The Wastrel Resolves
The commotion in the kitchen came to an end with Kyle half-surrounded by armed knights. Since the Grand Duke's direct knight order had intervened, any further slaughter would just be a pointless waste of energy.
"Tsk."
Kyle tossed the kitchen knife onto the counter with obvious regret. And he obediently followed their guidance.
The place they arrived at was the Grand Duke's Office on the top floor of the Main Castle.
Creak—The heavy oak door swung open. Chilly air stabbed into his lungs. Kyle strode leisurely into the office without even thinking to hide the bloodstains on his shoes.
Pale-faced Derek came hurrying in after him.
At the head of the spacious office sat a man with his black hair neatly combed back. The ruler of the North. And Kyle's father in this life. Roderick Hartvalt, Grand Duke of Hartvalt.
Though well past his forties, he had the handsome face of a man in his thirties. As expected of the birth father of a romance fantasy male lead. But a frost-like chill flowed between his sharp features.
The Grand Duke's gaze slowly lifted from the documents he was reviewing. Kyle's bloodstained shoes. His disheveled clothes. The moment he took it in, deep contempt and fury rippled in the Grand Duke's eyes.
"You'll have to properly explain what you've done."
The Grand Duke's voice carried suppressed killing intent. The atmosphere was sharp enough that a thunderous outburst and immediate decapitation order wouldn't have seemed out of place.
But Kyle wasn't intimidated in the slightest. Instead, he let out a deep sigh and shook his head.
"Haa… My mistake."
Such an utterly unexpected admission of fault. The Grand Duke's brow furrowed. He'd expected his wastrel son to throw a tantrum or babble drunken nonsense as usual. For that fool to suddenly bow his head—it made no sense.
As the Grand Duke remained silent, Kyle pressed on with his bitter act.
"I, the Grand Duke Heir of the Grand Duchy, tried to let it slide with just a few punches after those scum spat phlegm in my meal and insulted the family with their insubordination."
Kyle sighed.
"Truly a weak and pathetic choice."
The Grand Duke's eyebrow twitched at his words. Kyle flicked his gaze toward Derek, who was trembling beside him, then curled his lips.
"But my cousin Derek here properly snapped me out of my spineless haze."
Kyle laughed.
"He said that for the honor of the nobility, I should chop their heads off right then and there."
"Y-you mad bastard, what the hell are you talking about!"
Derek freaked out and jumped back. Just moments ago, this lunatic had been wielding a kitchen knife right in front of him, ready to butcher people like sashimi. Now the lunatic was dumping all the blame on him.
Tears of injustice welled in his eyes as Derek screamed at the Grand Duke.
"Your Grace! That's a frame-up!"
Derek's voice echoed through the office.
"I was just trying to stop that madman's merciless assault! This is fabrication! A twisted lie!"
Derek's desperate cry. Propping his chin, the Grand Duke glared piercingly at Kyle.
"Where's the evidence they spat in the food?"
"I left a chunk of meat on my room floor. Fetch it and investigate—it'll be obvious."
Kyle smirked and replied lightly. Any normal family head would immediately order a servant to retrieve the meat and confirm the facts. A servant tainting a noble's meal with filth was a hanging offense under any territory's laws.
But the Grand Duke's response didn't stray an inch from Kyle's expectations.
"No such ridiculous investigation."
A firm dismissal. The Grand Duke tapped his desk lightly with a finger.
Tap. Tap.
His ice-cold voice continued.
"Don't try to weasel out with shallow excuses."
The Grand Duke's eyes sank with chill finality.
"I've already heard the reports of your brutal assault on the knights and servants. Return to your room and reflect at once."
Kyle swallowed a scoff. The Grand Duke's petty motives were plain as day. Truth had never mattered. The real power in this Grand Duchy now lay with his stepmother Enora and her second son, Karon Hartvalt. The Grand Duke already treated his unpromising eldest son as discarded trash.
All support poured into Karon. In this situation, he had no intention of granting even a shred of legitimacy to Kyle, the eldest son.
The pretext of Kyle punishing the servants in righteous fury—if that took hold, it would revive the heir's authority. For the sake of his beloved current wife's children, the Grand Duke was politically burying it all, isolating Kyle completely.
'Disgusting bastard.'
Even the Blood Cult from his past life hadn't stooped this low. Sure, he'd crushed subordinates under the logic of power as cult leader. But he never buried clear facts under authority while spouting hypocrisy.
Kyle met the Grand Duke's eyes head-on. And let out an open sneer.
"Overlooking insubordination, huh."
Kyle pressed on.
"Father, am I really this family's Grand Duke Heir?"
A provocative question. The office air froze in an instant. Flames sparked in the Grand Duke's eyes. But he reined in his emotions.
"Yes."
A curt reply. Kyle nodded.
"Then I'll speak as the Grand Duke Heir."
Kyle lifted his chin.
"Since when has the Hartvalt Grand Duchy been some charity leniently forgiving the inferiors' insubordination?"
Kyle's voice boomed through the office.
"Commoner bug bastards spit phlegm in the master's meal, draw blades on their lord—and you bury the investigation?"
Kyle sneered.
"Is that what the Grand Duke who rules the North has to say?"
Unbridled insult. Derek's face flushed as he cut in.
"You've finally lost it completely! Daring to flap that irreverent trap in front of His Grace!"
Derek's furious shout rang out. Kyle slowly turned his head. There was Derek, huffing and puffing. The guy who'd been teary-eyed with injustice just moments ago was now revived, barking away with faith in the Grand Duke.
'Pathetic.'
A blood-red glint coldly flashed in Kyle's eyes.
"The direct-lineage eldest son is questioning His Grace."
Kyle said lowly.
"Where does a side-branch nobody butt in and yap?"
"W-what?"
Derek's face froze in shock. He'd been ignored before, sure—but never openly branded a "side-branch nobody," his bloodline demeaned like this.
Kyle turned back to the Grand Duke.
"Isn't this blatant insubordination too?"
A heavy silence settled over the office. The Grand Duke offered no reply. Neither affirmation nor denial. But it also meant he had no grounds to outright refute Kyle's logic.
A nephew without even proper succession rights blocking the direct eldest son's words. By the strict etiquette of noble society, it was insubordination without excuse.
Kyle savored the silence. Then drove home the nail.
"If Grandfather were still in active service, even imagining such a collapse of discipline would be unthinkable."
The retired former Grand Duke, Balgrim Hartvalt, was invoked. The Grand Duke's face, which had been silently observing, hardened rigidly.
The previous Grand Duke had pioneered the North's brutal wilds with his bare body. Above all, he prized the family's discipline and hierarchy like his own life—an iron-blooded sovereign.
"You bastard…"
As Derek opened his mouth in rage once more.
"Shut your mouth, Derek."
The Grand Duke's low, heavy voice clamped Derek's jaws shut. Derek bit his lip, his face full of injustice. But he couldn't defy the Grand Duke's command. In the end, he bowed his head and retreated.
The noisy interrupter was gone. Kyle declared once more.
"No matter what Your Grace commands, I will kill every last one who committed insubordination against me and insulted me."
It was a declaration without room for compromise. The conviction of the absolute sovereign who had ruled the Blood Cult.
The principle he'd established in his previous life was simple: Bestow mercy on those who revere you. But exterminate any bug that bares its fangs.
This laughable territory trying to bury that natural law under petty political games—it grated on Kyle's nerves to no end.
"If I can't even punish the inferiors' insubordination with my own hands…"
Kyle asked coldly.
"Then what's the point of being born into this Grand Duchy's bloodline?"
No madness or rage colored Kyle's voice. His words carried an undeniable righteousness. And that only tightened the noose around the Grand Duke's throat even more.
The pretext in the wastrel son's hands. Forcibly blocking it would bring headaches down the line. Yet the Grand Duke narrowed his eyes. He gripped the armrest.
"I told you to show restraint."
Still the same order. But it was qualitatively different from his earlier confident suppression. A forced command spat out in reliance on raw power after losing the logical battle. Nothing more, nothing less.
Kyle lifted the corner of his mouth in a smile. Like a predator toying with its prey's leash. In a secretive, chilling whisper, he asked:
"Is that so."
The office air turned to ice. The Grand Duke gripped the armrest even harder.
Crack—The armrest shattered in his grasp. At the same moment, his fury-laced killing intent crushed down on the room.
But no immediate rebuttal came from the Grand Duke's lips. Kyle was right.
In private, he could bury it. The name of father. The authority of family head. The closed space of the office. All of it could silence Kyle.
But as Grand Duke, it was different. An official banquet hall or assembly, packed with nobles and knights watching. Could he command there not to punish the servant who'd spat in his eldest son's meal?
It would be self-sabotage, denying the class system that underpinned noble society. The Grand Duchy's dignity would hit rock bottom. Countless northern lords would question the Grand Duke's very competence.