Episode 70
There was a commotion outside.
“Ian has been appointed the new lord!”
“Congratulations, Ian!”
“Cheers, friend! You’re one of the Cheollyeo tribe now—come, have a drink with us.”
“From now on, we should call you Lord Viscount! Ha ha!”
News of Ian’s appointment spread quickly, and the villagers rushed over in a wave of excitement. The atmosphere turned festive, and the night stretched on. Ian stood by the window, watching the scene with a faint smile.
Chellonia, however, couldn’t find the chance to have a deep conversation with Mollin and had to move on. Only a few meaningful glances passed between them—ones that could only be understood through the years they had shared.
“Good grief!”
While everyone, including Ian, was celebrating, Romandro couldn’t bring himself to smile. He poured some wine, shook the bottle with a soft pop, and sighed.
“I can understand the viscount title. Given the size of the territory, baron wouldn’t have been enough, but count would have been too much.”
In truth, the borderlands were already under the authority of counts, regardless of official titles. Dukes and marquises, members of the royal family, ranked just above them. This was the bare minimum recognition of autonomy.
“A viscount of the borderlands—that’s an unfamiliar title indeed.”
“And on top of that, they expect ten thousand gold coins within a year? If anyone in Bratz had seen the tax reports even once, they’d know that’s impossible.”
Ian knew full well what he was getting into.
He didn’t know the emperor’s true intentions in granting this, but whoever proposed it must have assumed the payment would fail.
And that someone was most likely Gale.
“The taxes collected in Bratz for a year amount to ten thousand, right? And now they want double that? The emperor must be careless. Before any power struggles, doesn’t he realize there are people living in Bratz?”
Romandro vented his frustration, but at the same time, he looked at Ian with pity. The villagers outside might not understand, but this was like tasting sweetness for a year only to be doomed to slavery.
Better to live it up as a lord while he could!
But that wasn’t all. Once the appointment ceremony was over, Ian would have to register as a magic user and be managed as a mage.
“How long do you think you’ll have to live comfortably in the territory?”
“Maybe three or four months.”
“There’s still time until the new year.”
“No, three or four months is nothing! We’re working ourselves to the bone rebuilding the territory! After the snow falls, I doubt there’ll be even a month to rest!”
“Why are you so worked up, Romandro?”
Ian refilled his wine glass, signaling him to calm down.
“Anyway, you’ve achieved your goal of becoming the lord here. When it’s time to enjoy yourself, you should.”
Bang!
“Ian!”
At that moment, Beric burst through the door, shouting. Whether it was excitement or the wine talking, it was hard to tell. He bumped into a few Cheollyeo tribesmen as he entered.
“Pig! Let’s catch the pig!”
“I told you, no permission, Beric!”
“Come on! Just try and catch it!”
“Fine. If you’re in the mood, go ahead.”
“Alright! Look at this! Perfect timing!”
With a clatter, Beric dashed out, and Kakanthir and Nersarn appeared, grinning broadly as they approached Ian.
“Congratulations, Sir Ian.”
“Thank you. It’s all thanks to the Cheollyeo’s support.”
“Ah, this turned out well.”
“Better than expected?”
“Yes. If I had to say, yes. Ha ha ha!”
That day confirmed that pushing aside Derga and backing Ian was the perfect choice. They would no longer be seen as barbarian border tribes but as a trusted ally, destined for economic and cultural growth. After all, this place was practically a gateway to Bariel.
“May I see the emperor’s letter?”
“Of course.”
Ian unfurled the scroll Chellonia had given him. At the bottom was the neatly written name of the current emperor, Clai Verosion.
‘I don’t really know much about him.’
Ian mulled over the name of the previous emperor several times but nothing significant came to mind. It was a chaotic era—countless emperors had come and gone within a century. Ian himself had only served three years before stepping down.
“Hmm?”
“What is it?”
“…Nothing.”
What caught Ian’s attention was the imperial seal. It was slightly different in size from the one he was used to. He brushed his fingertip over it, but the more he touched, the clearer the sensation became.
He had stamped that seal every day.
He could recall it vividly even with his eyes closed, so this subtle difference was deeply unsettling.
‘Is the seal different?’
But that couldn’t be. The emperor’s seal had been passed down for over a thousand years since the founding of the nation. He’d never heard of it being lost or replaced. Even if it had been…
‘I would know.’
Ian couldn’t shake his suspicion and kept examining the seal. The more he looked, the more certainty and doubt surged within him.
There was only one conclusion.
The seal had been changed at some point.
But why? For what reason?
Romandro, watching nearby, muttered, “It’s worn out, I suppose.”
“Is something bothering you?”
“Well, um… now that Ian’s been appointed viscount, I have to… address him properly.”
Romandro glanced at Kakanthir and mumbled. When they were alone, he hadn’t realized it, but facing outsiders made it real. Viscount Ian was clearly above Romandro in rank.
“You’re not officially titled yet, so feel free to be casual.”
“R-Really?”
“Of course. You don’t even have a family name.”
“Ha, ha! I can’t wait for winter. I never thought I’d be heading to the capital before the New Year’s gathering. I should write to my wife.”
Romandro’s voice was full of excitement. He had thought he’d be stuck here past the new year, so finishing his mission early was a relief. Kakanthir also expressed his intention to return.
“They’re slowly reducing the number of Cheollyeo warriors. The cold is coming, and the warriors miss the Great Desert.”
“So, you’re going back?”
“I’ll leave soon, and Nersarn will stay here for a while.”
But it seemed this hadn’t been agreed upon beforehand. Nersarn, standing behind, looked as if he might faint from shock. They were sensitive to the cold, so the arrival of ‘snow’ as a season must have been daunting.
“By the way, I heard the capital is demanding ten thousand gold coins.”
“That’s right.”
“Can you manage that? I’d like to help, but that’s beyond our means. I’d rather collect ten thousand enemy heads.”
It was a joke, but it didn’t sound like one. It seemed far from impossible to them. Ian raised his wine glass reassuringly.
“No problem. They’re not demanding it at the appointment ceremony, and we have a year. It only took me a couple of months to rise to lordship in the Great Desert.”
Life can turn upside down overnight. Ten thousand gold coins in a year was doable. More importantly, Ian’s goal was simply to reach the imperial palace. What happened afterward was unknown—and therefore not worth worrying about yet.
“Truly, the gods don’t give us impossible tasks. Once you reach the capital, you’ll find new opportunities.”
“I think so too.”
Ian drained his glass and glanced out the window. The villagers’ celebration was still going strong. It was late, but no one seemed tired. It seemed they needed an event to bring life back to the desolate territory. Everyone was having such a good time…
“Oh, Ian. Now that you have your lordship certificate, shouldn’t you send the good news to the neighboring lands?”
“Neighboring lands,” Ian echoed, looking at Kakanthir. The closest was here.
And then…
“Ah, yes.”
The only one left was Merellof. They had sent a protest letter about the assassination attempt but received no reply. It was a silence so complete it felt like outright disregard.
“I’ll write to Merellof. Now that the official lordship certificate has arrived, we can expect a response this time.”
“What? That man got a title?”
“The letter just arrived.”
Merellof snatched the letter from his steward’s hand. It was a handwritten note stating that Ian was to be officially appointed at the end of the year and would be made a viscount. At the bottom was a forced expression of gratitude: “Thanks to the honorable Count Merellof.”
“Good grief. The world’s gone mad. A lowborn from the red-light district parading around as nobility.”
“We should send a congratulatory reply, but we’re still behind on responding to previous letters… What should we do?”
He was referring to the report sent under Romandro’s name about Ian’s raid. Merellof had scoffed at it. If Ian had sent it himself, he would have immediately retaliated, accusing him of killing Merellof’s subjects. But since it came from Romandro, he had no choice but to ignore it.
“Why bother? Just tell the steward to pass on the message. Don’t waste paper and ink.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He was utterly arrogant. Even so, once someone was officially ennobled, neighboring territories should at least show some respect. They were rivals, yes, but when trouble arose in the borderlands, they were the only ones each could rely on.
The butler reluctantly decided he would have to write the letter himself and send it. Count Mereloff tossed the letter aside with a flick and continued reading through the documents. They were going over the estate’s income in preparation for winter.
“Butler,” the count suddenly asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice, “did Bratz send any word about food supplies?”
“No, sir. We haven’t received any correspondence on that matter.”
That was strange. Given last year’s poor harvest, even Mereloff, who had prepared as best he could, was now facing warning signs. At least, with the cold season approaching, foreign merchants were expected to stay longer, which was a relief. But as for that Ian fellow—there was no sign of any response from him.
“Planning to scavenge off the dead, is he? Tsk, tsk.”
The count smirked bitterly as he flipped through the papers. The butler bowed his head and stepped out into the hallway. At the far end, the countess was waving a fan, signaling him over.
“My lady, is something the matter?”
“You said a letter came from Bratz?”
“Yes. It was news that Sir Ian has been officially appointed as a viscount.”
“Oh.”
The countess let out a small, surprised exclamation.
“And what did the count say?”
“Well…”
“The reply, I mean.”
The butler hesitated, unable to answer properly—he was planning to draft the response himself. The countess caught on to his thoughts and smiled, nodding.
“I’m counting on you. And aside from that, I think we should send a gift. Open the private storeroom.”
“But, my lady, does the count approve—?”
The countess quickly folded her fan. Her light, carefree smile instantly hardened.
“I’m on my way to get his permission now.”
“No need to go that far, my lady,” the butler hurried to stop her. After all, the count had already given up on writing a reply. They couldn’t risk any trouble over a mere gift. But the countess dismissed him firmly.
Snap!
“That’s exactly what must be done.”
With those weighty words, she stepped into the study.