Chapter 281
Chapter 281
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 281
Chapter Title: The Falcon Takes Flight (2)
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Robert Benatier de Tremulere. It wasn’t uncommon for imperial nobles to receive divided opinions, but there was scarcely another figure in his time who drew such starkly opposing evaluations.
Some called him a parricide. The emperor’s corruption had been officially acknowledged by the Church, yet no noble truly believed the facts at face value. Thus, Robert’s actions were no different from those of a power-hungry son who had slain his own father.
As long as his sister Everys remained alive and well, he should never have inherited the Tremulere countship under the laws of succession. The common consensus was that he had earned his position by actively supporting Duke Carbellier’s bid to depose the emperor.
And then there was the other assessment: a warlord of chaotic times. His schemes were too intricate and vast to be dismissed as mere indulgence in power. Nobles pointed to his brief alliance with Rene Phillipa, claiming he had served as her advisor.
Yet in stark contrast to the nobility’s judgments, the citizens of Guire showered Robert with unbridled praise. As evidenced by this—
“Waaaaah!!”
As the carriage he rode passed through the market street, cheers erupted like thunderclaps from outside—even though he hadn’t so much as shown his face.
Petals rained down, and the crowds screamed in ecstasy.
It was only natural. Robert rested his chin on his hand, listening to the uproar beyond the thick curtains.
“You’re quite popular, Count Tremulere.”
“Hah, popular...? It’s inevitable. The masses have always loved the lords who fill their bellies, haven’t they?”
Guire’s situation wasn’t much different from Reuby’s. As a trading port, it had skyrocketed to become the empire’s premier harbor amid the devastation striking most imperial ports.
That too was only natural. After all, he himself was the one who had crippled the empire’s other harbors.
At least in terms of maritime trade routes, Guire’s prosperity had risen by trampling the poverty of other port cities.
“Jean Albre, take a good look. The greatest nobles aren’t the mosquitoes fattening themselves on the people’s lifeblood—they’re the ones who grow strong on the love of the masses.”
Without a trace of smugness, Robert spoke coldly instead. No pride gleamed in his eyes. Blandly, as if reciting plain facts, he continued.
“The most precious luxury and the surest insurance for our lives... that’s what they are.”
“What an admirably humanistic noble we have here, Robert Benatier.”
“Humanistic...? Hah. Jean Albre, we’re nobles—politicians. Humanism... We neither need it nor have enough of it.”
Abruptly, Robert drew back the curtain. As his face appeared at the pale window, the citizens’ cheers soared to new heights. He lowered the glass and extended his hand, waving vigorously.
After encouraging the crowds for some time, Robert closed the window and drew the curtain again before speaking icily.
“Loving a politician and loving family or kin... they carry different weights. Politics comes before pragmatism—it’s ideology first. For the sake of ideology, they’d turn the blade even on their own blood. That’s my insurance.”
The curtained carriage lay shrouded in deep shadow. Through it, Robert’s pale blue eyes gleamed coldly.
“If I were to raise the banners and rally the troops, they’d follow me to the death. If I branded someone an enemy and sent them to the gallows, they’d hurl tomatoes and rage on my behalf. The greatest politicians have always been the beloved ones. A noble’s authority stems not from the sword, but from trust.”
“...Why tell me this?”
“Because your father couldn’t.”
At Robert’s words, the man seated opposite him bit his lip. He lowered his gaze for a moment, trembling with anger, then lifted his head to glare at Robert.
But their eye contact didn’t last.
Under Robert’s icy stare, the man soon bowed his head weakly again. Fear. He feared that man. Nothing more.
“What... what do you want me to say? You’ve succeeded brilliantly, while I’m just a fallen noble, exiled after losing my lands to my father’s misdeeds.”
“And yet, you’re an elector count.”
“Elector count...?”
The man—Jean Albre—jerked his head up and shouted. Despite his terror, his eyes burned red with venom.
“With no lands, no subjects—how can I be an elector count? Are you... mocking me? Insulting me? How dare I call myself a ‘prince’...!”
“The rights of an elector count aren’t transferable. Duke La Mertion Jean Albre de Bares—your bloodline alone is the sole proof.”
The rights of an elector count weren’t transferable. It was a natural outcome, given the origins of imperial noble law.
No house, however mighty, could avoid the cycles of rise and fall across history. If elector rights shifted to other houses with every decline, the empire’s framework would crumble.
Considering the territories each elector controlled, the fall of one weakened the entire realm. Moreover, the original elector council had needed to guard against their powers being seized by lesser nobles in the future.
The emperor’s crown wasn’t hereditary, but an elector’s seal passed eternally to one house.
Even after Duke Sefor of Bullan fell utterly, the beastfolk of the great wilds hadn’t exterminated his house—instead installing a puppet regime—for precisely that reason.
Thus, though La Mertion was currently occupied by the Eastern Kingdom Alliance, House Bares remained an elector house. As long as he wasn’t assassinated.
“You knew that, which is why you came to me, isn’t it?”
“...”
Jean Albre’s head drooped. Upon learning of his house’s destruction during his travels abroad, he had sought out his old friend Robert immediately—due to the assassination threats.
If an elector bloodline were fully extinguished, where would its rights go? Imperial history had no precedent, so endless legal battles would ensue. But the highest likelihood was that they’d fall to whoever currently held the territory.
King Vicente of Dain’s actions after seizing La Mertion made it clearer. In truth, without the aid of Robert’s Iron Sides, he never would have escaped the assassins’ blades.
“...Vicente... That damned country bumpkin... He...”
“Indeed. But how can you blame a foreign king? Blame your late father’s tyranny first.”
“How dare you speak to me like...!”
“Tsk. If your father had garnered the full support of his vassals and people, like Duke Carbellier... How could a foreign lord like Vicente have seized an imperial territory?”
Had House Bares held sufficient authority, the outcome would have been entirely different. The Eastern Kingdom Alliance couldn’t afford a prolonged war structurally—each command was entangled in separate kingdoms’ interests.
In such circumstances, if the heir Jean Albre had rallied vassals on the strength of his prestige and begun resistance? La Mertion would have returned to the empire swiftly.
Duke Carbellier’s prestige in Reuby was absolute. Proven by how, even after Emperor Erb’s assassination, his vassals awaited Rene’s return without a single tremor of unrest.
Had his authority faltered, rebellion would have erupted instantly—against the emperor who slew Erb, or among vassals vying to fill Reuby’s power vacuum.
In either case, Rene’s authority would have been crushed. Her recognition as duke owed much to her father’s lingering prestige.
‘Though that wasn’t all...’
Robert knew the hidden truth. The existence of the Untouchable. The powerhouse who assassinated the emperor, razed the palace, and annihilated an elector legion with a mere five hundred. His presence alone commanded the nobles.
But there was no need to divulge such details. Robert eyed Jean Albre. The youth, who seemed frail at first glance, trembled in shock and misery.
Robert clicked his tongue briefly.
“Listen, friend—if you still consider me one. If you sought me out merely to save your skin, speak now. I’ve returned to my lands precisely to restore your rights.”
“...How? Isn’t it far too late? La Mertion has long been a direct fief of the Dain royal house!”
“Too late? Hah! La Mertion was imperial soil for a thousand years—Vicente of Dain has held it for a mere three months. Isn’t it premature to speak of late or soon?”
Of course, Jean Albre was right. After ousting the tyrannical, bloodsucking Duke Bares—who had ruled through oppression, massacres, abductions, and extortion—Vicente had declared himself the savior of the ravaged people, marching in with armies and lavish supplies. His prestige among the masses was now unparalleled.
But could he become an imperial? No. Imperials were a proud race by nature, basking in the vanity of being civilization’s greatest power. Robert chuckled dryly and continued.
“We shall liberate the empire’s people from foreign oppressors’ hands. That’s the strongest—and only—cause we can claim.”
“...Troops? Guire’s forces are all naval, aren’t they? Even Duke Carbellier might help, but his army hasn’t stirred from the capital... I doubt he’d aid me...”
“Are they the empire’s only forces? Our legions number over two hundred thousand. Eight electors. Conscript from La Mertion’s satellites alone, and twenty thousand will assemble easily.”
“Was Guire ever that wealthy? No—even if Guire’s riches abound, do they overflow enough to fund another territory?”
“Must it be my money?”
Robert slowly crossed his legs as he spoke.
“Didn’t I say? We’re not the only electors. Their coffers brim—why need Guire’s wealth?”
“How will you pry open their vaults? Even if possible, La Mertion would drown in debt for centuries.”
“When the empire’s at stake, would they play moneylender?”
“...Are flowers blooming in your head or something...? Expecting electors to fund an army for free?”
“Of course. Oh, we’ve arrived.”
-Clunk!
The carriage halted, and commotion stirred beyond the curtained door. Robert lounged leisurely on the sofa until a voice called from outside, prompting him to rise.
“Your Excellency! We’ve arrived!”
“Come, let’s disembark.”
-Creeeak.
As he slowly opened the velvet-lined door, the pale blue sea dazzled brilliantly. Guire harbor’s characteristically serene and beautiful docks came into view.
Yet it was hard to focus on the docks themselves. Every pier and berth teemed with massive warships lined up in ranks. And centered on their carriage, men in crisp white uniforms snapped to attention, bellowing in unison.
“Hail to Guire’s Court Count, His Excellency Robert Benatier de Tremulere!”
“Glory to Guire!”
“Everlasting!”
As Jean Albre stared blankly, Robert clapped his shoulder and laughed.
“Forgot my nickname?”
Privateer Count. Another slur following parricide. The man who had led privateer fleets in indiscriminate assaults on imperial ports.
“...You’ll threaten the electors...? In wartime, maybe—but with Duke Carbellier holding power now, that’s no easy feat. Back then, you had the pretext of striking pro-emperor factions... But acting so now...”
“Their land armies would raze Guire. I know.”
“Then how exactly...?”
“I’ll support the other ports. Guarantee their commerce, safeguard their sea lanes. Must fill the electors’ coffers to the brim.”
“I don’t... I don’t understand.”
Robert laughed heartily in response.
“A starving man turns thief—but one fed even a crust of oat bread becomes a tool. Hope of filling their bellies binds them. Once, twice—they grow accustomed to begging mercy, and never rebel. Politics isn’t done with swords, Jean Albre. If you become an elector, remember that well.”
Politics is the methodology of wielding tools. Using this tool to shatter others. Starved port cities won’t spurn sudden aid or grow greedy for more.
They won’t recklessly flip the plate and waste the bread that might fall their way. Humans have always been thus—small gains, tiny favors, and they’ll turn coats easily. They ‘love’ the hand extended to them.
And politicians are monsters that feed on the people’s love.
“La Mertion will become House Bares’ domain once more. In return, I ask but one thing. Until the Elector Council...”
“Support Duke Carbellier?”
“No. Oppose her.”
“...What?”
“And build a faction. The ruined ports’ lords were mostly pro-emperor nobles. Electors and vassals alike. They harbor grudges against Duke Carbellier, naturally. Rally them. With the emperor dead, how many true pro-emperor nobles remain? Compile their list—and report it to me.”
Politics is the methodology of wielding tools. Robert eyed his new tool and continued.
“And when the Elector Council convenes, support Duke Carbellier.”
“Those nobles on the list...?”
“If any survive unscathed until the council... well, unanimity might prove tricky.”
Unanimity was unlikely—which meant a majority was all but assured. A chill ran through Jean Albre; he rubbed his arms.
“Why go this far? Isn’t Rene Phillipa as good as emperor already?”
“Some man craves an overwhelming victory.”
“...Some man?”
“There is such a man. He’ll soon visit this city... I can introduce you then.”
If politics is a methodology of wielding tools, then to that man, politics is merely one tool among many. The Untouchable. Master of combat, strategy, mind games, intrigue, assassination, and political strife—all without ever revealing himself.
A man fearsome precisely because he’s unpredictable. As the head of the imperial intelligence and Court Count, Robert thought of the one he truly dreaded above all.
Fernandez Cerned. It had been three days since that youth’s courier arrived. And a week later, word reached him: the youth had passed Guire’s gates and entered the city.