episode_0075

75. Banquet

My cozy yet modest room.

I was sitting at the table, taking notes.

“Too much has happened already. It’s time to sort things out.”

First, where does the current geopolitical climate stand?

Well… the most important thing is that our useless coward of an emperor is held captive by Blackthorn.

From what I’ve gathered, Blackthorn can’t lay a finger on him—not because he lacks the means, but because the emperor’s authority still shields him.

Even if half of Blackthorn’s brain were to vanish, he wouldn’t dare violate the emperor.

To defy the ruler of the realm is to forfeit all justification for one’s actions…

It would earn him scorn worse than that of a beast and give the allied forces ample reason to invade time and again.

To put it bluntly, it would be tantamount to punching his own suicide ticket.

From Blackthorn’s perspective, the best choice would be to secure the emperor’s abdication in his favor.

Or, alternatively, ascend to the position of chancellor, stabilize the empire, and wield power behind the scenes as the de facto ruler.

But…

“If I were to assess Blackthorn’s character…”

I first met him at a royal ball.

At first glance, he struck me as a jovial, easygoing man—hardly the type you’d peg as a villain.

The justification for his rebellion?

I heard he was unfairly made a political scapegoat, subjected to torture, and later released.

His stated cause was to reform a world rotting from the roots up.

“They say his initial motives were noble enough…”

But after that, Blackthorn’s actions became indefensible.

He forbade his soldiers from plundering civilians but resorted to looting hostile armies to fund his campaign.

Later, he attempted something vaguely resembling ‘welfare’—a rare mindset in this world—but…

“That was bound to fail.”

Of course it was impossible.

Welfare systems require a steady inflow of revenue to function.

But with taxes going to the emperor and nobility—funds no commoner could touch—his coffers dried up fast.

Not to mention the staggering cost of maintaining his troops….

In the end, did he simply succumb to darkness?

Or was he driven into a corner?

Blackthorn disguised his soldiers as bandits and resorted to pillaging.

He even dug up the tombs of past emperors like a starving dog, desperately scraping together every last coin…

As I organized my thoughts, the pencil in my hand snapped in two.

For a moment, I recalled the tragic fate of that cannon—shattered by the peerless woman known as the Unrivaled Under Heaven….

My creation had failed.

A familiar, unpleasant prickling crept over me—the kind I used to feel all too often in the past.

Feeling the onset of a storm brewing inside, I changed the subject.

“…Ah, maybe I should think of something more pleasant for a while.”

First, today’s events.

I returned to Freesia and escorted Alvaren and Liliana’s sisters to their rooms.

Then, naturally… yes, naturally, Vivian ambushed me.

Vivian, eyes gleaming like a starved beast, pounced.

Dragged away, I was promptly squeezed dry like salted squid under her relentless grip.

“But I still won.”

Yet, come to think of it, my body is a bit strange.

When Penrose’s mana-infused arrow struck my shoulder, it tore through flesh as if scooped out by a spoon.

Though such an injury should’ve been irreparable without a priest, a potion restored me in no time.

Even when I suffered severe wounds while guarding the emperor, I healed rapidly.

An inhuman level of natural regeneration.

Stamina unfazed even after being wrung dry by beast-like women like Vivian or Adel.

And my mana pool? Pathetically barren—near lifeless levels of deficiency.

“Hmm… I should be grateful just for being reborn this handsome.”

No point brooding over it—there won’t be answers anyway.

The fact that I was even reincarnated into this fantasy world defies logic…

If only some comfortably detached being named “God” would appear and explain it all.

As random thoughts swirled, I took slow, deep breaths to calm myself.

My body’s at ease, so idle musings keep sprouting.

Right as I considered drowning the noise with work—

“Oy, jerkin’ off in there? The banquet’s started—get out here!”

Brook barged in, delivering the news with his usual grace.

Seriously though… barging in while I’m mid-self-reflection? What kind of behavior is that?

I forgot—Brook isn’t someone you understand with your head. Only the heart works.

Scratching his wild, unruly black hair, I replied.

“Alright, I’m coming.”

Let the merry banquet begin.

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Inside Grace Mansion’s banquet hall, the dining area.

The large central dining table had been cleared, replaced by several long, narrow tables arranged along the sides.

Piled atop them, buffet-style, was an extravagant spread—roast chicken, beef, and other luxurious fare.

Even the mood was set. Musicians played in the background—some at the piano, others fluting minstrels—effusing the hall with lively, cheerful tunes.

The kind of bright, hopeful melodies you’d expect in a medieval fantasy tavern.

Sprightly notes clashed with clinking glasses, breathing life into the clamorous festivities.

The best part? The guest list was short.

This was more a celebratory gathering than a full-blown banquet—just close faces.

Erika, Vivian, Adel, Luna, Alice, the Gansonmi trio, old man Lucarion, and Penrose.

Along with Alvaren, Liliana, Elara, and Taecy—friends and kin sharing drinks together.

And the first to acknowledge me? Erika.

The adorable woman approached, a honeyed ale in hand.

“You’re here, my fox.”

“Yes, sorry for the delay.”

“You seem troubled again.”

Does she have mind-reading abilities?

She instantly saw through my earlier brooding.

But Erika didn’t press further, merely extending the ale-filled glass toward me.

“Care for a drink?”

“I… I’ll pass.”

Naturally, I declined.

Back in college, a single shot of soju knocked me out cold.

The memory still haunts me—I haven’t touched a drop since reincarnating.

Erika twitched an eyebrow at my refusal, then burst into raucous laughter, playfully slapping my arm.

“Hah! Refusing a drink from your lord? How very fox-like of you!”

Her drunk personality is worse than I imagined.

Gone was her usual cool, aloof demeanor—replaced by the vibe of a cheerful neighborhood noona.

With slender, delicate fingers, she poked my chest teasingly.

“Leaving a glass unfinished in my presence is a crime, y’know?”

Then, raising her glass high, she proclaimed:

“Tonight, we crawl home on all fours!”

A true menace.

Yet, as if accustomed to this side of her, her cousins sighed and grumbled.

“Here we go again.”

“The dark side of our angelic sister.”

“Who could dare refuse a drink bestowed by our lord?”

Vivian responded wearily.

Adel gazed at Erika with lovesick adoration.

Luna downed her drink with unwavering loyalty.

Quite the colorful sisters.

“Come, sit beside me.”

“Someone as lowly as me couldn’t possibly—”

“No one here will mind.”

Erika slung an arm around my neck and pulled me onto the seat beside her.

She’d clearly imbibed heavily—the reek of alcohol hit me as I drew close.

Resistance was futile; I complied and took my place at her side.

At the head of the table sat Erika and me.

To the left, her retinue; to the right, Liliana’s group.

As a mere waste-disposal-class commoner, my presence here felt surreal.

But Erika, ever unbound by decorum, turned her flushed face toward Alvaren and resumed their conversation.

“So, shall we continue?”

“Certainly.”

“Right… Color me impressed. Your White Horse General’s soldiers are terrifying—routing over a million of Blackthorn’s forces!”

“Your own troops were formidable, Former Grand Duke Erika Grace.

With strict discipline and outstanding commanders, your 5,000 shattered half a million.”

“With soldiers like that, the world’s got nothing on you, eh?”

“Even I have fears.”

Laughing heartily, they buoyed each other’s spirits warmly.

But did I mishear?

This land—six times China’s size—boasts gender equality, inflating military numbers beyond imagination.

Erika knocked back a swig mid-praise.

After swallowing the honeyed ale with a satisfied smack, she grinned at Alvaren.

“I think our dear Baron Alvaren is astonishing.

Ah… What should I call you? Local aristocrat? Lord? General? Too versatile to pin down.”

“You flatter me.”

“Come now, let me pour you a drink, Baron Alvaren!”

Giddy from the liquor, Erika beamed adorably.

As she raised the ale bottle, Alvaren approached with his cup.

Kneeling courteously, he offered it up.

Still smiling, Erika began filling his wooden mug.

“Alvaren Aldriness, Baron.”

“Yes.”

“Silence the music.”

Her voice, chillingly cold, betrayed no trace of the woman who’d just giggled moments prior.

The musicians hastily stopped playing and scurried out.

Erika continued pouring, her expression icy.

“Alvaren.”

“Yes.”

“You married into nobility, so you’d never understand, would you? The way nobles talk in circles.”

“…True enough.”

Ale overflowed from Alvaren’s cup.

Undeterred, Erika kept pouring as she spoke.

“The incompetent emperor has fallen. What now?”

“…I serve the imperial family.”

“Be honest. No one’s listening but us.”

Her tone brooked no defiance.

Finally, Alvaren raised his head—meeting her gaze squarely.

His reply rang bold and clear.

“Unify the north.”

“Ohoho! So you’ll invade lands the emperor granted? That’s plain rebellion.”

Erika’s sarcasm dripped venomously.

Ale now spilled freely from Alvaren’s overfilled cup, soaking his sleeves and the table.

The banquet hall fell deathly quiet—a tension sharp as blades at throats.

Yet Alvaren simply smiled.

“My spear points not downward.”

An alliance.

You take the lowlands while I claim the north.

But Erika stopped pouring and smirked.

“Oh dear. I detest vagueness.”

“A year-long nonaggression pact.

Your pressure leaves me unable to even piss toward Redmain for a while.”

Alvaren grinned, showing his drenched sleeve.

Yet Erika, unruffled, pressed on—just as planned.

“What of Jarmarc? Can you look that way?”

Jarmarc.

A pivotal trade hub linking Redmain, Alvaren, and Ternova territories.

For Alvaren, this land was crucial—the sole gateway to expanding into Ternova or Redmain.

For Erika, it was equally vital—a choke point against the White Horse General.

Thus, neither would yield, even under a year-long nonaggression treaty.

After a pause, Alvaren replied.

“…That land doesn’t appeal either.”

“Right, right. The soil’s no good there.”

Erika’s smile returned instantly.

As if prepared, she grabbed a nearby cloth and wiped Alvaren’s ale-drenched hands herself.

“Now, let’s drink merrily!”

Slinging an arm over my shoulder, Erika raised her glass again.

Her childlike excitement was endearing.

(Of course, her prior behavior was anything but.)

Nobility certainly lives inconveniently.

The negotiation’s outcome:

A nonaggression line.