Chapter 361 - 353: The One Who Flips the Chessboard

Chapter 361: Chapter 353: The One Who Flips the Chessboard

The Royal Capital, Zelheim—the pearl on the canal.

High in the sky, the air currents were cold and sharp.

Nefarian stretched his gray-black wings, hovering steadily above the clouds. Velin looked down, the heart of the Duchy spreading out before him.

Magnificent, and yet divided.

With the grand canal cutting through the city as its axis, dozens of islands connected by white stone bridges formed the core of the Noble District.

The Duke’s Mansion and the Noble Council stood like white mountains atop the main island, their grand reflections flowing silently in the clear water below.

On the private islands, small boats with velvet cushions were moored at the garden docks of noble estates. At night, Magic Lamps illuminated the network of canals, making it look as if the Milky Way had fallen to earth.

Order and wealth, power and nobility, bloodline and status—here, they were sculpted by water and stone into eternal art.

But at the end of this "galaxy" lay a filthy shadow.

The slums.

Downstream and on the city’s outskirts, the canals narrowed and grew murky, like open-air sewers.

Countless shanties clung to the riverbanks and old dikes like leeches, some even built precariously over the foul-smelling water.

Garbage and excrement clogged the waterways, forming floating "islands" that stood in stark, distant contrast to the Noble District.

Velin didn’t even need to use his Extraordinary perception to "see" the stench of mold, poverty, and despair that permeated the air there.

The scene depicted the rotten foundation of this feudal world. And he was always being dragged into the core of such decay.

’It seems like every time I come to the Royal Capital, some major crisis is waiting for me.’

"Let’s go down," Velin said, patting Nefarian’s neck.

The black Pegasus gave a low whinny, folded its wings, and transformed into a gray shadow, heading for Count Leman’s Earl’s Mansion.

Inside Count Leman’s study, the air was heavy.

The flames in the fireplace danced, but they couldn’t dispel the chill in the room.

An exquisite meal was laid out on a long table: a honey-glazed turkey roasted to a golden brown, a cheesecake garnished with red berries, and a pot of fragrant, light-leaf black tea.

However, the master of the room, Count Leman, had no appetite. He paced back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back.

Velin sat across from him, cut a small piece of cake with a silver fork, and brought it to his mouth. Sweet, but not cloying; the texture of the cream was just right.

Leman finally stopped pacing. He pressed his hand on the tabletop, his knuckles white from the force. He looked at Velin’s composed demeanor, took a deep breath to suppress his anger, and decided to first make his nephew, so far removed from the political center, fully understand the current situation.

"Velin, what is the Royal Capital, Zelheim, to you?" Leman’s voice was low and hoarse.

Velin thought for a moment before answering, "The heart of the Duchy, the center of power, the gathering place of wealth."

"Yes and no." Leman shook his head, a bitter, self-mocking smile on his face. "Right now, it’s more like a gladiatorial arena, a battlefield with no smoke. The entire upper echelon of the Duchy has long been split into two factions."

He held up one finger. "One faction is the ’Imperial Faction,’ led by the Iron Wall Marquis. They are mostly old, powerful nobles with deep ties to the Empire. They firmly believe the Duchy cannot stand against the Empire alone and advocate for complete surrender in exchange for their clans’ status and interests in the new order. Their influence in the council is immense; they control nearly half the discourse in the Duchy."

Then, he held up a second finger. "The other faction is us, the ’Independence Faction,’ or the ’Royalist Faction,’ desperately held together by a core of old nobles. We hold fast to the bottom line of the Duchy’s independence, but for years, we’ve been suppressed by the Imperial Faction, constrained at every turn."

Leman’s gaze sharpened. "Now, your promotion to Count has become the new focal point of the struggle between these two factions. We had hoped to use this opportunity to secure enough weight for the new power you represent and break the stalemate. But they, clearly, will not let us have our way."

He paused, the fury in his tone no longer suppressible.

"The Imperial Faction, led by the Iron Wall Marquis, has formally raised an objection in the Noble Council."

Velin took another sip of his tea, saying nothing, gesturing for him to continue.

"The Iron Wall Marquis, Marcus von Essen, a veteran of the Duchy’s military and the most stubborn pro-Empire loyalist." Leman’s words were laced with suppressed rage. "The Empire’s will is constantly voiced through his mouth in our council."

"What are their reasons for opposition?" Velin asked.

"Reasons?" Leman snorted coldly. "They can always find some high-sounding excuse."

"First, the promotion is too fast. It’s been barely a year since you were ennobled as a Baron, and now you’re immediately being promoted to Count. This is unheard of in the last century of the Duchy’s history. They claim it undermines the stability and solemnity of the aristocratic system."

Velin wiped his mouth with a napkin.

"Second, bloodline. They dug up the Klein Clan’s genealogy and pointed out that you are from a minor branch of a minor branch, that your blood is not ’noble’ enough. Bestowing the title of Count, especially a new one without an established lineage, requires the purest of bloodlines. This has been an ironclad rule of the aristocratic world for a thousand years."

"It is indeed an ironclad rule," Velin commented calmly.

"The most critical is the third point." Leman walked around the table and stood before Velin. "You are not inheriting an existing title of Count; you are creating an Earl’s Domain out of whole cloth on unclaimed land. The last time something like this happened was in the early days of the Great Expansion Era. They say this will set a dangerous precedent, showing opportunists and upstarts a shortcut to seizing power."

Velin gently set down his knife and fork. He looked at his uncle and asked a key question.

"Those are the reasons they’ve put on the table. So, what’s the real reason, the one hidden underneath?"

Leman met his gaze, his perpetually calculating face now etched with exhaustion.

"The real reason... is you."

"It’s everything you’ve implemented in the Grey Marsh Territory. That damned ’merit point system,’ using numbers to measure a person’s worth instead of bloodline and birth. And that ’Citizenship Redemption Act,’ which lets mud-legs earn the status of freemen—even own land—through labor. In their eyes, these things are more terrifying than the Imperial Army."

"They are heresy," Leman said, word by word. "They are hollowing out the very foundation of the aristocracy’s legitimacy. They’re afraid that if an Earl’s Domain ruled by a ’heretic’ like you were to appear in the Duchy, it would become a model—a contagious plague."

"So, they must stop me," Velin concluded.

"Correct." Leman nodded. "I’ve united all the nobles of the Independence Faction I could and won over some of the moderates. But the Iron Wall Marquis’s influence in the military is too great. He alone can practically represent the will of the entire Duchy’s army. The council is at a stalemate; no one can persuade the other side."

Silence fell over the study once more.

Velin gently set down his teacup.

’Surveillance.’

From the moment he set foot in the Royal Capital, he had felt it: furtive gazes from different directions. People from the Imperial Faction, spies from the Church, perhaps even eyes from the council.

They were all waiting to see how he would handle this impasse.

’Do I go to the council and engage in a war of words with those old nobles? Or do I visit the various powers and lobby them with promises of benefits?’

’These are all battlefields my opponents have prepared for me.’

"Uncle," Velin began.

"Hm?"

"As for the council, you continue to deal with them. Keep up the pressure. Let them think all our energy is focused there."

Leman looked at him, confused. "And you? What are you planning to do?"

"I need some intelligence," Velin said. "Some... seemingly irrelevant intelligence."

He rose, walked to the desk, took out a pen and paper, and quickly wrote a short letter. He folded the paper, placed it in an envelope, and sealed it with wax.

"Give this to Lilia."

Half an hour later, in a side hall of Marchioness Audrey’s residence, Lilia unfolded the letter.

The contents of the letter were simple, with no pleasantries, getting straight to the point.

"Aside from politics, what is the most noteworthy event in the Royal Capital’s noble circles recently? I need details on everything, whether it’s rumors, banquets, or the return of some important figure."

After reading the letter, Lilia fell into deep thought.

’What my brother wants is never the kind of information everyone already knows.’

She closed her eyes, filtering the past month’s events through her mind.

’The Iron Wall Marquis’s grandson held a grand coming-of-age ceremony, the finance minister bought another new manor, the Archbishop of the Eternal Radiance Church announced a city-wide blessing ceremony... None of those.’

Suddenly, a name popped into her head.

A name that had been occasionally mentioned at the ladies’ tea parties recently, but was always quickly glossed over as if it were taboo.

Willandar Orange.

The cousin of the Empire’s emperor, once the star of the Empire, who had returned to the Duchy not long ago, only to leave the country on a long journey and disappear from public view.

But just a short while ago, His Highness the Prince had quietly returned to the Royal Capital.

There was no welcoming ceremony, no official announcement. He simply came back quietly, moving into his long-shuttered princely residence and refusing all visitors.

Everyone pretended not to know.

Lilia’s quill glided quickly across the parchment as she recorded everything she could about the prince—his background, his grievances with the Empire, and the unusual circumstances of his departure from the Empire—in as much detail as possible.

"This is it," Lilia said, sealing the letter and sending it off with a trusted confidant.

When Count Leman saw Lilia’s reply, his face was full of confusion.

"Prince Willandar? Velin, what are you trying to do?" Leman slapped the letter down on the table, his tone filled with bewilderment. "His Highness the Prince is in an awkward position. He possesses a royal bloodline and a lofty status, but he has almost no real power. He’s been holed up in his residence ever since returning to the Royal Capital, refusing all social calls. He’s clearly not picking a side."

Leman stressed, "He certainly won’t confront the Iron Wall Marquis head-on over the promotion of a mere baron."

Velin didn’t answer.

His mind was racing.

’The Iron Wall Marquis represents the interests of the old aristocracy and the military. Their power is rooted in the ’theory of bloodlines’ and ’traditional order.’

’I represent ’knowledge and reason’ and ’emerging power.’

’This is a conflict of values. Within the existing framework of rules, there is no room for compromise. To win, I can’t play by the rules they’ve set.’

Prince Willandar Orange.

’The Emperor’s cousin, who also possesses royal blood, suddenly returns to the Royal Capital...’

Velin felt it wasn’t that simple.

Velin looked up at Count Leman, the firelight from the hearth reflecting in his wine-red, amber eyes.

"Uncle, it’s clear we’re no match for them right now."

His finger tapped lightly on the map, landing on an area of the Royal Capital marked "The Silent Court"—the location of the Prince’s residence.

"So why not give it a try?"