Chapter 64: The Duke’s Troubles

  When Ethan returned to Bracada, he heard a new commander had arrived and immediately headed to the town hall. He needed to report what had happened to the general and his five thousand soldiers to the duke.

  He reached the commander’s quarters, only to find a knight sitting regally in the commander’s seat, staring at him. The knight was handsome and imposing, clad in full plate armor; his golden curls were neatly groomed, and his face was clean-shaven—an appearance utterly out of place in the rough, spartan military outpost. He looked just as polished as he had at his wedding, not long ago.

  Ethan frowned, his disgust plain on his face. “Where’s Duke Mrak?” He’d never liked this man, but now, seeing him, he realized his feelings had soured into outright loathing.

  Clovis’ expression was equally unpleasant. “The duke has been delayed. I’m in temporary command here.”

  Ethan scoffed. “I should’ve come back in a few days. I’m in a terrible mood as it is, and seeing someone I hate only makes it worse.”

  For the first time, Ethan appreciated the perks of his status. I’m a cleric of the Magic Academy—what are you going to do about it?

  Clovis’ face turned livid. It was clear he was struggling to maintain his composure. In a stiff, overly formal tone, he said, “I heard you went after the general, who incited the soldiers to march without orders. Did you catch up to them?”

  “I did.”

  “So you were with their army the entire time?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened to them? Did they fight Oufu?”

  “They’re all dead,” Ethan said, unwilling to waste more words on him.

  Clovis’ eyes twitched. “All of them? Killed in battle—none survived?”

  “Yes,” Ethan replied coldly.

  Clovis sized up Ethan from head to toe. “Then how did you make it back unharmed? You don’t even have a scratch—your clothes aren’t even torn. Did the orcs take pity on you?”

  “Uh…” Ethan was stuck. He couldn’t tell the truth. “I watched from a distance.”

  Clovis said nothing, his blue eyes fixed on the obvious lie. Ethan stared back, unyielding. The two glared at each other. After a long moment, Clovis suddenly shouted, “Guards! Seize this traitor!” Soldiers rushed in, but they hesitated—they all recognized the cleric.

  Ethan roared, “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Clovis’ voice thundered with false righteousness. “As a cleric, you failed to command the priests and stabilize the army—allowing Sanders to stir up dissent and lead troops away without authorization. And if you hadn’t colluded with the orcs, how would five thousand soldiers be wiped out to a man, while you remain unscathed? Scouts reported the general’s army was already hundreds of miles away—how did you return so quickly? A sentry just spotted orc wyverns ten miles out; they flew off after a moment, and you showed up right after. Is that just a coincidence? Don’t these facts prove you’re in league with the orcs?”

  “Well, I…” Ethan was at a loss for words. He had returned on a wyvern, and he’d never considered how suspicious that would look.

  “Sir, I heard the cleric came back on foot—he didn’t have a horse,” a squad leader piped up, unwittingly adding fuel to the fire.

  The soldiers looked doubtful. Clovis, now firmly in control, waved his hand and shouted, “Isn’t that proof enough? Arrest him! If he resists, kill him!”

  “Hardly,” a voice cut in, calm and authoritative, turning the tide in an instant. “His Majesty has ordered a retreat and intends to sign a peace treaty with Oufu. General Sanders and his five thousand soldiers disregarded military law, acting on personal vengeance to attack an allied state—they deserved to be punished under military regulations. Thanks to the cleric’s efforts to mediate, those troublemakers didn’t destroy the peace between our nations or escalate the conflict.” The man paused, his tone warm with approval. “Truly, he is a pious servant of the gods, a pillar of our nation, and a blessing to our people.”

  “Your Grace—you’re here so soon,” Clovis said, flustered.

  “Of course. I couldn’t let this misunderstanding escalate,” Duke Mrak replied, waving kindly for the soldiers to leave. He turned to Ethan, his smile warm enough to convey both friendliness and apology. “Young men are prone to impetuousness—words can be sharp. Clovis didn’t realize you’re on our side; hostility between us benefits no one. I hope you’ll forgive him.” He glanced at Clovis. “Aren’t you going to apologize to the cleric?”

  “Save it,” Ethan said, shrugging. “We’re alone—no need for pointless formalities. We all know how this works. Now that you’re here, I’ll report what happened, then head back to the capital to debrief the bishop. I’d rather not stay here—we’re all young, and tempers run high.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” the duke said, his smile warmer than ever. “My delay was for this very reason: His Majesty and the bishop have a crucial task for you. It’s of great importance, and the bishop strongly recommended you—he says no one else can do it. I’ve already prepared an entourage to accompany you on a mission to Oufu.”

  “Ah? An entourage for what?” Ethan asked, confused.

  “An entourage to help you negotiate and sign the peace treaty,” the duke explained. “You now carry the noble mission of bringing peace to both nations.”

  It sounded like a hassle, but just an extra task—surely it wouldn’t take long. Ethan frowned, nodding reluctantly.

  After Ethan left, only the duke and his deputy remained in the room. The duke’s expression darkened. He fell silent for a moment, then said coldly, “We will never move against him again.”

  “But we have enough evidence to charge him with treason and execute him on the spot!” Clovis protested, defending his impulsiveness. “He’s far too dangerous to let live.”

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  “Killing him could be just as disastrous for us,” the duke replied, his voice sharp with irritation. Gone was his usual shrewdness and energy; his round, amiable face now looked dejected and angry, like a merchant who’d just lost a fortune.

  Clovis was stunned. He’d served the duke for years, but he’d never seen him look this way.

  Dejection was one thing—but for a man as calculating, astute, and unflappable as the duke, who navigated political storms with ease, to look so defeated… Clovis almost wondered if the sky was falling.

  Of course, the sky wasn’t falling. In fact, things seemed to be going perfectly. The duke had taken control of the army without incident; his grand plan was ready to unfold. Clovis had no idea what could have upset him so.

  Curious as he was, Clovis didn’t ask. He’d seen the unusual glint in the duke’s eyes, and he knew a good subordinate spoke little and acted much. He left at once to summon the army’s officers for a meeting with their new commander.

  Alone in the room, the duke sighed again.

  He tensed, scanning the room and listening intently. When he was certain no one was nearby, he kicked a stool so hard it crashed against the wall and splintered. In that instant, the kindness and grace that seemed etched into his features vanished. His narrow eyes were cold enough to freeze anyone who met his gaze, and his round face exuded a authority and lethal aura that matched even the most battle-hardened generals—men who’d killed hundreds on the battlefield.

  But a moment later, the fury faded. When the officers and Clovis returned, they would find the same warm, affable, and charismatic duke—though a faint weariness would linger, impossible to hide.

  By the duke’s standards, even great setbacks shouldn’t show on his face. With his skill and cunning, he could handle any crisis with poise, leaving no trace of struggle. For him to lose his composure like this, the setback must have been not just “great,” but catastrophic.

  That setback? His secret agreement with Oufu had collapsed—all because of that boy.

  The duke’s plan had begun years earlier. When Sedros told him he planned to build an orc city-state, the duke had offered his full support. He didn’t just provide material aid; more importantly, he’d secretly blocked all news of the city’s construction from reaching the imperial military.

  Hiding the birth of an entire city-state was an extraordinarily risky feat—even for someone as skilled as the duke. Though he and Sedros were friends, men of ambition knew friendship paled in comparison to profit. The duke would only take such a risk for a greater reward.

  At the time, the duke had just been granted his exalted title—but he knew his political career had peaked.

  He was talented and cunning; no other official in the empire could match his scheming. But his achievements could go no further. For a low-born noble with no connections to rise as high as he had was a miracle—but miracles only went so far. Without powerful allies, even the shrewdest politician couldn’t stand against the ancient, wealthy noble clans. Even his marriage to the Erney family hadn’t changed that; the old-guard nobles saw him as a tool, not one of their own.

  As for the military? With his ability, he might have climbed to the top—but in peacetime, progress was glacial, far too slow for his ravenous ambition.

  The only way to rise quickly was through war and crisis.

  Only in times of national peril could he showcase his true skill; only in chaos could he wield his schemes freely—eliminating rivals and seizing power.

  An orc city-state suddenly appearing in the Barbarian Highlands—land the empire considered its own—would inevitably draw the attention of the military, which craved military merit for political gain. War was certain. But if Sedros was well-prepared, if the orc army grew strong enough, and if General Gru led them… the duke was as sure the imperial army would lose as he was that eggs couldn’t eat people.

  A devastating defeat against the orcs would throw the court into chaos. Seizing that moment—using his daughter’s marriage to the Erneys, his good relations with the military, and his status as a “neutral” figure trusted by both sides—he could easily be appointed to lead the nation through its crisis.

  Once he took control of the army, the war would become a performance. As part of his deal with Sedros, the duke had demanded coordinated “defeats” on the battlefield.

  Victory was necessary, but it wouldn’t be easy. Casualties were inevitable. The orcs’ fearsome strength was already well-known, and a “great comeback from the brink” would cement his reputation as a brilliant general. But the losses would fall on unruly officers and troops—men hard to control or bribe. Such losses would be pleasurable.

  He wouldn’t win too thoroughly—just enough to reverse the tide. Sedros would never risk losing the orcs he’d worked so hard to gather, but the unruly goblins would make perfect cannon fodder.

  After a period of stalemate on the highlands, Sedros’ prearranged diplomatic tactics would kick in. Pressure from other nations would force the politicians to sue for peace. Then, using subtle foreshadowing he’d planted earlier, the duke would transform himself from a war hero into a peacemaker, negotiating the treaty. This shift would require skillful acting, but with Sedros’ help, he’d pull it off seamlessly.

  The ending would be a triumph for all: Oufu would be established, and the duke would hold military power, unmatched merit, and enough political capital to eliminate his rivals. Being second only to the emperor would be trivial—this would lay the groundwork for even greater ambitions.

  It was a grand, intricate plan—an art of strategy, with a keen eye for detail. The duke took pride in it; executing it required balancing countless interests, tending to endless details, and ensuring every piece fit perfectly. In the entire empire, only a master of intrigue like him could pull it off.

  But it was also extraordinarily dangerous. A single leak, a single misstep, and everything would collapse. Neither the imperial military nor the Erney family would tolerate someone with such dangerous ambitions—no one would share a roof with a snake, no matter how clever it was. Even with his skill, he’d be doomed.

  So he’d proceeded with extreme caution, eliminating anyone who might expose him. He’d watched Oufu grow, day by day, and waited for his perfect victory.

  But he’d never anticipated that, just as he was about to reap the rewards of his labor, a bumbling country boy would appear out of nowhere and derail his entire plan in ways he still couldn’t fathom.

  When the boy first showed up, the duke had paid him no mind—just a deserter. A quick silence him，and he’d be gone. The duke had disposed of countless such nuisances.

  Then, unbelievably, the bishop had intervened. The duke was slightly surprised, but not alarmed; the bishop rarely cared about politics, so he must have just taken a passing fancy to the boy. With a few well-chosen words, the duke had neutralized the boy, reducing him to a nonentity—no threat to his plan.

  Next, he’d discovered the bishop’s relationship with the boy was anything but casual. Now the duke was intrigued: perhaps the boy wasn’t a nobody, but a useful pawn to win the bishop’s favor. But after trying every trick in the book, he’d been shocked to find the boy was impervious to bribes or threats. He couldn’t be used, but he couldn’t be killed either. He stood there, flouting all the rules, and the entire situation had spiraled out of control.

  What happened next had left the duke reeling. The bishop—who’d never interfered in state affairs—had suddenly urged the emperor to retreat and negotiate peace. This had accelerated the peace process, leaving the duke no time to take control of the army, earn glory, or eliminate his rivals. Worse, the bishop had insisted the boy be the one to negotiate the treaty.

  All his risk-taking, all his effort, all his sacrifice—for nothing. Even a man with twice the duke’s self-control would have been furious. And there was more trouble to come.

  Before, the boy had seemed uninterested in power, so the duke hadn’t worried. But now the bishop was grooming him for greatness. This boy—who couldn’t be killed or bribed—held the duke’s darkest secret. He was a sword of Damocles hanging over the duke’s head. From now on, every move would be constrained; every ambition would be tempered by fear. For a man like the duke, this was unbearable. His schemes, his reputation, his carefully laid plans, his boundless ambition—all now at risk.

  No wonder the duke was bitter, angry, and frustrated. He wanted nothing more than to tear the boy to shreds with his own hands.

  But the duke was still the duke. No amount of rage could cloud his judgment. As soon as he’d arrived, he’d suppressed his emotions with iron will, diffusing the tension with grace and skill.

  Emotions solved nothing. Even the hardest problems required patience, reason, and action. And this problem—this catastrophic setback—would keep him busy for a long time.