Chapter 74: Refusing to Be a Vassal

Outside the carriage, the shrill neighs of the warhorses startled Victor awake. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up, only to realize a soft, fragrant body was nestled tightly in the crook of his arm. Glancing down, he found Lilia cuddled against his chest like a gentle lamb.

Victor couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the girl’s long eyelashes and upturned lips. On the third day after Nelson’s return, Victor had formally announced to everyone that Lilia would become his personal maid, and that very evening, he hosted a celebratory banquet in her honor.

The event was a great success. Every member of the Hill Camp offered Lilia their blessings—especially the Battle Bear mercenaries, who had all watched her grow up. Proud uncles, they were genuinely happy for her newfound place. That evening, a dozen young guards drank themselves senseless. Though Lilia now held a high position and was no longer unattached, nothing could quench their admiration. The camp’s loveliest blossom had fallen into their lord’s embrace, and all they could do was drown their disappointment in sweet purple cane wine.

Nelson also got drunk, though not out of sorrow for his sister—his feelings were not so delicate. What truly moved Nelson was Victor’s insistence on holding a banquet for Lilia. No noble hosted such celebrations for a personal maid; it simply wasn’t done. In this world, only the blood of knights was deemed worthy.

Yet Victor didn’t bother with noble etiquette. He wanted a banquet, and so he held one—no further reason needed. If there had to be an explanation, it was simply Victor’s way of announcing to all: this delicate flower now belongs to me, so let no one else harbor hopes.

Perhaps sensing the absence of the arm around her, Lilia pouted her rosy lips in her sleep and pressed herself in even closer, clinging to Victor like an octopus, making him both amused and warmly content.

In Victor’s eyes, Nicole and he were like two intertwined redwoods—branches and hearts connected. Even if one fell, the other would still grow tall, for both possessed strength and conviction.

Lilia, however, was different. She was like a vine, climbing as high as the tree to which she clung, her fate entirely dependent on its growth. If the tree ever fell, she would wither as well.

Thinking of Nicole and Lilia, another striking figure flashed through Victor’s mind—the very person he intended to visit: Countess Sylvia.

Strictly speaking, Sylvia was the first woman in Victor’s new life. She was like a beautiful lake—enchanting to behold, yet beneath the surface, deep and unfathomable, inspiring both awe and caution. Sylvia had deliberately sown discord between him and Baron Vilpain, seized half the purple cane wine market, and sold Nelson only a month’s worth of grain, but none of this surprised Victor.

What truly baffled him was why Sylvia had chosen to invest in him from the very beginning. She had not only provided him with forty thousand gold sols and a shipment of arms at a generous price but had also dispatched knights to stabilize his situation. This was the mystery Victor had yet to unravel. At first, he’d believed the York family had compromised out of desperation to consolidate their territory. Now, he knew better—he’d had no money, no men, no power, and no grounds to negotiate.

Was it simply that the Countess, having tasted an elf-blooded man, had sent him a red packet as a reward? The thought made Victor’s face darken.

Whatever the reason, Victor now desperately needed the York family’s support for at least two more years. That was why he journeyed to Blackfort—to deliver the noose into Sylvia’s hands.

Victor had thought it through: there was no way he could pursue a self-sufficient path to power. He lacked a fatal necessity—family backing. After purple cane wine revealed its immense potential, the Yorks cut off any hope of his return, seized the market, and used grain to pressure him—a standard tactic for great nobles. Victor knew that even if he had gold, he still might not buy a single grain, nor sell a drop of wine without the Yorks’ blessing. Their message was clear: Victor would no longer have free rein—purple cane wine was now theirs.

Yet, Victor thought with a trace of dark humor, the leash might not bind a puppy, but a dragon. When the time came, who would truly hold whom?

Lost in these musings, Victor suddenly noticed a pair of limpid eyes gazing up at him—Lilia was awake.

“Victor, what are you thinking about?” She nuzzled his chest with her soft cheek, savoring his scent—fresh and natural, like a forest after rain.

“I was thinking about Sylvia.”

Enjoying the touch of her tender skin, Victor replied, content. Lately, Lilia had become particularly affectionate.

“Who is Sylvia? Is she as beautiful as Sister Nicole?” Lilia fluttered her long lashes, her voice sweet but her pouting lips betraying a hint of jealousy—an instinct that knows no rank.

“Sylvia is the Countess of York, the head of the York family. We’re visiting her on this trip,” Victor explained, holding her close.

“Victor, do we really have to hand over the purple cane wine to the York family?” Lilia asked, a trace of reluctance in her tone.

“Of course. We have no choice.” Victor nodded, then continued, “Lilia, do you know the York family’s strength? They are a thousand-year-old lineage famed for resilience. Today, they stand as one of humanity’s greatest noble houses.”

“The Yorks openly boast five Silver-ranked knights, more than twenty Bronze knights, over a hundred squires, three thousand elite soldiers, over twenty thousand vassals, and at least forty thousand subjects, not to mention countless free folk who rely on them.”

“And that’s just their core strength—they have many vassal houses: one count, two viscounts, and five barons among them.”

“If the Yorks go to war, they can muster over five thousand troops—a true military powerhouse! So tell me, could we refuse them?”

Victor’s eyes gleamed—not with fear, but with a strange exhilaration at the thought of such a colossus.

“If the York family is so strong, why did they abandon their homeland for the Centaur Hills?” Lilia pouted, annoyed by the thought of being bullied, no matter how powerful the opponent.

“That’s the York family’s way—avoiding powerful enemies to preserve their strength, but if cornered, they fight to the bitter end.” Victor explained. “In fact, most ancient houses have their own character—like the Eschkries’ unity and the Cheapmans’ thrift. These traits forge their lasting legacies.”

“My lord, you know so much!” Lilia exclaimed in delight, her eyes alight with admiration.

Victor could only smile wryly. These were just bits of gossip he’d picked up in the capital—at the time, people had mocked the Yorks as country bumpkins, the Eschkries as stubborn, the Cheapmans as misers—petty jibes born of envy.

“In the end, Lilia, it all comes down to our own weakness. For now, we must learn to compromise, to grow strong in secret, and only then can we shape our own fate.”

He chuckled. “Come, let’s get up. I hear the hounds barking—Old Ham must have caught something. Looks like we’ll have a fine breakfast today.”

“Alright.” Lilia answered, but only clung more tightly.

After another moment’s tenderness, the pair finally dressed and left the carriage.

Outside, a dozen guards were gathered around the campfire, watching Old Ham roast a short-tailed deer. The savory aroma wafted to Victor from afar, prompting him to exclaim, “Smells wonderful!”

“Good morning, my lord!”

“Good morning, my lady!”

Seeing their lord and Lilia step from the carriage, the guards greeted them respectfully. Lilia blushed fiercely, feeling as though all these uncles were eyeing her with teasing glances.

“Old Ham, your roasting is the best I’ve ever seen,” Victor praised sincerely, admiring the golden-brown deer, perfectly cooked without a hint of burning.

“My lord, after years of roasting over campfires on the plains, one grows skilled,” Old Ham replied, passing Victor a roasted haunch and expertly cutting a strip of venison for Lilia—her favorite cut.

“Thank you, Uncle Ham,” Lilia said happily, accepting her breakfast.

“What inspired such early hunting?” Victor asked, noticing another fire roasting a yellow sheep.

“It’s all because the big guy eats so much—dragged Shack out hunting at dawn,” a guard joked.

“That’s right. Reynard eats like a horse, just like Nelson—a pair of bottomless pits. But Shack really is a master hunter—every beast is felled with a single arrow,” added another.

Reynard’s skill had already earned the guards’ trust. Though his origins were unclear, they’d decided he was just a blockhead—no threat to them.

Victor smiled. Most likely, Reynard and Shack had been out practicing their secret forms, supplementing their training with the hunt.

Shack, Victor’s coachman for this journey, was a clever monkey-folk militiaman, a mountain man who had joined the camp and been brought along for his skill.

Victor had not brought Nelson—someone had to stay behind and guard the territory. Instead, he had selected a dozen guards, Reynard, Shack, Old Ham, two carriages, and ten warhorses for the trip to Blackfort.

He’d brought Old Ham for his keen hounds. Taking them out of the territory gave Jack more room to carry out Victor’s plan to drive the hillfolk away.

Victor bit into the roasted venison—the flavor lingered deliciously. He asked Old Ham, “Ham, you plains folk live by herding. Do you have knights as well?”

“We do. Our knights are called warriors. It was only after joining the Battle Bear mercenaries that I learned ‘warrior’ is just another word for knight,” Old Ham replied.

“Do you have castles?” Victor suddenly grew curious about the nomads’ ways.

“No, my lord. There’s no stone or timber on the plains, so we have no castles,” Old Ham shook his head.

“Then how do you defend against monsters and beasts? Or are there none on the plains?” Victor frowned.

“My lord, the plains are rife with monsters and wolf packs. To survive, we keep hounds and hawks, avoid danger when we can, and if we can’t, we fight,” Old Ham replied hoarsely—clearly, these were not pleasant memories.

“Most of the time, we can’t beat the gnoll tribes, but the Radiant Church built twelve cities on the plains where we can take refuge.”

“That explains why the plainsfolk are all such devout believers,” Victor nodded. Gnolls were far too powerful for ordinary men. When their numbers reached the hundreds, not even knights could withstand them. Without cities, herders simply could not survive. Yet, this also meant the Church truly protected humanity—building fortresses on the plains was no small feat, a testament to their sacrifice and resolve.

Perhaps the Church had purged the beastmen countless times, but the plains were vast and the beastmen prolific. In the end, the Church had chosen to build cities to shelter the herders.

As for the nomads, they must be those who, through centuries of infighting, had lost their lands and been forced to seek new lives on the plains under the guidance of their chieftains. The Church had always encouraged such pioneering efforts, which was why it tirelessly aided the nomads and won their devotion.

“How, then, did you fall to the Sasanian Empire?” Victor wondered aloud. The plainsfolk, fierce and skilled with bow and horse, had the Church’s support—how could they be conquered?

“We weren’t defeated by the Sasanians!” Old Ham cried, growing agitated. “The elders say that three hundred years ago, the Church suddenly abandoned the twelve holy cities on the plains. Our chieftains fought each other for control, to the point of destruction. Beastmen gathered near the cities, and our ancestors had no choice but to join the Sasanian and Dodo kingdoms.”

“What did you say?!” Victor shot to his feet.

“We defeated ourselves fighting over the holy cities,” Old Ham muttered, unwilling to admit that his brave people had been conquered by outsiders.

“Yes, of course—you weren’t beaten by the Sasanians,” Victor replied with a wry smile as he sat. But now he understood.

What had happened three hundred years ago? The Lant Empire split into three kingdoms, and the Sasanians took control of the plainsfolk. Seven hundred years past, the Lant Emperor built the Heroic City in the north, seeking to unify the region—the Church killed him for it.

Victor saw the pattern. The twelve cities had been built by the Church, with the Lant Empire’s support—the kind of project only such power could manage. The empire had wanted to use them as a springboard to unify the north, but their plan failed. The emperor died, the empire fractured, the Church withdrew, and the Sasanians simply walked in and took over.

Thus, the Sasanian Empire became the Church’s core knightly realm; they wanted Sasan to rule all humanity.

Victor pondered quietly, his thoughts turning to Grand Duke Williams. Clearly, the Duke was the Church’s man in Gambis, a key force resisting Sasan. If the Church controlled Gambis, Dodo and Naville would surely fall.

But what of the York family? They belonged to the White Tower faction—did that mean the White Tower had already split?

Victor thought back to the last war and the Yorks’ role. They hadn’t supported King Lane, but handed the eastern provinces to the Lant Emperor, then migrated to the far west, to the Centaur Hills—just as Victor himself had done, escaping the mire.

Now, their position allowed both attack and defense. With Gambis deprived of the eastern provinces, the Yorks and the Lant Empire now flanked Gambis. If they joined forces, Lant’s restoration would be much more likely.

If things went badly, the Yorks would remain staunch supporters of Williams, making them a key Church ally. In any case, the Yorks stood in an invincible position.

This all pointed to the collapse of the White Tower alliance—and that war was close at hand.

“I understand now!” Victor exclaimed with laughter.

“Victor, what have you figured out?” Lilia asked, wide-eyed.

“We cannot become vassals of the York family,” Victor replied firmly.

Vassals are nothing but cannon fodder.