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Chapter 43
“You may speak, Marquess.”
“I believe the triumphal ceremony must absolutely be held—and with the grandest scale possible.”
“And the reason?”
“Because otherwise, Your Majesty’s prestige may be overshadowed by their fame. At the center of it all will, of course, be Duke Ditrio.”
“…That doesn’t sound like a good thing, Marquess Chase.”
King Rioneph frowned, clearly displeased.
Marquess Chase shook his head and replied.
“Would I dare propose something that would slight Your Majesty? This will benefit not only you, but also us nobles who must accommodate the Genovans. It is, without question, the most advantageous course.”
At his words, many nobles sighed as though realization had struck them.
They had seen through his intention.
As the atmosphere shifted in the marquess’s favor, one of the opposition nobles could not restrain himself and shouted:
“Marquess Chase! Are you saying it is acceptable for Duke Ditrio’s renown to eclipse His Majesty’s?”
“Viscount Jolta, how foolish you are. Do you really think His Majesty’s glory would be shaken by something so trivial? That assumption alone is an insult to our sovereign.”
Just as the marquess said, King Rioneph was now regarding Viscount Jolta with a cold expression.
Another senior noble clicked his tongue and scolded him.
“Tsk, tsk. Nothing is more idiotic in politics than leading with emotion. Instead of opposing blindly, weigh the profits that lie ahead.”
Viscount Jolta’s face flushed crimson.
Looking around, he saw it wasn’t only the elder nobles.
Most of the aristocrats around him were staring at him with disdain.
Even his own leader, Count Monteiro, was watching him with a cold gaze.
Viscount Jolta had no choice but to shrink back and sit down.
Marquess Chase turned back to King Rioneph.
“Your Majesty, though our words were interrupted—Genovans will not easily open their hearts. If we push policies in their favor prematurely, it will only breed resentment.”
“And if we hold the triumphal ceremony, would it not be the same?”
“Not at all. Do you think I advocate such splendor for nothing? It is to direct that resentment toward Duke Ditrio.”
“Is that truly possible?”
“Your Majesty, human nature is simpler than we think. People always direct their emotions toward the enemy they see, not the one they cannot. The more we welcome and glorify the men who crushed their homeland, the more their bitterness will turn on Duke Ditrio.”
King Rioneph nodded, his expression showing persuasion.
The marquess continued.
“And that is when Your Majesty should step forward. Present yourself as the benevolent leader who cares for the Genovans. Do this, and in time their hearts will change. Nor will the triumph disappoint the people of Rioneph.”
If it worked as planned, it would be a double gain.
To King Rioneph, Marquess Chase’s argument was far more convincing than Count Monteiro’s.
For the king, there was nothing to lose.
Thus, he chose not to delay further.
He had intended to approve the triumph from the start—it had only been stalled by the opposition.
King Rioneph cast his gaze toward Roiden.
“Count Monteiro. Do you have any objection to the marquess’s suggestion? I do not dismiss your concerns, but it seems there is no issue in proceeding.”
Though framed as a question, it was little more than a notification.
Roiden clenched his jaw.
He loathed the marquess who obstructed his plans.
‘That fox.’
The pretext he had put forward had been little more than an excuse.
Above all, he had to prevent his nephew, Kirzen Ditrio, from becoming the hero of the triumph.
That was why he had dragged the Genovans into it—but Marquess Chase had stripped away that excuse.
And if he tried to oppose with talk of finances, the marquess would surely pounce:
“Count Monteiro, are the costs what troubles you? Then I will generously donate a portion myself.”
And just like that, his argument would be nullified.
Roiden could only grind his teeth and give in.
“…As you wish.”
Without an extraordinary pretext, overturning the situation was impossible.
It was intolerable.
Bloodshot veins swelled in Roiden’s eyes.
* * *
Just before Kirzen entered the capital, a royal courier arrived with news.
“To think they would approve the triumph this quickly… I don’t know whether to call this fortunate or not.”
Jerome muttered, his expression uneasy.
Kirzen, however, seemed indifferent.
In truth, he was relieved he would no longer be tested by drawn-out delays.
“It’s better this way—less wasted time.”
“That may be so, but don’t you find Marquess Chase’s motives suspicious? Why would he side with you? If anything, you’d expect him to join Count Monteiro in opposition.”
“Remember the words you always throw at me—politicians act only for their own profit.”
“That’s exactly why I’m uneasy. That marquess doesn’t show kindness without expecting something in return. What does he want from you…?”
Kirzen smirked faintly.
“I think I know.”
“What is it?”
“A common enemy.”
Who had shed the most blood in the war against Genova?
It was he himself.
To the people of Rioneph, he was a war hero.
But to the Genovans?
He was nothing but a butcher—a slaughterer elevated to honor.
Marquess Chase must have seen the opportunity.
By focusing the Genovans’ hatred on one man, he could pacify the rest—and swell the number of serfs to be handed out among the nobles.
That was the fate of a defeated nation.
The survivors’ lives would be distributed as rewards to the victors’ retainers.
Which meant Kirzen, as the foremost hero, would inevitably become the lightning rod.
To turn resentment toward him, to make reconciliation easier later—that was the marquess’s calculation.
The king, too, would not forcibly suppress the Genovans.
A lesser evil over the greater one.
He would hand them the illusion of choice, wrapped in sweet words.
Jerome’s face grew grave.
“If it turns out like that… this is bad. Count Monteiro could seize on it as a pretext.”
“That’s all my uncle has left to cling to, anyway.”
“Aren’t you worried? Many of the retainers still stand with the count. They may refuse to acknowledge you.”
Kirzen looked at him with thinly veiled contempt.
“Sometimes I can’t tell whether you’re clever or a fool. Did you forget why I held myself back from rushing home to the capital, and demanded the triumph instead?”
“Ah…”
Jerome’s face shifted as realization dawned.
Indeed, he had asked a foolish question.
“By the gods, I truly was being dense. You’re right, my lord. Instead of worrying, we should hurry to prepare for the triumph.”
With that, Jerome quickly excused himself.
Now that he understood the intention, any delay might bring a deadly glare—or worse.
And indeed, Kirzen would not have tolerated even a moment’s delay.
Time was precious now.
With the triumph permitted, he longed to enter the capital swiftly and restore everything to its rightful place.
Including her.
‘She must have changed greatly.’
Ten years could transform mountains and rivers. Surely Emelina, too, had changed.
How would she look? What kind of woman had she grown into?
Kirzen opened his sketchbook and let himself imagine her altered face.
He could hardly wait for the moment he saw her bright smile again.
And he could not help but feel some gratitude toward Marquess Chase.
Thanks to him, the triumph would proceed without delay.
He would never voice that thanks, of course—but in his heart, he acknowledged it.
* * *
“What nonsense is this! Donating funds for the triumph? What in the world is that marquess thinking?”
“My thoughts exactly! A donation, fine—but this? Now we’ll all be pressured into contributing as well!”
“And if we don’t, we’ll be ridiculed for stinginess. Tch. The marquess has snared us neatly in his trap.”
“Damn it all…”
The nobles who had opposed the triumph for political reasons gathered, each with a sour expression.
The king’s approval of the triumph had been headache enough, but Marquess Chase’s sudden promise of donation forced them into unforeseen expense.
They could not help but feel thoroughly embittered.
Especially the retainers of the Ditrio dukedom, loyal to Count Monteiro.
The formal return of Kirzen to the capital would stir ripples they dreaded to imagine.
It was, after all, an issue that could tip the entire balance of power within the dukedom.
Their unease was only natural.
