Chapter 75: Pretending to Be a Tycoon

The southern gate of Black Castle Town served as the exclusive portal for trade caravans. Its broad roadways allowed four wagons to pass side by side, and all supplies flowed in and out through this gate. It was mid-morning, and outside the gate crowds bustled, forming long queues as numerous caravans awaited inspection and the collection of taxes by the town guards—a prerequisite for entry. The process was slow; some caravans waited for days just to gain access. Consequently, many constructed stables and inns nearby to provide services, and over time, the area took on the appearance of a small settlement.

Several drivers rested beneath a shelter; their caravan had already been waiting for two days, and today was their turn to enter the town.

“Hurry up! You lot, get the wagons ready!” a middle-aged man called briskly to the drivers. He was the steward of the caravan.

Excited, the drivers ran to the wagons, expertly harnessed the draft horses, and took up the reins—only to hear the steward shout again.

“Move the wagons to the roadside, don’t block the way!”

“Sir, are we being squeezed out by another caravan?” one driver asked, surprised. He’d encountered such situations before—sometimes yielding the way, sometimes others yielded to them—depending on the caravan’s background.

“Enough talk! Move to the side, quickly.”

Chastened by the steward, the drivers wasted no time and soon had their wagons pulled aside. They noticed then that every other caravan had done the same—even the one about to enter the town promptly gave way.

“What’s happening?” a young driver nudged his companion. It was his first time out with the caravan.

“Heh! Must be someone important coming in—maybe even a noble,” the older driver said, suppressing a laugh.

Sure enough, a short while later, a procession approached: ten armored cavalrymen escorted two carriages toward the southern gate.

As they drew near, the young driver gasped. The lead carriage was drawn by a massive beast.

He elbowed his companion, but before he could speak, the older driver growled, “Bow your head, quickly! Don’t you see it’s the baron’s carriage?”

Only then did the youth notice the proud stewards bowing as well. He hurriedly lowered his head, but as the carriage passed, he couldn’t help but glance up again—hoping for another glimpse of the giant beast. Instead, he caught sight of a charming face framed by the window: a visage lovely whether smiling or frowning.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmured, momentarily entranced.

“Hey! It’s gone, what are you gawking at? Think you can dream of a noble lady?” the old driver mocked.

“I… I’m just curious! I’ve never seen such a beast, nor such a fine carriage!” The young driver blushed furiously.

“No experience! That’s a giant rhinobeast, used by noble lords for their carriages. One costs three thousand gold sol.”

The older driver looked down on him. The youth was skilled and hardworking, favored by the steward, so the elder seized every chance to knock him down a peg.

“You’ve seen that carriage before? If you can name its style, I’ll admit you’re better!” the youth retorted, rankled by the constant jibes.

“Well… I haven’t seen one like it, either. Have you?”

“No, but I know the front wheels are small, the rear wheels large—must be nimble in turning. And the wheels don’t appear to be made of wood. If only I could drive such a carriage!”

—especially with that noble lady aboard, he added silently.

Victor had no inkling of the young driver’s thoughts; he merely noticed Lilia gazing absentmindedly out the window.

“What are you thinking?” Victor asked with a smile.

“Nothing, really. It just feels odd to ride in a noble’s carriage for the first time,” Lilia replied sweetly.

“My first time seeing nobles on the move was much the same: other caravans and travelers yielded, people bowed, and among them was me. I was so curious what it was like inside a noble’s carriage, and I wanted to sit in one myself, to see the world outside.”

Especially the first time he saw Nicole and the lord together in a carriage, Lilia thought quietly, she wanted so much to join them.

“Now that you’re here, do you notice anything different?” Victor asked, intrigued.

“I’m not sure—nothing seems different, yet it feels somehow changed,” Lilia shook her head, puzzled.

“Your power and mindset haven’t changed, but your status has—and most importantly, the carriage itself is different!” Victor explained calmly, steering the conversation elsewhere; sentiment was never his forte.

As expected, Lilia tilted her head, inspecting the interior, and asked, “How is this carriage different?”

“I’ve ridden countless noble carriages, but only this one is the most stable and comfortable. Do you know why?” Victor asked.

Lilia couldn’t answer; she’d never experienced the jolts of a noble carriage. Victor continued, “The cabin is unchanged, but the base and wheels were improved by that freeman carpenter. The wheels are wrapped in land lizard hide and filled with golden grass. That’s why this carriage outshines all others.”

“Does it really matter? It’s still just for passengers,” Lilia wondered.

“It makes a big difference. The improved carriage is faster, carries more, turns more easily, and spares the draft beast. That means much greater transport efficiency—a journey that once took fifteen days now takes ten.”

“Well, ten days or fifteen, we’ll arrive just the same,” she said, settling onto Victor’s lap. Traveling with him, she’d rather it go slower.

Victor could only smile wryly and adjust his posture, gathering the clingy Lilia in his arms. Truly, it was like playing music for a cow.

Unnoticed, Victor’s carriage soon arrived at Rose Manor.

The white-glazed stone walls were still as pristine as jade, but the trees behind had sprouted tender leaves, vibrant and full of life. Victor straightened his clothes, took a deep breath, and walked toward the manor’s grand entrance. He felt a surge of warmth at the thought of meeting the beautiful and wise Sylvia.

Before he reached the door, the impeccably dressed steward stepped forward, bowed, and said, “Baron Victor, the Countess is resting and will not see guests today.”

Victor’s gaze sharpened. He replied softly to the old steward, “It was presumptuous of me. Please convey my regards to Lady Sylvia; I shall return tomorrow.”

“I will certainly deliver your message, but I advise you to visit Black Castle and see the Count first,” the steward said, bowing in farewell.

Victor returned to the carriage, his expression dark. He quietly instructed, “Go east to Black Castle.”

Seeing the lord’s displeasure, the caravan’s mood grew somber. Lilia, too, dared not disturb Victor, sitting meekly by his side. The convoy soon arrived before Black Castle.

Victor looked up at the towering fortress, over fifty meters high, unable to help admiring its grandeur and solidity. He wondered when he might have a castle of his own.

When Victor entered Black Castle, the guards offered no resistance. A young man in fine steward’s attire awaited him at the gate—Max, the scribe to Count York.

“Sir Victor, please follow me,” Max offered a polished noble’s smile, bowing slightly and gesturing for Victor to accompany him.

Victor courteously returned the gesture. In the household of a great noble, even stewards and scribes were vassals of knightly blood, deserving respect.

Max led Victor to a lounge and said, “Sir Victor, the Governor is attending to business. I will announce your arrival; please wait a moment.”

“Go ahead,” Victor replied coolly.

He took in the lounge, feeling a touch of nostalgia. After months, he was once again in Black Castle. Compared to his first rebirth here, his attitude had changed entirely.

At the moment of his rebirth, he had no power, but as a transmigrant from a civilized world, Victor believed his insight and wisdom far surpassed those of the natives—especially with X-3 at his disposal. This psychological advantage made him disdain the local nobility, even contemptuous, thinking he could manipulate them at will. It was arrogance.

But after months of frequent mistakes, Victor had to admit he was not as clever as he imagined, and the nobles he had dismissed as bumpkins were more adapted and wiser—perhaps even smarter.

This realization curbed his arrogance, prompting him to reevaluate himself and stoking a stronger fighting spirit.

Victor closed his eyes, calming his mind and quietly practicing the Golden Toad Secret Form. The anxiety, anger, and restlessness born of cold treatment gradually faded. He abandoned X-3’s adjustments, letting his spirit flow with his blood. Slowly, Victor entered a state of forgetfulness, where self and surroundings merged. With deep meditation, he seemed to see blood coursing through his body, his breath naturally aligning with the Golden Toad’s key points. A faint breeze rose and fell around him; thus Victor sat motionless for three hours.

Unbeknownst to Victor, a pair of eyes observed him through a hidden aperture in the wall.

“How long has he been sitting there?” Count York—plump and pale—sat in a broad chair without armrests, asking.

“Three hours, sir,” Max replied, wiping sweat from his brow. His back ached; he, too, had kept watch nearly three hours.

“He hasn’t moved?”

“Not once.”

“He must be asleep. Can’t let him be so comfortable—go wake him, I want to see him,” the Count said through clenched teeth.

Max hurried to the lounge, eager to be relieved from his vigil.

“Truly a capital noble—such patience,” Count York muttered, barely audible.

“Sir Victor, the Count summons you!” Max was startled as Victor suddenly opened the lounge door, just as he was about to knock. Wasn’t the young baron asleep?

“Let’s go,” Victor said with a smile to the scribe.

Led by Max, Victor met the ever more corpulent Governor.

“Good day, Count. It’s been a while—you seem thinner,” Victor greeted the Count with a bow.

“Is that so? Ha, I am indeed thinner!” The Count touched his fat cheeks, beaming.

“Mm!” Max coughed dryly, reminding the Count not to be carried away by flattery.

“So, Baron Victor, what brings you to see me?” Count York cleared his throat, adopting an imposing tone.

“Sir, I have come to seek aid,” Victor said, bowing.

“Aid, eh? Out of grain, are you?” The Count laughed until his eyes disappeared.

“Yes. A few days ago, my people came to Black Castle Town to purchase grain, but could only buy a scant amount—not enough to last a month. So I ask for your assistance in supplying me with grain.”

The Count pushed a parchment scroll across the table toward Victor.

“Sign this, and anything can be arranged.”

The scene felt familiar, making Victor smile inwardly. Last time, he’d signed; this time, he would not—for this was a vassalage document.

“Sir, this is not lawful. As you know, I am the lord of the Wimbledon family, not your vassal.”

Victor’s slender finger tapped the parchment, sliding it back to the Count.

“The Wimbledon family? Ha! Your surname is noble, but your family has long been scattered across various kingdoms. Do you know how many Wimbledon nobles have become vassals to other lords?”

“You are right, sir. But all nobles in Gambis’s capital know my wife, Marquis Sophia, purchased the territory in the Hill of Horses. If I betray her, I will be scorned and ostracized by every noble.”

Now, Victor could only invoke his advantageous wife, adding, “Why not hear my proposal? Perhaps it will satisfy us both.”

“Unless you sign this, nothing else matters,” the Count declared, waving his hand imperiously. “Otherwise, you can wait to starve!”

Victor was silent. The scribe Max stepped forward, saying, “Sir Victor, you may have forgotten: during the Wind Season, you must pay grain and annuities to the kingdom, and the tithe to the Church. As I understand, you have only two thousand acres under cultivation, and the Water Season for sowing has passed. You may face heavy fines or even forfeiture of your lands. Sign the document, and all your problems will be solved.”

“Thank you for your kindness. Now I must take my leave,” Victor bowed to the Count and strode resolutely toward the door.

“Victor, don’t count on Sophia to help you!” Count York roared as Victor was about to exit. “You don’t know, do you? Sophia is pursuing Golden Knight Andre—she won’t care about you! If she succeeds, you’d better consider your fate!”

Victor paused, then left firmly, a cold murderous glint in his eye.

Outside Black Castle, Victor’s expression was calm.

“Victor! You took so long—how did it go?” Lilia asked anxiously, delighted to see him.

Victor smiled, shook his head, and slipped his arm around the girl’s waist. “Come, let’s go to the central cathedral.”

——————————

“How did it go? Where did that fellow go?” a servant entered the Governor’s office. Count York barked his question.

“Sir, the young baron just left the central cathedral, escorted by the priest himself. They seemed quite pleased. I’ve found out: the young baron donated two thousand gold sol to the Church,” the servant replied respectfully.

“Two thousand gold sol! That’s my money—swindled from me!” the Count raged.

“Sir, the young baron is now staying at the Violet Flower Inn, and has booked an entire floor,” the servant added.

“Violet Flower? That’s the most expensive inn! An entire floor! How much does that cost? Using my money again!” the Count grew angrier.

“Sir, the Violet Flower is your property,” Max reminded quietly.

Before the Count could calm down, the servant said, “That’s still your money, sir.”

“Philip, what are you implying?” Max asked, displeased.

Philip ignored Max and addressed the Count: “Sir, the young baron is showing you he’s not short of money—he can buy grain elsewhere. Even if he can’t, as a pioneer lord, he can seek support from the Church.”

“What a cunning fellow!” The Count drew a sharp breath.

“Yes, sir! He’s far too clever. It’s because the lady was so generous—if she’d only given him a few thousand gold sol, as you suggested, he would’ve had to sign the vassalage document today,” Philip flattered.

The Count sat expressionless for a moment, then said, “Philip, you’re right. Come here, I have something to assign you.”

Philip was delighted, casting a smug glance at Max, and approached the Count.

“Take a look—what’s this?” Count York pointed to a document on his desk.

As Philip leaned in, the Count grabbed his hair and slammed his head onto the desk, then seized a golden goblet and brutally struck the back of Philip’s skull.

Philip collapsed without a sound. The Count continued to smash his head, red and white splattering everywhere.

Covered in blood, Count York shoved Philip’s shattered body from the desk, coldly scanning his servants. “Remember this! Without the lady, we are nothing but dog shit!”

“Clean up here. And send this wretch to my dear brother, Viscount Fred—tell him to keep quiet!”