Chapter 366 - 358: In the Name of the Count of the White Tower

Chapter 366: Chapter 358: In the Name of the Count of the White Tower

As Prince Willandar finished speaking, the Chief Scribe rang the Silver Bell in his hand.

"The voting will now begin."

Attendants carrying wooden boxes lined with velvet moved through the aisles. The nobles picked up the quills on their desks, dipped them in ink, and wrote their decisions on specially prepared parchment.

The scratching of quills became the only sound in the grand hall.

Marquis Marcus, the Iron Wall, stiffly sat back in his seat, his hands pressed on the armrests, the outlines of his knuckles clearly visible.

He didn’t look at Willandar. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the mural on the vaulted ceiling depicting the "First King Parting the Sea." In the painting, a hero brandished a trident, cleaving through giant waves, a fleet with sails unfurled at his back.

’How ironic.’

’The legacy our ancestors forged with honor and blood is about to be stolen by some clueless upstart with a handful of Golden Suns and empty promises.’

The core members of the Imperial Faction around him all maintained their noble decorum. One count elegantly folded his ballot, dropped it into the box, and even gave the attendant a slight nod. Another slowly polished his monocle, but the faint tremor in his fingers betrayed his composure.

Smiles remained fixed on their faces, elegant and poised, but beneath them lay an icy chill.

Diana sat in the seat for the Dawn Territory, not far from Count Leman. She neither feigned elegance like the Imperial Faction nobles across from her, nor did she maintain a stoic facade like Count Leman. She simply sat up straight, and as the Countess of Dawn, she took her quill and firmly wrote the word "Support" on the parchment.

This was not just a vote for an ally, but for the future her Uncle Willandar had painted—a vote for the Duchy to break free from the old order and find a new hope for rebirth.

She personally dropped the folded ballot into the velvet box held by the attendant. In that moment, she was no longer a young girl who would blush and whose heart would race over romantic feelings, but a sovereign lord, wielding authority and deciding the fate of her lands.

Only after doing this did her gaze drift to the observers’ gallery nearby. Velin was still calmly flipping through an atlas of the Royal Capital’s waterworks, as if the surrounding commotion had nothing to do with him, as if he weren’t the eye of this storm.

’That guy... isn’t he nervous at all?’

The tallying of the votes began.

The Chief Scribe drew the parchments from the ballot box one by one, unfolded them, and announced the votes in a loud voice.

"Support."

"Support."

"Oppose."

"Support."

On a tally board to one side of the hall, two clerks recorded the votes with chalk.

In the column for "Support," the number grew steadily.

The number for "Oppose," however, increased with agonizing slowness.

At first, the nobles of the Imperial Faction managed to remain composed. They had significant numbers, and the votes from their strongholds were guaranteed.

But soon, the situation became clear.

"Support."

"Abstain."

"Support."

"Support."

Many of the swing-vote nobles, who had previously remained neutral or even privately expressed agreement with the Iron Wall Marquis’s views, now unhesitatingly cast their ballots for Velin.

They may not have fully understood the profound significance of the "merit point system" or the "citizenship buyout bill."

They might even have harbored doubts about Velin himself.

But they trusted Prince Willandar.

This prince, away from the seat of power for a decade, had returned to unequivocally champion an unknown baron. He had compared the Empire’s products to the Duchy’s, using cold, hard facts to rip away the nobles’ last fig leaf.

That decisiveness, that sense of responsibility for the Duchy’s future, was enough to make them cast aside their preconceptions and follow the Prince’s lead.

A white-bearded old count, whose lands bordered those of the Iron Wall Marquis, tremblingly cast his vote for "Support." The specialty of his domain was apple cider, once a bestseller in the Empire. But over the last decade, it had been almost completely forced out of the market by the Empire’s cheaper, sweeter pear wine. Every word the Prince had spoken had struck him to the core.

The Iron Wall Marquis’s gaze swept over the old count, but the latter lowered his head, daring not meet his eyes.

’Betrayal.’

From the moment the first unexpected "Support" vote was cast, the game was already over.

The gap between the numbers on the tally board grew wider and wider.

Support: 82, Oppose: 21.

Support: 105, Oppose: 32.

For the Imperial Faction, the tallying of the votes became a long, drawn-out execution. Each cry of "Support" was like a slap across their faces.

Finally, when the last ballot had been read, the Chief Scribe cleared his throat and rang the Silver Bell once more.

DING—

The crisp ring announced the final result.

"Regarding the motion to elevate His Excellency Velin Klein, Pioneer Baron of the Gray Swamp, to the rank of Count, the results of the vote are as follows."

"Votes in favor: one hundred twenty-seven."

"Votes opposed: thirty-six."

"Abstentions: eleven."

"The motion is passed."

Count Leman let out a long sigh, his entire body relaxing as he leaned back in his chair. He exchanged a glance with Marquis Lorenzo, who was seated nearby, and saw the same relieved smile mirrored on the other’s face.

Leman’s gaze traveled over the crowd and settled on Velin in the observers’ gallery.

Approval, gratification, and even a trace of... awe that he himself had not yet realized he felt.

’This nephew, whom I once regarded as a high-potential investment; this young man, who needed my protection and schemes just to survive, has, without me realizing it, grown to a stature that even I now have to look upon as an equal, or perhaps even look up to.’

’He didn’t fight his opponents on the chessboard. He brought in a giant who could flip the entire board over.’

’That vision, those methods... they’ve transcended the realm of mere political opportunism.’

Diana watched as Velin closed the atlas and placed it back on the table, his expression as placid as ever.

She suddenly felt a surge of annoyance.

’Here I was, on the edge of my seat for him, and he’s acting as if nothing happened.’

But beneath that annoyance lay a joy and satisfaction she hadn’t even consciously registered.

The defeated nobles of the pro-Empire faction were all ashen-faced.

The Iron Wall Marquis leaned back in his chair, his face expressionless. He didn’t leave. The council’s rules forbade him from leaving his seat before the session concluded, forcing him to remain in the very hall that had witnessed his crushing defeat and endure the victors’ gazes.

They knew this defeat wasn’t merely about the gain or loss of a countship.

It was the first blast from the horn of a counter-offensive, sounded by the long-dormant Royalist Faction following Prince Willandar’s return.

As of today, the political scales of the Duchy had begun to tip back.

The Chief Scribe continued to read out the next steps.

"By vote of the Noble Council, the parliamentary edict shall be issued forthwith."

"The investiture ceremony shall be held in three days’ time at the Grand Cathedral of the Royal Capital."

The Scribe’s voice echoed beneath the dome.

"Effective immediately, the title of His Excellency Velin Klein shall be officially elevated from ’Pioneer Baron of the Gray Swamp’ to ’Count of the White Tower’."

The words "White Tower" caused a considerable stir among the nobility.

A count’s title was typically derived from his domain’s core city or most prominent geographical feature. The capital of Velin’s domain, the magnificent new city he had named "Minas Tirith"—which meant "Tower of Hope"—was a perfect example. The entire city, built where the mountains meet the sea, was constructed of white stone that gleamed in the sunlight. Viewed from the strait, it looked like a majestic white tower standing on the coastline.

When deliberating on the new title, the Chief Scribe had suggested using the city’s abbreviated name, "Mi Port." However, after consulting Velin, they ultimately chose the two words that better captured the essence of his domain: "White Tower."

"His Excellency Velin Klein, Count of the White Tower, shall be granted the Grey Marsh Territory, the Newly Cultivated Land, and the Southern Islands as his Earl’s Domain. These three fiefdoms shall become the inalienable, hereditary territory of the Earl’s Domain of the White Tower."

"All administrative bodies, tax systems, appointments of judicial officers, and the construction of an Ethereum Tower for the Earl’s Domain will be established with the assistance of a special delegation sent by the Noble Council to aid His Excellency, the new Count."

Velin rose, gave a slight bow toward the council floor, and then turned to leave the observers’ gallery.

Although he was now a count, his investiture ceremony had not yet taken place, so strictly speaking, he still held the rank of baron. He was not qualified to remain for the rest of the council’s agenda.

As he walked out the main doors, he faintly heard the Chief Scribe’s voice, muffled and intermittent.

"The next item on the agenda is to deliberate... His Excellency... to inherit his father’s..."

Velin stepped out of the council building. Evening had fallen. The sun had sunk below the western horizon, leaving only a magnificent orange-red smear across the sky. Along the streets of the Royal Capital, Magic Crystals and oil lamps were being lit, tracing the network of canals in flowing ribbons of light.

The city’s myriad lights were as brilliant as a river of stars.

Velin stood leaning against a balustrade, looking down upon the magnificent yet fractured city.

’The rank of Count isn’t the final goal.’

’It’s just the beginning.’

He could feel a more violent undercurrent brewing beneath the surface. The threat from the Empire, the Prince’s return, the schism among the nobility... everything pointed to the coming of a much greater storm.

After some time, the oak doors of the council building swung open again, and nobles began to emerge in twos and threes. The session had apparently ended. Some of them noticed Velin standing by the balustrade. Their reactions were mixed; some offered a nod of acknowledgment, while others gave a cold snort and hurried on their way.

Velin paid these gazes no mind. A short while later, Count Leman emerged from the building.

The smile had vanished from his face, replaced by a complex, inscrutable emotion, both grim and weary.

"Let’s go. We’ll talk on the way." Leman didn’t stop, heading straight for his carriage.

Velin followed without a word.

The carriage rolled slowly over the cobblestone streets. Inside, the only sound was the monotonous rumble of the wheels.

"Hector Este," Leman finally said, his voice heavy as he watched the lights flicker past the window. "The opponent you told me about."

Velin looked at his uncle, waiting for him to continue.

"Something has happened to the Este Clan." Leman turned to look at Velin, his eyes filled with disbelief. "His father, the old Marquis, died suddenly a week ago. And his older brother, the first in line to inherit, died three days ago in a ’hunting accident’."

Leman took a deep breath. "He petitioned to inherit the title. The council approved it with an overwhelming majority."