Chapter 669
“It seems you might go to your bedroom.”
“What…?”
This brat really was without a doubt Yona’s son.
The Grand Duke scowled, her face twisting in displeasure.
“You insolent wretch, I let you climb to the very top of my head!”
Her voice rose sharply.
“No matter that I drank too much and showed weakness, and you dare speak of the bedroom? How dare you…!”
Moments later.
She was lying on the bed with a dazed expression. Simon had gently pulled a blanket over her and smiled faintly.
“Then rest well. I’ll take care of the people outside for you.”
Thud.
Without doing anything improper, Simon closed the door and left.
She pressed her chin with a strangely frozen expression.
“Yona’s son… truly?”
* * *
Simon, having escorted the drunken Grand Duke back to her bedroom, returned to the banquet hall, brushing his fringe with a slightly tired look.
With the only person capable of controlling the northerners gone, the party had descended even further into chaos.
Axes and swords were lodged into the walls. Some lay collapsed in drunken heaps, others slept with their faces dunked into oak barrels of wine.
“I was the one who planted the flag in the First’s head!”
Shouted a man as he shook a chair violently—smacking it right into the forehead of an unfortunate general beside him. The general immediately drew his sword.
Watching these drunken northerners, Simon noticed—
“……”
—someone who stood out.
He looked utterly uncomfortable, shifting uneasily as though seated on a bed of thorns. Slender in build, with glasses—a rarity in the north. The surrounding warriors ignored him at best, or glared at him with open contempt.
Clearly, another outsider, like Simon.
“!”
Their eyes met. The bespectacled man suddenly broke into a broad grin.
“?”
This time, he held Simon’s gaze, his smile deepening as he strode directly toward him.
“Hello there!”
He greeted. Several northerners’ murderous gazes slid over to Simon.
“Ah, yes. Hello.”
Still, there was no reason to refuse a greeting.
“You’re Simon Follentia from Keyzen, aren’t you?”
“…How do you know that?”
“Hahaha, how could I not? Who wouldn’t know the current Keyzen Student Council President?”
Unbelievable.
He really was an outsider.
The north never acknowledged titles or ranks from outside.
“Here.”
The man discreetly slipped Simon a letter, whispering urgently:
“It’s from my master. Please read it. W-well, I must go.”
Unable to endure the northerners’ stares, he scurried away, bowing repeatedly. Simon fingered the letter in his pocket.
‘Sent by his master?’
He felt the seal pressed on the envelope.
Noble, most likely.
He traced the seal with his finger, trying to match it in memory, but none of the coats of arms he knew came to mind.
‘Hm.’
Simon rose slowly from his seat and began walking.
* * *
“You insolent brat!”
Bang!
Just as the party had reached its peak, the bedroom door burst open, and the Grand Duke stormed out in training attire, shouting.
“I must hear your answer now! Where are you?”
She couldn’t sleep.
If there was a time to talk, it was now.
“Come at once! I have questions about your father!”
Her uproar drew every warrior’s attention.
“Ohhh!”
The already flushed northerners grew even redder.
“As expected of the Grand Duke! I’ll lay down my life for you!”
“I’ll follow you even to the depths of hell!”
Shouts of loyalty rang out.
An older warrior’s eyes welled with tears.
“Sniff! It feels like only yesterday you were a little girl, and now you’re truly a lady…”
Crack!
She ripped a chunk of masonry barehanded from the wall and hurled it. A warrior took it full in the face and went sprawling with blood gushing from his nose.
“Do you all wish to die?”
The warriors snapped to attention, sober in an instant.
“Godrick! Where is my disciple?”
“Ah, Grand Duke.”
Butler Godrick scratched the back of his head.
“He seems to have stepped out. I saw him receive something from that man’s servant.”
The Grand Duke’s expression hardened.
“What?”
* * *
Having slipped out of the castle, Simon walked toward the address written in the letter.
<To Sir Simon Follentia.>
<I have urgent matters to discuss. It concerns the secrets of the North. Let us speak in a quiet place. —Toringdon Voldemont.>
He had plenty of time anyway. Staying in a banquet hall where weapons flew freely was enough to get him killed twice over. Simon decided to meet the one who summoned him.
The destination was a spacious mansion, a good distance from the Grand Duke’s keep.
In sheer luxury, it far outshone the Grand Duke’s castle. Guards stood here and there—clean-shaven, clad in fine armor. They didn’t look northern at all.
“Welcome to Count Voldemont’s estate. What business do you have?”
Two guards crossed their spears politely as Simon approached.
‘So it was a count’s house.’
Without a word, Simon presented the letter. On recognizing the seal, they lowered their spears and bowed.
“Please enter.”
The moment Simon stepped into the garden, a group of butlers and servants bent deeply at the waist in unison.
“Welcome.”
“The Count awaits you.”
It was the first time in the north he had received such lavish courtesy, and Simon felt almost embarrassed.
At the same time, suspicion stirred.
Normally, a count would be the lord of his own fief. Yet Carlos’ northern lands were firmly under Grand Duke Jin Arskalt’s dominion. There was no reason for a mere count to build a grand estate here.
‘I’ll find out once I meet him.’
Tucking the letter back into his pocket, Simon followed the butlers.
“Count, Sir Simon Follentia has arrived.”
“Mm, let him in.”
A cheerful voice rang out.
The door opened, and Simon stepped inside.
The interior was richly decorated—potted plants everywhere, expensive paintings on the walls, shelves lined with ancient tomes.
And there, a young man sat, waving brightly.
‘Younger than I thought.’
Simon had expected a pot-bellied old man, but the face before him was fresh and youthful—about Simon’s own age, perhaps a year or two older.
Following the etiquette of Carlos he had learned in his Monarch Studies class, Simon bowed.
“I pay my respects to Count Voldemont—”
“Ah, no need for all that formality. Sit, sit.”
The Count rose with a grin.
“Would you like something to drink? Hot tea? Or perhaps juice or wine?”
“Tea, please.”
No sooner had Simon spoken than the door opened again and a servant wheeled in a cart. Simon was startled to see several attendants waiting behind the cart as well.
A servant placed a cup on the table before Simon and poured with deference. The liquid glowed a lively orange, carrying a faint fruity aroma.
Simon lifted it and took a sip.
‘Oh.’
It was astonishingly delicious. A world apart from the bitter, watery iced teas of the North.
“I’m glad it suits your taste.”
While Simon sipped the sweet tea, Count Voldemont sat opposite him on the sofa, smiling.
“How old are you this year?”
It was a rather casual question for a count to ask.
Simon set down his cup.
“Eighteen.”
“Ah, then we’re practically friends! I’m only a year older. Let’s speak casually, shall we?”
“But…”
“It’s fine, really.”
As the Count continued to insist, Simon reluctantly nodded.
“So then.”
Simon dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief.
“I’d like to know why you called me here.”
“Because I really wanted to meet you!”
The Count’s eyes gleamed.
“A student of Keyzen—no, the StudentCouncil President of Keyzen—here in the North! I never expected it. You’re really president as a second-year? That’s incredible!”
Simon’s gaze sharpened.
This was the real question.
“How do you know I’m Simon Follentia, the Student Council President?”
Simon had only been dispatched to Carlos’ North for a special assignment. The only ones who knew his true identity were the Grand Duke, Steward Godrick, and a handful of her retainers. Everyone else simply called him “disciple” or “outsider”.
Yet here was someone who not only knew his name but his exact status. That wasn’t something Simon could take lightly.
“Oh, just heard from a friend.”
The Count waved it off casually, but Simon quietly filed the information away: someone among the Grand Duke’s circle was closely tied to Count Voldemont.
“Anyway! Won’t you tell me about Keyzen?”
The Count’s eyes sparkled.
“I’ve only had a noble’s private education, so I’ve always been curious about the Necromancer School. It’s my dream! Do they really lock kids up on an island and make them fight each other?”
“That happens, yes.”
Simon told a simplified version of Keyzen’s story, and Count Voldemont listened with delight. When Simon mentioned the Dark Emperor Festival, the Count clapped and exclaimed in wonder.
“Ah, it sounds amazing.”
The Count gazed wistfully up at the ceiling.
“If not for my family duties, I would have gone to the Necromancer School myself.”
“In fact, that was what I wanted to ask.”
Simon seized the chance.
“Carlos’ North is the Grand Duke’s domain. Why is House Voldemont here?”
The Count gave a bitter smile, as if he had expected the question. He raised his cup and sipped before answering.
“I am a Watcher.”
Across kingdoms, the rank of Grand Duke meant one thing: within that domain, they ruled equal to a king.
Before the four-kingdom system was established, the North was an independent land, not part of Carlos. The House of Arskalt were kings in all but name, ruling the North.
Carlos long desired to annex the North, but waging war for it was a fool’s gamble. Even if they seized it, how would they repel the endless monsters and undead? And which noble would march into the northern wilderness to fight there? None could defend it as thoroughly as the House of Arskalt.
At last, Carlos compromised. They offered Arskalt the title of Grand Duke—equal to the king within their land. The North would be painted as Carlos’ territory on the map, but real power remained in the Grand Duke’s hands.
In exchange, the kingdom promised steady food shipments from the fertile southern farmlands, relieving the famine that had been starving the North. Arskalt’s lord, unable to watch his people die of hunger, accepted.
“But Carlos’ nobles always feared the North’s military strength.”
Count Voldemont leaned forward.
“They wanted a safeguard. That safeguard was—”
“The Watchers.”
Simon supplied the answer, and the Count’s face lit up.
“Exactly! A house of count rank or higher must be stationed here, tasked with both supporting and monitoring the North.”
“...Still, I doubt many houses would want the job.”
“Indeed.”
Why would a count abandon his own fief, his comforts, to come to this harsh land? The Watcher’s post was essentially exile for nobles who had lost the game of central politics.
But—
“I volunteered.”
The Count clasped his hands together, his eyes gleaming.
“The moment my father passed and I inherited the title, I petitioned His Majesty: let House Voldemont serve as Watcher in the North.”
“…Why?”
“Because this is a land of opportunity! People call it exile only because they don’t understand.”
The corners of his lips curled upward, and for a moment the mask of the jovial young noble slipped.
“The truth is… the North holds hidden secrets.”
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