Chapter 122
Chapter 122
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 122
Chapter Title: The Governor's Disappointment
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As I’ve already mentioned, the world’s power elite—even the nobles—were remarkably simple-minded.
That’s why the nobles of the Obla Kingdom unanimously believed Sion was a collateral branch of the royal family, without exception.
Of course, this stemmed from everything Sion had accomplished as “Sir Seilun” up to now, and the fact that Duke Lloyd— the royal family’s royal, the capital’s top celebrity—had essentially vouched for him.
To put it bluntly, who in Korea would suspect someone immortalized in a buddy photo on Instagram, arm-in-arm with the president’s or chaebol heir’s kid, grinning “Let’s last forever^^”?
But.
With a presidential election six months away, or amid whispers about chaebol succession battles, you’d have to be a fool not to entertain some doubts.
Moreover, uncovering the true identity of “that Sir Seilun” was far simpler than parsing presidential race dynamics or a chaebol’s labyrinthine share structure.
Like any noble house, the royal family had a family tree.
Yes, a genealogy.
The Obla royal family’s was vast and convoluted, but tracing just the Seilun branch took only a bit of time—not an insurmountable task.
Yet no one bothered.
From the start, one reason Sion had pulled Duke Lloyd in to publicly affirm he was “Sir Seilun” was precisely to guard against such scrutiny. But that effort had gone to waste; no one doubted Sion.
No, scratch that—not “no one.”
There were a few.
And they’d discovered that no one matching the fame of today’s “Sir Seilun” existed on the Seilun family tree.
So why were they staying silent?
Because the king was.
Even after “that Sir Seilun” committed the murder of a fellow noble in August Territory, the king showed no reaction. If anything, he crushed the Verat and Betisect families who were present.
So.
No matching Seilun on the family tree? So what? It wasn’t just anyone—the king himself said nothing!
Being sharp and quick-witted enough to doubt Sir Seilun’s identity and dig into the genealogy meant they understood the will of the Obla Kingdom’s living embodiment of ultimate power—the king—and chose silence.
One of those people was none other than former Interior Minister Count Rundel.
* * *
“Uncle. This is us getting played, right?”
“…….”
Count Rundel didn’t reply to Crown Prince Philon’s words, but his thoughts aligned perfectly.
It had been three days since arriving in Burgos.
Before coming, Count Rundel had speculated on how the interim governor—Sir Seilun—might receive him and the crown prince, entertaining some pleasant fantasies.
The letter announcing their visit was timed to arrive exactly one day before their arrival.
The crown prince and former interior minister traveling together, with only one day to prepare?
That spelled disaster.
Not just protocol—they wouldn’t have time for even a proper banquet.
It was bound to be a mess, and he’d planned to use that as leverage to subtly pressure Sir Seilun, remind him who held the upper hand, and then start real talks.
That was Count Rundel’s lifelong negotiation style.
But.
Unfortunately, Sir Seilun hadn’t received the notice.
He’d been away on “important business” since two days before the crown prince and Count Rundel arrived.
Thus, like all other visitors, they had to take a number.
Perfectly reasonable—you don’t show up unannounced to a wildly busy governor.
In the end, not content with number 18, the crown prince and Count Rundel still hadn’t met Interim Governor Sir Seilun of Burgos.
Of course, the numbers had been decreasing.
The interim governor, who’d gone off on very important business, returned to Burgos yesterday at noon and began interviews with the waiting visitors that afternoon.
Yesterday afternoon: numbers 1 through 6. Today morning: 7 through 12. So numbers 18—us—should be next.
Phew, arriving a bit later would’ve made it 19. Dodged a bullet.
‘My ass!’
The crown prince and former interior minister, no less.
Ask about Obla’s power hierarchy, and these two are top-five—no, two of them together. And they’re making us take numbers?
Enforcing strict order, wasting a whole day?
They’re blatantly toying with us.
Some punk we’ve never even seen is screwing us over.
Snap!
It was enough to sever something in the mind of Count Rundel, who’d lived his life as a power player.
* * *
“Please, we beg you!”
“Please, help us too!”
Visitors numbers 7 through 12 bowed desperately, voices choked.
They were all envoys dispatched by lords from the northeast region.
After passing through Logos Territory to reach Burgos and waiting days, they met Sion and immediately groveled for aid, no hesitation.
The state of their territories during these past days—just imagining if they’d truly collapsed—made their limbs tremble.
Above all, they had seen.
While waiting these past days, the envoys hadn’t just eaten, shat, and slept.
They needed to grasp how Burgos had changed under the interim governor and how things operated.
So knights and soldiers spread through Burgos’s streets and pubs, gathering rumors and eyewitness accounts.
The results were shocking.
Sir Seilun and his forces had truly slain countless monsters.
Byproducts from monster corpses hunted in Logos Territory piled high in the warehouse at the administrator’s residence, and a dwarf craftsmen’s workshop was being built near the administrative offices.
But what truly stunned the envoys was.
“Couldn’t see well the first day in the dark, but these guards’ quilted armor is better than mine. They say it’s made by Sion Dukedom dwarf craftsmen.”
The knights’ sighing testimony.
Sure, better quilted armor doesn’t suddenly boost skill.
But arming an entire hundred-strong guard force with gear rivaling any territory knight? That’s different.
Moreover.
“They’re processing monster byproducts into gear stacked at the administrator’s mansion. Plan to sell it to soon-to-be-recruited mercenaries at cost.”
Gear from processed monster byproducts—armor or blades—is insanely expensive. Skilled artisans who can craft it are rare.
Not quite their full price, but figure ten times standard gear cost.
And they’ve got stacks in the warehouse. Selling at cost to hires, even.
No wonder knights envied and envoys gaped.
And that wasn’t all.
The interim governor returning yesterday didn’t come alone.
Mercenaries—lately rarer than stars, and these looked no ordinary lot—he’d brought over fifty in days.
Sion Dukedom’s monster hunting corps of thirty-odd, Burgos guard of nearly a hundred, plus mercenaries.
In a flash, nearly two hundred properly geared troops assembled in Burgos.
So the envoys with numbers had no choice but to grovel upon meeting the governor.
“Hmm. I understand your situation.”
“Ah! Then….”
To the envoys brightening, Sion said coldly.
“But why did you do that?”
“…Pardon?”
“Why, when our administrator asked for help?”
“…….”
“Do you know where I’ve been these past days?”
They’d only heard he’d been away on vital business, nothing specific, so the envoys swallowed dryly, mute.
“86 Wild Goblins, 47 Wild Trolls, 4 Red Scorpions, 2 Horn Vipers, 3 Horn Lizards.”
“……!?”
“Right. Monsters my men and I hunted in the Dragon Wasteland these past days.”
“Gasp.”
Gasps echoed everywhere.
“Pushed out from the wasteland’s heart. If I’d arrived ten days later, they’d have been right at Burgos’s doorstep. Sure, with its population and decent guard, they wouldn’t have attacked rashly. Now, then.”
Envoys smart enough to be dispatched by lords—they anticipated what came next, squeezing eyes shut or averting gazes.
“Where would monsters evicted from their habitat pass Burgos and head next?”
“…….”
“And you and your lords truly never considered it?”
“…….”
Sweeping a chilling gaze over the envoys staring at the floor, Sion enunciated words he’d once found infuriating just to hear—but someday wanted to say himself.
“The governor is disappointed in you.”
When Sion heard it from his captain for no reason, it just annoyed him. But these envoys from truly disappointing lords couldn’t lift their heads.
“Yet this governor is magnanimous.”
“……!”
To the envoys snapping up like meerkats, Sion said indifferently.
“Accept exclusive trading rights and a 9-to-1 split, and I’ll help.”
“Exclusive trading rights… you mean?”
“And 9-to-1?”
“Hand over all rights to monster corpses from your territories henceforth to Burgos, and yield 90% of resulting profits here. Agree to that contract, and I’ll help.”
“Th-that’s….”
Hire mercenaries with coin for monster subjugation, and corpse rights go to the lord.
But request nearby direct territory troops or royal forces? Usually 4-to-6 or 3-to-7.
Lord’s share smaller; kingdom takes more. Mercenaries cost more anyway, and calling royal forces means petitioning the lords’ “chief”—the king—so show sincerity.
Market rate thus: 9-to-1 was pure gouging.
As envoys, not proxies, they couldn’t rashly commit and face lordly wrath later—eyes darted, no reply.
But.
“For reference: first-come, first-served.”
“Pardon?”
“Draw new numbers. I’m not omnipresent; can’t do you all at once.”
“……!”
Six pairs of eyes bulged simultaneously.
Then, among the envoys—the sole one with prior Sion experience, from Volpart Territory—shot up his hand like lightning.
“One!”
“……!?”
“Volpart Territory. Sharp judgment, straightforward as always. That’s how you beat Jetman Territory.”
“Thank you. It was thanks to you, Governor.”
At Sion’s praise(?), the Volpart noble—who’d been at the handover of Jetman prisoners Sion captured—bowed.
Then.
“Two!”
“Three!”
Numbers assigned in a flash.
(To be continued)