"Oh?"
Upon hearing Celt's words, Black raised an eyebrow in surprise, glancing at the elderly general with curiosity, wondering exactly what he had in mind.
"General, wouldn't that be inappropriate?"
"It's fine," General Celt waved a hand dismissively, a faint, bitter smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"This actually concerns you as well."
Black then listened as General Celt explained the entire story from start to finish.
It turned out that shortly after Black and his party had left the Crimson Fortress, reinforcements from other noble families had arrived one after another—and these men had become an enormous headache for General Celt. After all, any noble in the Kingdom of Westerland with even a shred of foresight and judgment would never allow their family heir to risk their life in such a dangerous campaign. Thus, this conscription had become the perfect opportunity for nobles to eliminate their political rivals. And with that, trouble had followed.
The nobles currently gathered at the Crimson Fortress could be divided into three distinct groups.
The first group consisted of arrogant, idiotic fools who thought themselves capable of turning the tide of battle single-handedly, or who hoped to mooch off the glory and merits of others. Their schemes had nothing to do with actual combat.
The second group was made up of "troublemakers" who had been exiled by their families to die on the battlefield. Every noble house had its share of such individuals—those who threatened the lord's authority or stood in the way of the family's interests. In times of peace, the families could not eliminate them openly for fear of damaging their reputations. But now, with this opportunity, they were more than happy to send these nuisances off to their deaths. Not only did it rid them of a thorn in their side, but it also earned them favor with the royal family—a win-win situation, as far as they were concerned.
As for the third group, they were either idealistic upstarts or individuals who genuinely wished to serve their country and people. Naturally, this faction was the smallest by far. This was not to say that most nobles lacked loyalty to the crown and love for their nation, but a competent noble always prioritized the well-being of their own domain and its people. Leading their soldiers here instead of defending their own lands meant that if the campaign ended in defeat, their entire family's power would be lost forever. This was not a betrayal of the country, but a dereliction of duty to their own kin. Even those families who had reluctantly agreed to send troops had only allowed a small detachment to go—thus, this faction's strength was the weakest of all.
Of course, General Celt had no interest in meddling in these petty noble squabbles. He was a soldier through and through, and their arrival had been a matter of indifference to him. What he had not anticipated, however, was that these nobles would soon stir up a commotion that was every bit as troublesome as the Cyclops raids.
The reason was simple: every single one of them wanted to be the commander of this army.
According to military regulations, they had no authority to command the fortress's garrison troops. But when their personal forces were combined, they numbered nearly ten thousand men—and taking command of such a force would be a prestigious honor indeed. Thus, the nobles had immediately begun a fierce scramble for power.
Not a single one of them was willing to back down.
For the arrogant nobles, submitting to the authority of another noble—especially a rival—was unthinkable. For the exiled pawns sent to die, they were determined to seize control of their own fate. They had been dispatched to the battlefield to perish, but that did not mean they were willing to accept death passively; they would fight tooth and nail for every chance to survive. For the idealistic few who had come to serve their country, they refused to let incompetent, useless nobles take charge of the army, knowing full well that such a decision would lead to certain defeat. Thus, they too had to fight for command.
These three factions clashed relentlessly, turning the once-orderly Crimson Fortress into a chaotic mess. Yet despite all their bickering, none of them had been able to gain the upper hand. Eventually, someone had proposed that the respected General Celt appoint a commander—an arrangement that no one could reasonably object to.
And that was when Celt's nightmare began. The constant Cyclops raids had already left him exhausted, and Black's arrival had finally lifted some of the pressure off his shoulders. Now, this new problem had cropped up. If he had his way, Celt would have liked nothing more than to beat these nobles senseless, throw them out of the fortress, and tell them never to return.
Unfortunately, he could not do that.
Thus, Celt's already packed schedule had acquired a new, unwanted task—listening to these nobles whine and argue every single day.
By the time Celt finished recounting the whole story, the two men had reached the door of the reception room. Through the thick wooden panels, the faint sound of raised voices could be heard. But this time, Celt shot Black a cunning smile before pushing the door open.
The arguing inside ceased abruptly. Black paused for a moment, then raised an eyebrow, a sly grin spreading across his face, before following Celt into the room.
Inside, he found several nobles seated on the sofas, locked in a tense standoff.
Seated on the largest sofa in the center was a short, obese man whose head was so large it resembled a watermelon lying on its side. He was dressed in extravagant silks and jewels, with gold rings glinting on eight of his ten fingers, making him look like a walking lantern that cast a faint, gaudy glow even in the dimly lit reception room. At that moment, he was watching his two rivals with a cold, mocking smirk.
To the fat noble's right sat a tall, gaunt young man clad in plain, unadorned clothing. He huddled silently on the sofa, his lanky frame curled in on itself, his fingers interlaced. His expression was icy, but his eyes betrayed an unmistakable arrogance.
But the third man was someone who gave Black a small start of surprise—for he was an acquaintance: Viscount Wen of the Byrd family. Gone was his usual noble finery; he now wore a suit of military armor, which lent him an air of rugged heroism. Standing beside him was another familiar face—those wolf-like eyes, that cold, shadowy expression—there was no mistaking him: it was Della, the infamous assassin of the Zachary family.
What an interesting combination, Black thought to himself. What could they possibly be doing here?
As Black pondered this, the others turned their gazes toward him. After all, a young man walking in behind General Celt could not possibly be an ordinary person. But when they got a good look at Black's attire, they all froze for a moment. A young noble? If he had been a military officer, it would have made sense—but a noble?
What was going on here?
In contrast, Viscount Wen and Della let out a long, visible sigh of relief the moment they saw Black.
"Have you all come here again today for the same matter?" Celt's expression was stern, laced with undisguised impatience—a far cry from his earlier demeanor.
"Yes, General Celt," the tall, gaunt young man rose to his feet, bowing respectfully to the general.
"I understand your frustration, but I beg you to consider our position. This is no trivial matter, and time is growing short. I believe we need to select a commander in a manner that leaves no room for dispute—someone who can lead us into battle."
"Oh, that's easy enough," the portly nobleman on the sofa patted his enormous belly, speaking with a dismissive nonchalance.
"Why don't we each pick a few champions and have them fight it out? Whoever's men are the strongest gets to be the boss. How about that? Simple, straightforward, and no one can complain, right?"
As he spoke, the fat man shot a deliberate, provocative glance at Viscount Wen and the others—clearly, there was bad blood between them. Based on his past experience, Viscount Wen would undoubtedly object to this proposal, giving him the perfect opportunity to sneer and mock them mercilessly.
But to the fat noble's utter astonishment, Viscount Wen did not argue. Instead, he exchanged a strange look with Della beside him before speaking up.
"Well... we have no objections to that."
"Huh?"
"What utter nonsense," the tall, gaunt young man let out a cold snort at the fat noble's stunned reaction.
"Mr. Clark, this is war—not a street brawl between thugs. Brawn and brute force are not the mark of a true soldier."
"Oh, come now," Clark retorted, "strength is essential for any soldier! Otherwise, why bother training at all? Couldn't we just send any random person out to fight and kill? Is that not your view, Mr. Cherton?"
"Ahem!"
Just as the argument threatened to reignite, Celt let out a sharp, frosty cough. At the sound of his voice, everyone fell silent at once. No matter how eager they were to jostle for power, they all knew full well that the elderly general standing before them held the real authority in this fortress. Angering him would result in them being thrown out at the very least—and if he decided to charge them with violating military discipline and disrespecting their superior officer, they could even end up losing their heads. That was precisely why, despite their constant bickering, the nobles had never dared to resort to outright violence.
Once the room had fallen quiet again, Celt swept his gaze over the assembled nobles before speaking.
"I understand your concerns. This matter has dragged on for far too long—and with the military situation growing increasingly urgent, it is high time we reached a decision."
At these words, the expressions of the four men present turned instantly solemn. They could hear the resolve in Celt's voice—this time, the elderly general meant business. He was truly going to make a decision! In the past, whenever they had argued and bickered, the general had always brushed them off with a vague "we will discuss this further later." But now, he was telling them plainly that he had made up his mind!
The thought sent a jolt of nervous tension through each of them. They straightened their backs, their eyes fixed intently on the elderly general before them.
Who would he choose?
Who would he pick?
Who would be the one?
Everyone held their breath, waiting for the answer. But they never could have anticipated what happened next: Black, who had been standing silently behind General Celt this entire time, suddenly spoke up.
"General Celt, I have a suggestion."
"Oh?"
Celt's expression turned somewhat odd as he glanced at Black, his lips parting as if he were about to speak. He had been on the verge of announcing his decision right then and there—but when he caught sight of Black's smiling face, an inexplicable chill ran down his spine, and the words died in his throat.
"What do you have to say?"
"I think you will agree, General Celt, that the greatest bane of any army is division," Black began, his tone calm and reasoned. "But looking at the gentlemen before us, it is clear that no matter who you appoint as commander, the others will never accept it."
Celt said nothing. The others remained silent as well. They all knew perfectly well what Black meant—it was nothing more than stating the obvious. But among nobles, power was all about who could assert dominance over whom.
To be honest, the current situation was extremely awkward. In terms of status, the three faction representatives present were all viscounts. In terms of age, they were all within a year or two of each other. In terms of reputation and influence, they were evenly matched. Moreover, the three factions held irreconcilable positions: some cared nothing for their country, others were determined to defend their homeland, and still others were here purely to profit from the conflict. Their contradictions were unresolvable, making any form of unity impossible.
"But now that we have joined the military, we ought to abide by military rules and customs," Black clapped his hands together at this point, wearing a deceptively harmless smile on his face.
"So why not let merit decide who is worthy? From what I know, before the full-scale offensive and defensive battle begins, both sides typically engage in a series of small-scale skirmishes and probing attacks. My proposal is this: if it meets with your approval, these gentlemen can lead their respective forces in these skirmishes. Whichever faction achieves the most victories will earn the right to command all the noble levies. What do you think of this idea, General Celt?"
"This..."
Celt hesitated, genuinely torn. To be honest, he had originally planned to dump this messy problem onto Black's shoulders. He knew it was far from the ideal solution, but he was confident that Black would find a way to resolve it.
But now, Black was making it perfectly clear that he was not going to be dragged into this mess. Celt felt a twinge of shame. Black had barely arrived at the fortress when Celt had asked him to help deal with the Cyclops threat—and now that he had just returned from that mission, Celt was already trying to foist another problem onto him. The poor man had not even had a chance to eat or drink since coming back... Celt's old face burned with embarrassment. If he insisted on giving Black this order now, it was obvious that Black would flatly refuse.
At that moment, the eyes of the other nobles were all fixed on Black. If earlier they had merely been curious about him, now they were filled with confusion. General Celt was a man of immense prestige—even they dared not speak out of turn in his presence. But this young noble had not only interrupted their discussion but was also clearly being taken seriously by the general.
Who exactly was he?
"Very well," after a long moment of hesitation, Celt finally made up his mind to agree to Black's suggestion. After all, it cost him nothing—and for a soldier, any solution that avoided sacrificing his own troops was a good one. This way, he could also give the nobles a satisfactory answer: if they died in battle, they would be hailed as loyal patriots and given a grand funeral, and it would have nothing to do with him personally...
"I approve of your suggestion, Mr. Black," Celt announced, making his decision.
"Then it is settled. You are to make your preparations accordingly. Of course, before you dispatch your forces to engage the enemy, you must first obtain my permission. Any violation of this order will be punished severely in accordance with military law. Is that clear?"
"Yes, General!"
Now that General Celt had spoken, the nobles had no choice but to nod their heads in agreement. They had poured a great deal of time and energy into this power struggle, and now that a solution had been proposed—one backed by the general's authority—they had no choice but to accept it.
"Now that a decision has been made, you may all leave," Celt said, feeling a wave of relief wash over him the moment the words left his mouth.
"I am the fortress commander, and I have far more important matters to attend to than this. I hope I will never have to deal with such a dispute again!"
This was both a threat and a warning. It was clear that the general was drawing a line in the sand: if similar problems arose in the future, he would not hesitate to resolve them with methods that they could not even begin to imagine.
With that, Celt turned on his heel and strode out of the reception room. Black shrugged his shoulders and followed suit. After they had left, Viscount Wen and Della exchanged a quick glance before hurrying after them. Only the fat noble Clark and the tall, gaunt Cherton remained in the room. Clark watched his rival with a smug grin on his face.
"What a pity, Cherton," he sneered. "You schemed and plotted so carefully, only to be outdone by a young noble we've never even seen before. I truly wonder where all your so-called 'talent' has gone. Could it be that you've been too busy frolicking with women to keep up your skills?"
"Hmph," Cherton shot Clark a look of unbridled contempt and disdain. "You and your ilk are nothing but worthless trash—you have no right to judge me."
"After all, you're nothing more than a pawn sent here to die. I have no desire to waste my breath on someone as pathetic as you. What is mine will be mine sooner or later. As for you? You are beneath contempt."
With that, Cherton waved a hand coldly and strode out of the room, leaving Clark sitting there with a smirk on his face. Only after Cherton's figure had vanished completely did Clark's expression suddenly darken.
"It seems things have just gotten a lot more complicated," he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. "Find out everything you can about that noble. I want to know exactly who he is."
"Yes, my lord."
As the words were spoken, the air beside Clark twisted faintly for a brief moment before returning to normal, as if nothing had happened at all.