Chapter 129: What Do These Lowborns Take the Nobility For?

Translation by: Weebsread👹

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Late at night, within the estate of Duke Ous.

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Darkness pressed in on every stone and leaf, heavy as velvet, silent and oppressive.

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A patrol moved briskly along the cobblestone path, their formation precise and intimidating, exuding a somber authority. In this noble quarter, tranquility reigned—here, it seemed, no filth nor rumor could possibly take root.

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But in the study, as report after report was delivered, the atmosphere grew even more stifling, as if the very air might curdle under so much bad news.

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“Your Grace… The Church has pressed us several times for the remainder of the promised funds. The priest stated that, if he doesn’t receive the coin within three days, he can’t guarantee that Commander Alfron won’t suddenly return to the capital.”

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“And from our informants with the army: the demonkin have reinforced the Northern Fortress. The coalition’s offensive has stalled at their walls. The demonkin are urging us to sabotage the supply lines as previously agreed.”

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“As for the estate’s tax collection, progress is… troubling, to say the least. A significant portion remains outstanding. So with our current liquid assets…”

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Yet another funding crisis.

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As the butler’s meticulous updates wore on, Duke Ous’s expression darkened. His grip on his goblet tightened until, at last—crack—a web of fractures appeared, and glass shards spilled quietly onto the carpet.

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Recent weeks had been a storm of misfortune.

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Every scheme had unraveled; his soldiers had suffered heavy losses; even supposedly untouchable funds were blocked at every turn.

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“Hired the Cult of the Evil Gods to assassinate Alfron… Colluded with demonkin to stall the coalition at the front… Poured two million gold coins into the Holy See just days ago… Bankrolled the Noble Academy to forcibly acquire rare herbs and commission top alchemists…”

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Any one of these burdens, on its own, would be nothing for the mighty House of Ous to bear.

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But so many, and with such abrupt urgency—together, they had torn a gaping hole in what had once been stable finances.

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At the root of it all lay the coalition’s unexpected string of victories at the front. With victory, supply prices fell, and the stockpiles in the northern kingdoms could now only be sold at a loss.

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Their latest, costly efforts to sabotage the Holy See’s supply lines had pushed expenditures even higher. Only now, as the coffers neared empty, did the true deficit become plain.

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“We’re short by three million gold in all?”

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“Yes, Your Grace—exactly three million.”

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Duke Ous drummed his fingers against his armrest, brow furrowed.

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By rights, this year’s budget should have been tight but sufficient—perhaps even showing a surplus.

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Even counting those recent, extraordinary expenses, the gap should never have been so severe.

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“How much tax revenue is still uncollected?”

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Forced to confront the shortfall, Duke Ous turned to the unpaid taxes.

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“Roughly thirty percent of the taxes remain outstanding, Your Grace.”

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“What? That much?”

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He’d known peasant tax resistance had grown bolder of late, but the number startled even him—he could not disguise his shock as his eyes flew wide.

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“What are my tax collectors even doing all day? Only a month remains in this quarter, with year-end collections about to begin, and you’re telling me a third of fourth-quarter taxes have yet to come in?”

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Duke Ous could scarcely believe it. Had his own men become so useless right under his nose?

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“For nobles to be this inept—unable even to handle a handful of peasants?”

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“Write to the chief collector at once. I want to see a detailed account of his work!”

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“This, ah…”

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It was no easy thing to stand before Duke Ous in the throes of his fury.

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The butler hesitated, choosing his words with care before speaking softly, almost placatingly.

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“Please, Your Grace, temper your anger.”

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He studied the Duke’s thunderous expression a moment longer, then forced himself on.

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“This isn’t isolated to us. Noble houses throughout the Empire—even House Leonard—face similar problems.”

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“With victories mounting at the front and the northern kingdoms stabilizing, unrest is no longer confined to the peasants along the border. Now even commoners in the heartlands have begun resisting taxes. The only reason their discontent appears muted is that the taxes they pay are already somewhat lighter.”

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The old houses’ domains followed the Empire’s base rates.

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But after the war erupted and the Empire’s coffers emptied, a torrent of new ‘war taxes’ was imposed.

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The sums were staggering—soaring high enough to spark protests across the realm. But with the threat of invasion looming, the people could do little but tighten their belts and submit.

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Now, at last, after years of suffering, peace was in sight—and even those in the safer heartlands, who had endured less, were reaching their limit.

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“These peasants!” The Duke growled, his brow knotting in contempt. “The war’s not done, and already they squirm for loopholes?”

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“If not for noble labor—if not for all we’ve built—would these commoners have land to till, work to do? They’d have long since become demonkin thralls, like the poor wretches of the North!”

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“Ungrateful curs… begrudging even a small tithe, as if I’d demanded their homes and children! Shouldn’t they thank their stars that their lord provides—offering shelter, filling their bellies?”

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He sneered, shaking his head in disbelief. “Private wealth only fuels their idle pleasures. What other use does it serve?”

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“No, it’s clear. We’ve left them too much—the taxes are far too low. With a surplus, all manner of dangerous nonsense begins to take root.”

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The butler cleared his throat, glancing at the Duke with some trepidation. “Your Grace… perhaps the other houses might offer tribute to help cover the gap? Or we could mortgage some estates, and reacquire them once this tide has passed?”

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The steward stepped forward, proffering fresh tea as he spoke.

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“Three million gold coins—while hardly trivial—is still a manageable sum. We simply need a little time. If the quarterly taxes fall short, the year-end levy will make up the loss. Filling this deficit shouldn’t be too great a challenge.”

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But Duke Ous cut him off with a wave, his gaze ice cold. “No. Begging tribute would tarnish the Duke of Osse’s name. To mortgage our ancestral estates would be worse.”

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He sat, silent for a moment, then his eyes sharpened—he’d already found his answer.

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“Go—write to the Cult of the Evil God. Tell them the duke is at a crucial juncture. Assure them the full payment will be delivered, but ask them to delay Sir Alfron for a few more weeks—no more than that. I’ll see that the money is in their hands by then.”

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His tone dropped to a chilling quiet. “Then send Carlos and Randy to the border. Have them pick the two villages most notorious for resisting taxes. Annihilate them—blame it on the demonkin. At the right moment, our own men will swoop in to ‘protect the survivors.’”

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“That will smooth out further collections. And if anyone else resists… let them see how the demons treat the stubborn.”

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Peasants, after all, were just another asset to the nobility.

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Recently, throngs of refugees from the northern states had swollen the empire’s borders—there was never a shortage of laborers or tenants.

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Eradicating two insubordinate villages simply meant ushering in a new batch of pliant subjects. Nothing more.

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“At once, Your Grace,” said the steward, bowing.

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Pinning a massacre on the demonkin after plundering human wealth—such schemes had become almost routine these days.

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The steward nodded, committing it all to memory. There was nothing difficult about this work.

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“There’s also an update on the Holy See’s supply request, and a letter from Miss Wilma.”

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With reverent care, the butler set the envelope upon the Duke’s desk.

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Still standing at his post, the butler pressed on with his report.

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“Miss Wilma has confirmed, in person, that the Holy See’s order has been fulfilled.”

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“And the root of the matter appears to be that adventurer—Lin Wei. It’s said he committed a grave offense against Miss Wilma at the Imperial Magic Academy today. She asks that you dispatch someone to avenge her humiliation—to uphold noble honor.”

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“Oh?”

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The name caught the Duke off guard, flickering in his memory.

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Duke Ous’s eyelids twitched; he picked up the envelope and read.

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But line by line, his expression only darkened further.

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“Lin Wei… Lin Wei again?”

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“That adventurer—does he have a death wish?”