CHAPTER 21: CHAPTER 21: I CAN’T AFFORD TO CARE FOR THE VISCOUNT, BUT I CAN FOR HIS LADY

Viscount Whitman was enraged by Ryan’s words.

Among nobles, there exists an unspoken code: to say that a noble has "fallen" is essentially to declare that the family no longer counts among the true nobility—that they’ve become wandering nobles.

And what does that mean? It means that aside from the nobility in their bloodline, they have nothing left. They can only roam from place to place, relying on their noble title to beg for food and shelter from others—waiting for the day they might somehow earn land of their own again.

For Viscount Whitman, that day was unacceptable. He would never allow his family to fall into ruin during his generation.

If it came to that, he’d go down in history as the laughingstock of the Whitman family—the most incompetent head in its lineage.

"You dare insult a viscount?!"

His eyes were full of killing intent. He was about to order his men to swarm and kill Ryan’s soldiers—to subdue Ryan himself—when Ryan spoke again.

"Perhaps I haven’t insulted you. A noble, a viscount, fighting goblins for a cave? If word got out..."

Ryan’s words made Whitman’s face burn with shame—he was already on the verge of exploding.

"However, I can take you away. To a relatively warmer place. Somewhere the snow doesn’t even reach your knees. Somewhere with three to five months every year without bitter winter winds."

"There, you can survive."

"Ryan, how dare you insult me—!"

Whitman’s furious shout was cut off, echoing into silence in the dim cavern.

He stared hard at Ryan. And not just him—everyone in the cave was now staring.

"Snow doesn’t reach your knees? There are months without snow or wind?"

"Is there really such a place?"

People whispered among themselves. Viscount Whitman also fixed Ryan with a hard look.

"What you’re saying—is it true?"

"Of course it is," Ryan nodded. But he wouldn’t do a favor for a noble without a price.

"I can take you all away. But under one condition: all these slaves—all the soldiers by your side—will become mine."

"You may keep only yourself, your wife, and your child."

Viscount Whitman clenched his jaw. That would make him, truly, a wandering noble.

Negotiation and compromise are long-held noble virtues, and though Viscount Whitman was unwilling to walk away empty-handed, he tried.

"Leave me three hundred slaves. You can have the soldiers. Just grant me a small estate to reestablish myself. It doesn’t need to be big—just a manor with good farmland."

Ryan refused.

"Viscount, I’ve stated my terms. You may accept—or decline."

"I am a viscount. You are but a baron!"

"Precisely because you’re a viscount, I’m willing to take you with me without cost. That’s called noble respect."

"Hmph!"

"You would make me a wandering noble? The disgrace of the Whitman family? That’s your idea of respect?"

"Baron Ryan, I only ask for one hundred slaves. A manor. That’s my bottom line."

"A manor..."

Ryan sighed—he himself didn’t even have a proper manor.

"So, Viscount Whitman, you choose to stay here? In a goblin’s cave? To cling to survival?"

"Hmph. Baron, this is my land. Leave!"

There was no way he’d give up his property.

Viscount Whitman looked down on Ryan from above, while his soldiers stepped forward again, attempting to force Ryan out.

"Viscount, right now, only I can save you."

Ryan gave Brand a glance.

Brand stepped forward—his eyes reflecting a roaring stag.

"A knight?!"

Viscount Whitman shouted in disbelief.

"How can there be knights left on Aeksnier?!"

"No knights should remain on this continent—except for me," Ryan said. "Because I can grant you the Deer Spirit’s blessing. I can awaken the seed of life within you."

Ryan looked at the people around him. Perhaps some had once been freemen, but under Whitman’s rule, they had all eventually become slaves.

"You’ve all heard of the legend of the Deer Spirit. And I... am the only one who can still grant its blessing."

"So—do you wish to become subjects of Baron Ryan?"

The cavern fell silent.

Only after a moment did Ryan understand the reason.

It was simple. These people were slaves—Whitman’s private property. They had no right to decide anything on their own.

In any pRyan, nobles did not trust those who betrayed their previous masters. Generally, only freemen had the right to choose.

A slave who betrayed their master and joined another noble would remain a slave—with no change in treatment and no chance of ever escaping that status.

"Hmph. Baron, you overestimate yourself."

Whitman looked at Ryan coldly.

Ryan looked right back.

"It seems we’ll have to settle this the noble way."

Ryan’s face turned solemn.

"Since you desire war, then I shall give you war."

"From this moment on, the Barony of Ryan declares war upon Viscount Whitman, to be resolved only at the will of the gods."

As soon as the vow was made, Brand and eight knight-squires charged.

Ryan’s well-fed and rested soldiers smashed through the weak resistance of Whitman’s malnourished slaves and soldiers.

Boom!

A longsword slammed into a transparent magical barrier. Only then did Ryan realize how the hobgoblin had been killed earlier.

Of course—on the continent of Aeksnier, the Deer Spirit’s knight breathing techniques had long since died out. The only remaining path to power was magic.

"But Viscount... you seem to be just an apprentice mage, no?"

Ryan finished speaking as Brand’s longsword struck again. The magical shield shattered instantly, and the blade stopped inches before Viscount Whitman’s face.

The noble was finally afraid. He trembled and stammered:

"Baron Ryan... everything will be as you say. These slaves—they’re yours."

Ryan stepped before him and took Brand’s longsword. Without a shred of hesitation, he drove it into Whitman’s neck.

Blood gushed forth, splashing onto Ryan’s face and deerskin cloak.

"What a pity, Viscount. After our talks, I realized—you’re far too greedy."

"You forgot you’re a viscount fighting goblins over a cave. You had no right to negotiate with me."

Ryan whispered, then with a flick of his hand, the young boy nearby—about his own age—also fell into a pool of blood.

As he turned the blade toward the curvaceous noblewoman, it was stopped again by a magical barrier.

"I... I am Viscount Whitman’s wife. No, I’m the daughter of Baron Azel."

"I’m also an apprentice mage. I specialize in magical weaving—I can be useful to you."

"He was my husband, yes—but the boy was from his first wife."

The woman, Shala Azel, was pale with fear, her voice trembling. As she spoke, she stiffly straightened her chest and pushed out her naturally beautiful face—with clear implication.

Madam, please compose yourself. I’m still a child.

Ryan withdrew the sword, and reached toward the area below her chest.

At that moment, her body trembled again.