Chapter 542: Obstacles
The nobles’ bickering was maddening.
Victoria Wilde sat beside the Prince of Wales, her face as cold and expressionless as ice. Her gaze swept over the assembly of nobles gathered in the castle’s great hall, a faint, almost imperceptible sneer hidden deep in her eyes.
What a bunch of good-for-nothings.
They were dressed in lavish robes, strutting about the castle, speaking as if the fate of the kingdom rested on their every word. Their bloodlines were noble, their titles grander than one another’s, and their tone when speaking was as if they were deciding the kingdom’s destiny. Yet, at the core, their impassioned speeches boiled down to a single word: self-interest.
A voice rang out with righteous fervor: “…The Carrey family supports the reconstruction of the Royal Road. We’re willing to provide a hundred able-bodied workers. My nephew will personally lead the team…”
“A hundred? What a sacrifice!” someone sneered loudly nearby. “I bet you have more than a hundred people just to feed your horses.”
“The Carrey family’s men and grain are all tied up on the eastern front. We’ve already given everything we can to this kingdom—Count Grey Mountain, do you not even have five hundred mules?”
“I oppose rebuilding the Royal Road. Although the regent duke’s reasoning is sound and the road will bring long-term benefits, we’re at war now. If we recklessly divert manpower and resources to roadwork, what if it affects the battle? I believe we only need to repair the east-west routes to facilitate troop movements to the front.”
“I object!”
…
The nobles’ quarrels were truly infuriating.
Prince of Wales, Morn, sat like a puppet at the head of the hall. As the noise neared chaos, the nominal heir to the throne finally spoke up: “Ladies and gentlemen, let us pause the arguments. The Royal Road project can be discussed at length later. After all, it’s winter now. Let’s first talk about the town councils and commercial reforms…”
His voice calmed the hall somewhat, but the new proposal quickly sparked another round of disputes. The nobles immediately praised the regent duke and the prince for their foresight and wisdom, then one after another strongly urged that these new policies be implemented on other people’s lands.
If not for Victoria Wilde and Franklin Berdewin sitting there, the quarrels might have escalated further.
This kind of debate was doomed to yield no results. As the noise reached a new peak and before Morn could speak again, Victoria finally stood.
“Enough.”
Her voice was cold and clear, and as her words fell, the temperature in the entire castle seemed to plummet instantly.
“I hope this chill will help you all cool down.” After a moment, Victoria withdrew her immense magical power, and as the hall’s warmth gradually returned, her gaze swept over the now silent nobles.
These were the kingdom’s most powerful lords, controlling half the nation’s supernatural forces, lands, and wealth. They were shortsighted, selfish, and when united, only a burden to the kingdom. Yet even as regent duke, all she could do was warn them.
“We are not here to quarrel,” Victoria said after a ten-second silence. “The reform of town councils and commerce is inevitable, but I understand everyone’s concerns—so none of this will be forced upon any of you. The pilot program for town councils will be selected from northern territories and royal lands; the commercial reforms will be managed by Duke Franklin of the Western Marches.”
Franklin Berdewin, with his scholarly and refined air, inclined his head slightly in response.
The nobles fell silent for a moment, then one by one showed signs of relief—though none dared to show it too openly or exaggeratedly. Instead, they forced polite, modest smiles and masked their true feelings with a flurry of flattering praise and homage. Their skill at disguise was impressive; their graceful humility and heartfelt compliments were textbook noble behavior. But Victoria had seen through these masks since her youth.
Keeping her face as frozen as ever was the greatest courtesy she could offer them.
She sat down, but Franklin Berdewin rose and continued: “None of these reforms will be mandatory, but I must make one thing clear—remember that one of a noble’s virtues is to honor their oaths. So do not forget the decisions you make today. Those who oppose building new factories on their lands today will, in the future, have to pay the crown a 30% redemption fee if they want to build factories later. This is to redeem the factory-building rights you forgo today. Those who refuse to connect roads through their lands will find future royal road projects bypassing them—unless they redeem the road rights as well. Those who reject trade agreements today will be barred from establishing new guilds or companies for ten years—unless they redeem their commercial reform rights.”
The Duke of the Western Marches spoke calmly, laying out these conditions one by one. His tone and expression quickly unsettled the nobles, who had just begun to feel hopeful.
They knew exactly what was being discussed—a series of radical, shocking measures imported from the southern territories. The regent duke was demanding nobles give up some of their privileges, submit to royal authority, allow new factories on their lands, establish town councils that could threaten their rule, build roads, and open companies. Each item was a direct threat and deprivation.
Yet the duke called these “rights,” and declared that every noble who opposed them today was forfeiting those “rights.” Worse, if anyone wanted to build factories, open companies, or build roads in the future, they’d have to pay to redeem those rights?
This absurd, bizarre claim was hard to comprehend.
The hall fell silent in confusion, then murmurs began. Some seemed to grasp the implications, others appeared intimidated by the duke’s stance. They cautiously summoned their attendants to write notes to the duke, but most just shrugged and shook their heads—
Who would want such “rights”? Rights that cut into their own flesh?
The noisy meeting ended. The nobles dispersed, and soon the great hall was left with only attendants, guards, the two regent dukes, and the nominal heir.
“This is the first time I’ve seen you angry,” Victoria said to Duke Berdewin with a hint of admiration. “You always thought you’d never lose your temper in such a setting.”
“I am angry, but also serious,” Berdewin replied, sitting down with a weary expression. “This will confuse some, at least making them think more. Others… well, at least someday they might contribute something to the royal treasury.”
Victoria frowned. “How many wavered?”
“Less than ten percent,” Berdewin recalled the number of notes he received, shaking his head. “Mostly nobles far from the Royal Road, those whose lands aren’t wealthy, and some landless royal nobles. They have little to lose in wealth or privilege but fear losing royal protection. They said they’d like to privately learn more about our reforms.”
“Ten percent…” Victoria snorted coldly, but there was a deep helplessness in her tone. “That’s quite a lot.”
Even the Northern Queen faced moments of frustration—something that moved Berdewin deeply.
“As we expected, the road ahead is tough,” he sighed. “We’ve already trimmed the reforms to minimize impact on local nobles, yet the resistance is fierce. Including the meetings from yesterday and the day before, three days of discussion, and only five minor clauses have passed—none of which matter much.”
“I said from the start, no matter how you adjust it, the result is the same—taking a single gold coin or a hundred from their pockets makes no difference, because they won’t give up even a copper,” Victoria shook her head. “Building factories, roads, appointing officials on their lands—that strikes at their very roots.”
Morn, who had been silent, suddenly spoke: “At least we can start with royal lands—and some of your own territories.”
“Our…” Berdewin gave a bitter smile. “We personally understand the necessity, but the marquises, counts, and viscounts under our name won’t see it that way… Even with our direct push, reform within the duchy will be difficult.”
Feudal fragmentation, each a kingdom unto itself.
Victoria suddenly recalled something Gawain had said before she left the southern lands, about the kingdom’s noble system—and thought of the “new nobility” in the south.
There, the counts and viscounts… didn’t wield such power.
She shook her head, pushing aside the unpleasant thoughts, and looked at Morn. “I’m surprised you support these reforms so strongly. I hadn’t even considered royal lands.”
“I know. That’s your respect for the Morn family…” Morn shook his head, swallowing the words “last shred of respect.” “I see the meaning of these reforms. I know they’re good for the country.”
“Those who opposed, resisted, or refused to take a stand at the meeting—they’re not blind,” Victoria’s gaze drifted over the empty hall. “Even if they don’t see the value of new factories, guilds, or schools, they can at least see Cecil’s rise… Yet they still oppose, still refuse to commit.”
Berdewin sighed. “It’s not that they don’t see the benefits. They just won’t sacrifice their own interests. Their thinking is simple: why can’t it be someone else? Why not build factories on someone else’s land? Yes, everyone thinks that way.”
“Let’s think positively,” Victoria said softly after a pause. “At least the new king’s coronation has support.”
Berdewin gave a faintly sardonic smile. “Yes, compared to building a factory on their land, getting them to support the king is a small matter.”
With that, the clearly displeased Duke of the Western Marches stood. He looked toward the hall’s exit, and after a few seconds of silence, said slowly, “The town council plan will likely fail. It’s too radical. We can delay that, and the schools too. But the new factories must come—at all costs. Otherwise, we will forever be strangled by the Cecils.”
Berdewin left.
Victoria watched his retreating figure, silent for a long moment.
Morn’s voice broke the quiet: “Duchess Wilde, did Duke Gawain Cecil truly tell you he had no interest in the Ansu throne?”
Victoria nodded. “He did say that.”
“Oh…” Wales Morn nodded calmly, then slowly rose to his feet. “I’ll take my leave now. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
At last, the great hall was left with only Victoria.
The Northern Queen stood silently in the empty space, gazing at the place that had so recently been filled with noise and conflict. She lingered there for a long moment.
A faint, almost imperceptible sigh echoed through the hall. As snowflakes drifted down around her, her figure faded away beside the throne.
The magically charged snowflakes scattered gently, the last few shimmering crystals settling on the portrait of Francis II hanging behind the throne. They melted into droplets that slowly fell.
(End of chapter)