Chapter 595

The Kingdom of Leyn, Summer Palace far from Luo Yan City.

The elegantly dressed guests were leaving the side hall in high spirits, thrilled by the agreements reached at the banquet.

Some moved to the lounge to continue conversations left unfinished.

Though it was still far from midsummer, the magnificent hall had already acquired a serene quietness amid the bustle.

This was the DeValu family's summer retreat and the venue for the Kingdom of Leyn's Third-Level Assembly; the recently concluded banquet was the feast held after the first day's proceedings.

It must be said that though the Your Majesty 's treasury was stretched thin, the required dignity was fully preserved.

Yet not everyone was satisfied with this banquet.

Newcas loosened his tight collar, which had been choking him, and slinked like a thief to the kitchen door.

As a Third-Level delegate, he had felt like a transparent glass bottle during that display of power at the banquet.

The nobles chatted loudly; the clergy pretended solemnity; no one paid him, the merchant reeking of copper, any attention, nor did anyone care whether his plate was empty.

Well.

Newcas had to admit it wasn't the Your Majesty 's servants' fault—he had never attended such a banquet before, nor had he ever visited the Your Majesty 's estate.

An expected accident occurred: he got lost in the opulent Summer Palace and was only led to the banquet hall just before the event ended.

Now that the banquet was over, his stomach began to protest loudly, his gaze inevitably falling on a serving cart parked by the kitchen door.

There sat a roasted pigeon, golden and crisp-skinned, its surface glazed with congealed honey, barely touched—only a polite slash from a carving knife.

As he stared at the pigeon, swallowing saliva, a stout figure blocked the light.

It was an elderly man in a white apron, his temples streaked with gray, his face smiling warmly, his beard neatly trimmed.

As the chief chef of Theoden, his family had lived here for generations—over three hundred years now.

Seeing the old man watching him, Newcas felt embarrassed and cleared his throat to explain.

"I'm just looking around."

"No need for courtesy, sir."

The old man saw he hadn't eaten, picked up a silver carving knife, and neatly sliced off the fattest, most succulent meat from the pigeon.

His hands moved deftly, arranging the meat on a pristine porcelain plate, then offering it to Newcas.

"The meat isn't as tender as when it first came out of the oven, but it has its own rich aroma… If you don't mind, please enjoy."

Nobles have noble honor; servants have servant honor—he would never allow any guest to leave this place hungry.

"Thank you!"

Newcas paused, then gratefully took the plate, forgetting to find utensils, and grabbed the pigeon leg with his bare hands.

The old man watched Newcas devour the food with a smile, showing no trace of disgust at his crude manners.

As Baron Wickton had said, the Your Majesty 's chef was truly unparalleled—especially this roasted pigeon. Newcas swore by Shengxi that this was the most delicious pigeon he had ever eaten.

Newcas mumbled while devouring.

"... You're a good man, Chef. I thought you'd chase me out like a thief caught stealing."

"How could I?" The chef, now arranging another plate, wiped his hands and smiled gracefully. "You must be a newly knighted baronet?"

Newcas, meat still in his mouth, mumbled, "Why say that?"

"Experience, sir."

The chef glanced toward the banquet hall, continuing in a casual tone.

"Hereditary nobles are busy exchanging favors; food is merely decoration to them. The devout clergy regard waste as an enemy, and to show piety, they won't lift a fork in public. Only a baronet like you, who truly understands the taste of life, would care whether tonight's pigeon was well roasted."

No wonder he was the royal chef—not only skilled in cooking, but cultured too, even composing a rhyming ditty on the spot.

Newcas burst out laughing, nearly choking.

The chef handed him a glass of water, then a napkin.

"Take it slow, sir. No one's racing you."

"Cough! Th-thank you..."

Newcas swallowed, wiped his mouth, and cleaned his greasy fingers, trying not to look too uncouth.

Looking at the smiling chef, he cleared his throat and revealed the truth.

"... You're mistaken, Chef. I'm just like you—a plain commoner. I'm here only by the Your Majesty 's grace."

As he spoke, his self-deprecating tone carried a hint of sly pride.

"But your instinct wasn't entirely wrong—maybe in a few days, I'll actually become a baronet."

The chef raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"Oh? Congratulations—that's a remarkable honor."

"Oh? Then congratulations to you—this is quite an extraordinary honor."

Newcas smiled faintly, accepting the chef's praise, but didn't take this "remarkable honor" seriously.

Baron Wickton had mentioned it, but clearly it was just bait on a hook, meant to tease him—he wasn't blind to that.

Besides, the title of Leyn baronet held little appeal for him.

Back in the Duchy of Campbell, he never identified with being a "Campbellite"—he saw it as just a label invented by nobles to fool textile workers and conscripts lined up to die.

But now, having come to the Kingdom of Leyn and seen the arrogant nobles and frivolous citizens of Luo Yan City...

He had never felt so proud to be a Campbellite, nor missed his homeland so deeply.

He had never been so proud of being a Campbell, nor had he ever missed his homeland so deeply.

Its water nourished people.

On this unknown night, an obscure manager of a fire extinguisher company had resonated with the legendary hero.

Though what they longed for was entirely different.

"It seems the important agenda is still ahead," the chef refilled his glass with lemon water for rinsing, speaking casually. "I heard today is the first day?"

"It seems the important agenda is yet to come," the head chef said casually as he refilled his glass of lemon water for rinsing, "I hear today is your first day?"

"I'm curious—what did you discuss?"

"Who knows."

"Hmm?" The chef looked at him in surprise, then smiled knowingly. "I suppose I overstepped."

"No, don't misunderstand—it's not secret. I just genuinely don't remember."

Newcas shrugged indifferently.

"I only remember Baron Wickton looking at me twice—I raised my hand twice. As for what they actually discussed... maybe Shengxi knows."

"And tomorrow?" The chef stared at him, astonished. "You're a Third-Level delegate—you must speak for the citizens of Luo Yan City?"

Newcas took a sip of the warm lemon water, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and elegantly wiped the grease from his lips, like a true noble.

Newcastle took the warm lemon water, took a sip, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and elegantly wiped the grease from the corner of his mouth, like a true nobleman.

Looking at the chef's odd expression, he said with playful sarcasm.

"What do you think of the twelve ways to roast pigeon? By the way, I'd like to ask you—you're the expert here."

The Leyn royal chef, whose family had served the throne for generations, stood frozen for a long time. Half a minute passed before he understood the Campbellite's joke—and then he burst into loud laughter.

For a long time, Chef Ryan, who had served the royal family for generations, stared in silence; it took half a minute for him to grasp the humor of this Campbell man, then he burst into a hearty laugh.

He turned, took another delicate pastry from the cart, and placed it gently before Councilor Newcas.

"Regardless, for my cooking to earn your appreciation is an honor for me as a chef."

"Please enjoy, future Baron."

"Please enjoy, future Sir."

The next day, Newcas changed into a well-tailored tailcoat at the servant's reminder and moved to the Summer Palace's amphitheater.

In past years, this amphitheater had been a royal amusement venue, its broad stage once hosting countless tales of knights and princesses, joy and sorrow.

Now, Baron Wickton had turned it into a temporary assembly hall—for the fate of the kingdom and the families, countless spectators took the stage.

The only real spectator seemed to be one man: Councilor Newcas, sitting alone in the far corner.

At this moment, he was idly propping his chin, like a ticket-holder who'd bought the wrong seat, waiting for the next day's noise to begin.

To his left, directly ahead, were the First-Level seats... the bishops and High-Level clergy occupied the best-viewed boxes, clad in white robes.

Though few in number, they were the most solemn of all attendees; their white vestments glowed with sacred light in the sun.

To his right lay a dazzling sea of color.

The Second-Level citizens sat there—some nobles themselves, some famed knights, some stewards sent by nobles.

They laughed loudly; the clatter of scabbards rose and fell, as if this were not an assembly hall but an upper-class salon.

And they weren't wrong—it wasn't an assembly hall at all, but the Your Majesty 's Summer Palace, a theater built for royal amusement.

Newcas lowered his gaze and counted the scraps seated beside him.

One, two, three... six in total, including himself.

As Third-Level delegates, their seats were like trash swept to the wall, placed alongside discarded stage props.

To his left sat a beer merchant—rumored to control three-tenths of Luo Yan City's trade.

Yet to ordinary eyes, this big man was nothing here—he was as docile as a golden retriever.

The noblest among these six chairs was likely the stone masons' guild master in the corner to his right; the two had once clashed in business.

Newcas remembered how dangerous it had been—the stone masons' guild, unlike his new-arrived countryman, had directly deployed the City Guard as leverage.

Fortunately, the royal guards' authority was greater; a single glance crushed the guild's leader, preserving the citizens' peace at night.

Unlike the scheming of Lei Ming City, business wars in Luo Yan City were always so bluntly simple.

Fortunately, the royal guard lads had greater clout; a single glance subdued the other side's leader, preserving the night's peace for the citizens of Luo Lan City.

Unlike the treacherous scheming in Lei Ming City, the commercial battles in Luo Lan City were always refreshingly straightforward.

But this chairman was a man of dignity; though he had suffered great losses in the fire extinguisher business, he showed no hostility upon meeting him, instead warmly grasping his hand and greeting him as if the previous bloodshed had never happened.

He wasn't like a golden-haired dog—he was more like a clever border collie.

Newcas was pondering his own breed when he spotted a solitary "Lyne Bulldog."

That fellow was an outsider, sitting in the corner to his left.

Newcas remembered the gentleman's name was Ferguson, a scholar from a church school, said to be highly respected in the academic circles of the Lyne Kingdom.

At this moment, the squat "Lyne Bulldog" sat with his arms tightly crossed, glaring darkly at the noisy nobles, his expression stern and defiant.

Newcas couldn't help but smile faintly, recalling the scholar's speech at yesterday's "warm-up meeting."

"In our kingdom, commoners make up over ninety percent of the population, yet I see only six chairs! Gentlemen! Six chairs—and one of those six is even a Campbell! Commoners hold only 3% of the seats!"

"Baron Wickton, you needn't pretend to care about us, nor need you feign courtesy by inviting me here to humiliate me!"

The hall fell silent for a second, then drowned in the nobles' laughter—even the most solemn priests couldn't suppress a smirk.

What an interesting commoner.

Baron Wickton was left flustered by those words, his face turning ashen; only the chairman of the stonemasons' guild stepping in saved the meeting from collapsing.

Though Professor Ferguson had "grazed" him, Newcas wasn't angry—he actually admired this blunt old man.

He had to retract his stereotypical view of the Lyne people; this ancient kingdom did have true gentlemen, and not everyone was like a goblin.

The spacious theater gradually filled with spectators; the elaborately dressed actors had taken their positions, and the performance known as the Third Estate Meeting was about to begin.

Newcas glanced around, thinking of the task assigned to him by Baron Wickton, and silently prayed to Saint Xis.

Saint Xis above, the king's eagle perched on his shoulder—was he really trying to blind a flock of raptors with a few token pigeons?

This wasn't just naïve—

It was like a dream.

Unless the king had a backup plan.

…

Just as the noon bell finished tolling, a heavy wooden mallet slammed down on the speaker's podium, announcing the official start of the meeting that would decide the fate of the Lyne Kingdom.

Economic Minister Baron Wickton walked onto the stage with heavy steps.

Facing dozens of eyes fixed upon him, he had no script, yet spoke with passionate fervor.

"Honorable gentlemen, sacred clergymen, I do not wish to wake your dreams—but look at the land beneath our feet. The kingdom's treasury is empty, and the king's subjects weep under unbearable burdens!"

"They pay land rent, tithes, salt tax, head tax… and still struggle to survive. Our citizens are no better off—every bite of dry bread they eat, they must give one-fifth to our kingdom! Worse still, they have shed blood and even given their lives!"

A murmur spread through the circular theater's seats.

The priests fell into deep thought; the nobles' expressions darkened, losing the ease they had at the meeting's outset.

They had heard the king summoned the Third Estate and assumed His Majesty wanted money from the commoners, so they came hoping to snatch a share.

But how…

Why did the economic minister's speech sound so off?

Yet they held back—for any banquet requires preparation. They decided to give Baron Wickton a chance to finish speaking before deciding their response.

But their silence seemed interpreted as weakness.

Baron Wickton did not pause his impassioned speech; instead, he forcibly tied the kingdom's survival to the fate of these noble families.

He even wielded sharp moral weapons!

"Look at the citizens of Roland City—they survived the Winter Fire and now own nothing! And now, our kingdom stands in peril; only if all you noble gentlemen stand together can we weather this crisis!"

"For the sake of Saint Xis, I beg you to uphold your ancient duty—and stand with our kingdom!"

His words were tearful and heartfelt.

Though Baron Wickton had never pitied Roland's commoners for a single second—indeed, the Winter Fire had been his own poisoned scheme—he had no qualms using those peasants he despised to pressure the nobles into concessions.

He believed Lyne nobles still cared about appearances; after all, even the king's chef valued his dignity—how could these noble lords not cherish their own feathers?

If that failed, he had Plan B—divert the blame eastward.

He only needed the Lyne nobles to believe their kingdom stood at a crossroads, that the emaciated sheep had no wool left to shear.

At the very least, he could persuade these nobles to plunder the fat, weak clergy on his king's behalf, thereby sharing the burden they were meant to bear.

Yet—

Baron Wickton had overestimated the situation. Even the gods' plans often hold unexpected twists—how much more so a mere mortal?

Probably because he had been too long aloft, overestimating the Lyne nobles' moral limits and underestimating the shamelessness of these feudal lords.

Surrender and split the loss?

Ridiculous!

The weak retreat; the truly strong devour every morsel within reach!

"Duty?"

A mocking laugh abruptly cut through Wickton's speech; the powerful earl seated on the right side of the table rose to his feet.

His massive frame blocked the oil lamp's light; a dark shadow stretched across the table's edge as his eyes locked onto the stage.

He was the most trusted vassal of Duke Eiffel, a man who never bowed to the king—how much less a baron who rose through flattery?

"When our ancestors bled on this land, you were still a monkey in some tree—how dare you speak of duty to me?"

Baron Wickton's eyes widened, fixed on the earl, ready to retort—but the latter rudely interrupted him.

"We carved this land with blood, defended the kingdom with swords! Our duty has never wavered! Even a tail-wagging dog dares speak of duty to me!"

He drew his sword and slammed it onto the table with a clang.

The sharp sound didn't faze Wickton, who had seen battles—but it stunned the "allies" he had invited.

"This is the tax we've paid!" The earl narrowed his eyes, his face cold with menace. "I place it here—dare you take it?"

The theater's atmosphere shifted instantly from joy to horror, so abruptly that the priests on the left side were caught off guard.

They had expected the king to play his part—ultimately, they'd just pay some gold. But this earl…

Wasn't acting, was he?

Newcas's face stiffened; his hand involuntarily gripped the armrest, his body leaning forward, eyes instinctively drifting toward the exit.

Saint Xis above…

He had thought Baron Wickton had a backup plan?

But how…

Didn't seem like it?

The earl's thunderous reply ignited the powder keg; cheers of agreement rose behind him, instantly drowning out Wickton's rebuttal.

"Well said!"

"The Philip family spits on you! To weigh our ancestral honor against your rotting gold is an insult to glory!"

"Get out! The king's dog!"

"Your family will be shamed by your betrayal today!"

The once solemn assembly hall had become a noisy marketplace; these well-dressed nobles bore not a trace of noble bearing.

They shouted, denouncing the royal house for betraying its word, for attempting to shatter the sacred centuries-old contract that exempted nobles from taxes—forcing them to pay like merchants begging for scraps in the market.

What did he take them for?

Newcas stared, dumbfounded, at the brawling nobles—so stunned he forgot to flee. And… he realized he didn't need to run.

These nobles were sensible—they ignored the six commoners huddled in the corner, directing all their fury at the "architect."

The roar behind the earl gave him boundless courage; he looked down at Wickton on stage and delivered his final blow.

"Baron Wickton, Lyne nobles will not fill your kingdom's coffers. Rather than extorting your king's loyal servants, why not persuade your sovereign to sell the title of Marquis of Dusk Province to a capable man? I'm certain many would pay dearly for a dukedom."

With that, the earl gave no chance for reply, snorted coldly, and swept out.

His action triggered a chain reaction; many nobles followed him, leaving in anger.

Meanwhile, the priests remained unmoved, their faces amused as they watched the chaotic collapse.

To be honest, they hadn't expected the nobles and king to clash first—they had assumed they themselves were the fattest lambs.

If exchanging increased ecclesiastical power was the price, they could still lend the king more gold—they had more than enough secular coin.

But now it seemed they had overestimated His Majesty. That seemingly strong old man had one foot already in his coffin.

Perhaps this was Saint Xis's punishment upon the Devalu family—placing that jester on the bishop's throne had angered the gods.

They had endured Theoden far too long.

In under five minutes, half the meeting hall stood empty.

The theater's lights still shone—but only illuminated Baron Wickton's awkward, ashen face, stranded on stage, unsure how to end this.

He was just as helpless.

Logically, the nobles should have feared the Lionheart Knights—but today they showed unprecedented defiance.

Perhaps the "Radiant Knight" had been stationed on the frontier too long; these corrupt men now believed the king had lost his blade—and dared to slam swords on tables in challenge!

Beyond helplessness, Baron Wickton also felt a flicker of confusion.

Logically, for the sake of gold, the king would never leave him to fight alone—that was his greatest confidence as a baron.

But he didn't understand why, now that he stood on the front line, ready to die, the king's reinforcements showed not a single shadow.

This was not right…

In the corner, Professor Ferguson, silent until now, let out a cold laugh—the only audience member who had foreseen the outcome.

He had even guessed the unperformed ending: since ancient times, stage plays are paid for by the audience—who ever heard of actors paying?

He didn't mind the money—it was merely external wealth.

He only grieved for Roland City's fate.

The souls who perished in the Winter Month fire never truly closed their eyes; every blood debt would be settled in full, with interest, on the day of reckoning.

His bitter, scornful laugh finally dissolved into a long sigh; he silently glanced at the only Campbell present, then left without a word.

Go ahead and stir up trouble!

Newcas watched the retreating back of Mr. Ferguson, then glanced at the four stunned "plants" beside him, feeling a mix of frustration and absurdity.

"By Saint Sis..."

Newcas made the sign of the cross over his chest.

He had sold fire extinguishers to a group of demons who were pouring oil over themselves.

No joke—he actually felt a little impressed with himself.

(End of Chapter)