8 (5)

Louis had gained the city.

It was what he had wanted, what he had pursued all this time.

And now, he had a rough idea of how things would unfold from here.

Yet despite his resolve, witnessing the death of his blood-related brother shook his mind deeply.

That emotion, however, didn’t last long. After one night of rest, Louis shook off the melancholy completely. His growing ambition crushed all unnecessary feelings. The morning of his new city felt strangely unpleasant yet refreshing. When he entered his new office, the slaves greeted their new master. Despite the change in ownership, their faces didn’t even flinch—they served Louis as if he had always been their lord.

What was remarkable was that Louis found nothing strange about it. It felt oddly natural, as if he had been here many times before.

From the terrace of his new office, Louis gazed down at the city. A city far grander than Proia stretched out before his eyes. The wealthy homes shimmered with layered marble, while the poorer houses, though shabby, had a charm of their own. At the far end lay a modest harbor, with several ships waiting at anchor. Because the terrain sloped downward, he could see the whole city—every street and corner invisible from Proia.

Still, what he wasn’t used to was the salty wind. From his brother’s death, Louis had realized one thing: the pain of killing his own kin was greater than the guilt he’d felt for rebelling against the Duchy of Eron. From this moment on, he decided not to limit himself to a ducal territory. He would build an entire nation of his own.

Only by doing that could he justify his sins.

That narrowed his path to one choice—to pursue war, not peaceful development. Like a farmer tending crops, he could nurture a city—but instead, he would make war his creed. Louis had to build his army, and above all, he had to become stronger himself. He touched his side. The wound had healed, but the scar Dekal had left behind served as a lasting lesson: he must grow stronger with his own hands.

Still, Louis didn’t hate that thought. He had always possessed rare swordsmanship talent—rare even among Sword Experts. If he kept investing points in related traits and gained more battlefield experience bonuses, who knew how far he could go? Even now, his Swordsmanship was nearly at level 5.

He was growing at a rate that surprised even himself. His eyes darted to the System window. Currently, the port city of Kayani was still in a state of resistance. To pacify it, he needed to meet certain conditions—though even Louis didn’t know what they were. Still, time would resolve it eventually.

He had to march north soon. Whether Fred or Marquis Gangpireu won, it was time for him to face the victor. If Fred won, Louis would have to strangle yet another brother’s throat. Unlike Pierre, Fred was a figure Louis had admired and loved. That would make it all the more painful—but in this cruel struggle, if he didn’t strike first, he would die.

The total points he had gained amounted to thirty-five thousand—more than he had ever earned before. If he dealt with Fred as well, he expected to exceed sixty thousand. Naturally, he opened the leader traits panel and searched for aggression-related options. Two skills were available for activation:

Military Charisma and Swordsmanship Experience.

‘It’s growing exponentially.’

Louis soon realized that earning thirty thousand points wasn’t something to celebrate blindly. He had to invest at least fifteen thousand into the Court and Colosseum. The reason was simple: to reactivate the city quickly. A court was required to lift the “Resistance” status typical of oppressed cities, and a Colosseum was essential to restore satisfaction. The only way to increase numbers was to keep constructing Colosseums—and each one consumed more points.

‘Then, with the remaining twenty thousand, I can raise two levels of leadership traits.’

That was an encouraging thought. Until now, he had focused on administration, research, and military units, rarely investing in himself. The third-tier Aggression trait cost ten thousand points. He checked the available skills—three in total—and immediately picked the one he needed most.

The other two weren’t bad, but this one was vital. Louis’s mana talent was poor; he struggled to gather mana at all. With this skill’s assistance, he could achieve average efficiency. The only problem was that he could no longer acquire a third-tier skill afterward. Had his talent been average, this trait would have pushed him to high-level potential—and if he’d already been high-level, he could have reached the next tier entirely.

The other skills weren’t useless either. For instance, Military Talent, a superior version of Military Charisma, increased the offensive power of any unit Louis commanded by one full rank. The Enhanced Swordsmanship Experience Bonus significantly boosted his sword level. Yet because he chose Mana Absorption, those traits were now forever out of reach.

The decisive battle between Fred and Marquis Gangpireu was nearing its end. It was a brutal spectacle—lords and generals seeking each other out on the field, clashing with unrestrained ferocity. That was because Fred was no ordinary ruler. Proud and fearless, he couldn’t resist standing at the frontlines.

But that had never once been his downfall—only the source of his shining reputation.

Yet for the first time, Fred found himself cursing Louis in the middle of the battlefield.

Had Dekal still been alive, he could have severed Marquis Gangpireu’s head—now staring down at him from the ridge above.

In a way, it was Fred’s own mistake. Despite being outnumbered, his reckless confidence had driven him into a full frontal assault—a habit he had never been able to abandon.

Dekal was gone. He should have been more cautious. Fred looked around him: mountains of corpses—mostly enemy, but many of his own cavalry as well. And more of his riders were dying by the second. Fred had been slashed deeply across the waist; blood poured out in waves, each pulse sending shudders of agony through him.

Desperate to save their lord, the cavalry who had long admired Fred charged fiercely—only to be cut down by that man.

Mihoff.

He couldn’t have been twenty yet—youthful face, ordinary build, delicate features that would have seemed better suited for administration than war. Expressionless, he cut down another rider. Any cavalryman who brushed past him lost his head, blood spraying in graceful arcs that barely touched him.

It was swordsmanship so refined it bordered on art. Fred, once hailed as a genius with the blade, could tell immediately—this was beyond him. His target, Marquis Gangpireu, clutched a severed ear and stared at Fred in terror.

Just ten minutes earlier, the marquis had nearly died; one of his ears now lay on the grass nearby. Yet despite the pain, he couldn’t help but admire the brilliance of Fred’s tactics—how he had sliced his way through the chaos to reach him.

‘Heaven has chosen me.’

It truly felt that way. Fred’s audacious strategy had brought him within reach of victory, forcing even Mihoff—the marquis’s trump card—to lose distance. If Fred’s greatsword had gone just a little deeper, it wouldn’t have been the marquis’s ear on the ground—it would have been his head.