Baron Carmine

After returning from the bazaar, Arthur and Morgan were escorted by guards to the lord’s mansion. They soon found themselves seated in the drawing room, facing the man who governed this borderland — Baron Carmine.

Tristan and Lancelot stood behind them, silent as proper knights should be, observing the conversation without speaking.

“Lord Arthur, thank you for coming all this way.”

The baron said, bowing his head politely.

“Ah, this is our first meeting, isn’t it? I look forward to working with you, Baron Carmine.”

Arthur’s casual tone made the air tense. Of course, as a prince, his manner was not technically inappropriate — but Baron Carmine was no ordinary noble.

He was a hulking, muscle-bound warrior lord who ruled the border between Britannia and the lands of the Desert People. In his youth, he’d struck a fellow noble in a fit of temper and been banished here as punishment. Arthur, who had been isolated from political gossip, knew nothing of this and treated him like any other court noble.

It wasn’t arrogance or courage — simply ignorance.

“Hah! Spirited, aren’t you, Lord Arthur?”

“Uh, thanks?”

“Oh…?”

Carmine’s eyes gleamed sharply, testing him. Yet Arthur didn’t flinch. After all, he’d faced the Five Great Beasts; an angry noble wasn’t intimidating. Ironically, that composure pleased Carmine, a man who respected boldness above all.

“Hmph! You’ve got good eyes, boy. So — you’ve come all the way here. Does that mean Britannia has finally decided to go to war? Hervé’s apparently furious. I’m ready whenever you give the order!”

Flexing his arms to show off his strength, Carmine grinned like a man itching for battle.

Arthur, meanwhile, groaned internally: I mind!!

The Good Deed Notebook had clearly written, “Convince the Desert People alongside Lancelot.”

If war broke out, even victory would weaken Britannia and reignite his death flag.

As tension rose, Morgan interjected.

“Baron Carmine, with respect, the Desert People are formidable. A war would not end without great losses.”

“I know that!”

Carmine barked, slamming a fist onto the armrest.

“But they stole our golden wheat! Our nation’s pride! Do you have any idea how humiliating that is? And how do you plan to calm Hervé’s rage — with words?”

“Meeting with their representatives first would be the proper course, wouldn’t it?”

“Ha! You don’t understand. What compensation could they possibly offer? The desert produces nothing! This isn’t a children’s quarrel — ‘sorry’ doesn’t cut it. To appease Hervé, we’d need something of real value.”

“…You’re not wrong.”

Morgan admitted quietly.

It wasn’t that she was intimidated — Carmine’s logic was solid. Among nobles, pride was paramount. Anger over stolen resources was natural.

As the two debated, Arthur racked his brain, trying to remember why Britannia had gone to war with the Desert People in his previous life.

Crops… yes, that was it. Britannia had sought food when famine struck.

“The Fruit of Plenty…”

He murmured.

Morgan turned toward him in surprise just as Carmine’s eyes widened.

“You know of the Desert People’s sacred treasure — the Fruit of Plenty? They say it’s blessed by the gods, capable of bearing fruit even in the harshest lands. If we had that, Hervé would indeed be satisfied…”

“Does such a thing really exist?”

Morgan asked skeptically.

In answer, Carmine stood and removed a decorative branch from the wall. Its hues shimmered with the light, changing color with every angle.

“This staff was carved from the tree of the Fruit of Plenty. I took it in exchange for the life of their chieftain, years ago. It’s said to grow only in a divine oasis within the desert.”

“That’s it! If we show Hervé this, he’ll calm down for sure!”

Arthur said proudly.

But Carmine’s face remained grim.

“Unfortunately, it’s the Desert People’s greatest treasure. They’d never hand it over willingly. And the desert’s like a labyrinth — we don’t even know where their settlement is. Push them the wrong way, and they’ll bare their fangs. There’s simply no safe way to negotiate.”

“I see… so that’s why Lord Arthur protected the Desert People back there.”

Morgan said softly.

Arthur blinked.

“Huh?”

Smiling, Morgan turned to Carmine.

“Please don’t worry, Baron. Lord Arthur has already earned their trust.”

She then recounted, with pride, how Arthur had saved the desert child at the bazaar — though she conveniently omitted the part about their planned secret meeting.

“The Desert People… trusting a Britannian? Impossible. And yet…”

Carmine’s fierce eyes softened into admiration, mirroring Morgan’s.

Arthur, realizing the misunderstanding, hesitated — then smirked and crossed his arms.

“Heh. All according to plan.”

Of course, the real reason he didn’t correct them was simple: if he denied it, Morgan would explode.

When the meeting ended and the group began to leave, Carmine called out.

“Lancelot… you’ve returned. Tell me, do you still hate my son?”

“…It’s over now. I’m just a bodyguard, nothing more.”

Lancelot said with a faint smile.

But behind that polite grin, his eyes were hollow — cold as the desert night.