yet, the celebration does not end with the birth of a hero; there are two other joyous events to acknowledge, one of which you are all likely aware of,” the Emperor announced.

“What joyous event might Your Majesty refer to?” someone asked.

“The king of the North has risen once again, crossing the bridge of centuries,” he declared.

The nobles fell into a hush. It was clear, even at a glance, that the Emperor was not genuinely pleased. His words were nothing more than political rhetoric—he could hardly label the resurrection of a royal title as an unfortunate turn of events after having permitted it himself.

“King of the North, Bjorn! Come forth and present yourself before me,” he commanded.

“Gladly, Your Majesty,” a voice replied.

At the Emperor’s command, a figure emerged from a dark corner, where he had been shrouded in a hood. His sudden appearance startled those around him, causing some to retreat in alarm. Bjorn, however, remained unfazed by the reactions, striding forward confidently and kneeling on one knee.

“The King of the North greets the great Emperor of the Empire,” Bjorn said.

“Hmm,” the Emperor responded, smiling with satisfaction at Bjorn’s unexpectedly respectful demeanor. He had been concerned that Bjorn might display the same arrogance as the traitor Brahim.

“You are a man of great stature, well-suited to be the King of the North. I now see that my decision was not misplaced,” the Emperor remarked.

Sylas and a few nobles chuckled under their breath at the Emperor’s comment. Decision? What decision? It was merely a matter of approving the election of a king, yet he spoke as if he had personally handpicked Bjorn.

“He’s speaking as though he carefully selected him himself,” Sylas thought wryly. The Emperor’s blatant attempt to bolster his authority was transparent. Bjorn seemed to sense it too, responding only with a bitter smile.

“King of the North, Bjorn, I have named you king to bring order to the troubled North. You, in turn, must ensure the stability of the Empire and loyalty to the throne,” the Emperor declared.

“So long as the Empire does not abandon the North, I shall fulfill my duties,” Bjorn replied with a neutral tone, sidestepping the Emperor’s presumptuous statement. The Emperor, apparently satisfied with this answer, said no more.

After Bjorn stepped back, all eyes turned to the Emperor, waiting for his next proclamation. With two of the three celebrations addressed, only the final one remained.

“The birth of a hero and the rise of a king are blessings upon the Empire,” the Emperor said. “But what gladdens me most is the rekindling of an old bond.”

The nobles exchanged uneasy glances, holding their breath in anticipation. They all had a good idea of what the Emperor would say next—the rumors had been impossible to ignore.

“Great Archduke of the Elves, would you reveal yourself? Let all see the restoration of our ancient alliance.”

There was no verbal reply. Instead, the sealed entrance opened once more, and several figures emerged. The nobles collectively held their breath as the long-rumored Elf Archduke appeared in person.

The Emperor smiled broadly at the sight of Archduke Arathion. Unlike the prior two announcements, this truly was a momentous occasion. The Elf Archduke’s presence would bolster the Empire’s prestige, showcasing its ability to command respect even from non-human races.

“Welcome, Archduke. It must have been a long and arduous journey,” the Emperor greeted him warmly.

“Thank you for your courtesy, Emperor of humanity,” Arathion replied curtly. His expression remained unchanged, revealing nothing of his inner thoughts.

“Are all Elves this stoic?” the Emperor wondered silently, brushing off his curiosity. It was not strange for Elves to exhibit less emotion than humans.

“You expressed a desire to break your isolationist ways and broaden ties with humanity. This celebration is an excellent opportunity for such endeavors. I hope you will gain much from the experience,” the Emperor said.

“I shall do so,” Arathion replied tersely, his succinct response causing the Emperor’s brow to twitch ever so slightly. Does he think he’ll perish if he gives a proper answer? the Emperor thought, annoyed but careful not to show it.

The Emperor smiled widely, placing a hand on Arathion’s shoulder. “Come, enjoy the feast. There may be those you wish to meet,” he said.

“Very well,” Arathion replied with a nod, turning away. At that moment, Sylas, observing closely, caught the briefest movement of Arathion’s lips. He deciphered the silent words: Disgusting.

The Archduke’s shoulder twitched slightly where the Emperor had touched him, as if he wanted to shake off dirt. Oblivious to the Elf’s true feelings, the Emperor cheerfully announced, “Let the feast begin! By the name of Emperor Zickhardt, I declare this celebration open!”

With the Emperor’s proclamation, the nobles sprang into action. The true politicking would begin now, under the guise of festivity.

The nobles’ attention was focused on the three individuals introduced by the Emperor. Before anyone could approach them, Bjorn moved first, walking straight to Sylas.

“It has been a while,” Bjorn said.

“…!”

The nobles froze mid-step, watching the exchange in astonishment. The King of the North is speaking to the Dragonslayer? they thought, recalling that the two had been rivals during the election for kingship.

Despite their past competition, Bjorn spoke with surprising formality. Sylas, on the other hand, greeted him with a bright smile and a casual tone.

“Yes, it has. So, how’s the life of a king treating you?” Sylas asked.

The nobles gasped audibly. Sylas’s lack of deference left them utterly stunned.