CHAPTER 66: CHAPTER 66: PRESTIGE

Ryan sat where Archduke Moriarty had once sat. The beast hide that had covered the chair had already been stripped away, leaving behind a cold, bare seat.

Looking at the scattered crowd before him, Ryan nodded slightly to them.

"Why didn’t you all leave together?"

"Leave? And go where? Exneer is our home. Furnace City is our last bastion."

A middle-aged man spoke up with a laugh. In his hand, unusually, was a bottle of liquor, which he took heavy swigs from.

"My kin followed the Mage Academy into the depths of the glacier, but I... I didn’t want to keep running."

"My grandfather came south from the distant northern lands. My father brought me across the frozen winter to Furnace City. And now, with me—this is where it ends. I don’t want to keep fleeing."

"I’m not a noble. The title of viscount went to my elder brother, so I have no burden in making this choice."

Ryan looked around at the others.

"I don’t want to live atop a glacier. My father died there. I don’t want to follow that path."

"Furnace City is our home."

"They didn’t want to take me with them."

The reasons for staying varied—some were given frankly, some with resignation, and some with regret.

"Lord Viscount summoned us. What would you have of us?"

Ryan looked at these people.

"No matter what you were before, from now on, you are likely to be my subjects. So I intend to assign you some responsibilities."

"Those soldiers were all once serfs. I want you to become their leaders. Lead them onto the city walls and fight the cultists."

"Hiss~"

At his words, nearly everyone’s eyes widened in shock.

"You want us to go to the battlefield with those mud-stained peasants? Impossible."

Some looked terrified. Going to battle? Unthinkable. Never in this lifetime. A skirmish between nobles might be tolerable—at worst, you pay a ransom if you lose. But those cultists... their minds had been corrupted by the Abyss. They were monsters.

Noble wars had rules. You lost, you paid. But this? A single misstep meant death.

"Of course, you may refuse," Ryan said, "but if Furnace City falls, I doubt your fates will be any better."

"Or perhaps you can still catch up to the mages’ convoy—if you hurry."

"Lord Viscount, if we go to the battlefield, what do we get in return?"

Ryan looked at the speaker and replied:

"I will grant you protection. In the name of the Spirit of the Stag, I will recognize you as my subjects. Moreover, because of your knowledge and decorum, I will grant you land to build your homes."

"I shall be your lord—and you, my people."

"Viscount Whitman, just like that, you’ve stripped us nobles down to commoners."

Ryan looked at them and gave a faint, indifferent smile.

"What do you have left, besides your so-called noble blood and a pittance of useless wealth?"

"You cannot become knights. You won’t go far down the path of magic. The only thing separating you from commoners is your birth."

"Whether you’re commoners or not isn’t for me to decide. If you truly possess the qualities of nobility, then no one can strip you of that honor."

"Remember—your ancestors became nobles through deeds and valor. That’s what made your bloodline noble."

"Under this long winter, you lost your lands, your wealth, your people, and came to Furnace City."

"Now, I ask you to reclaim your noble honor—and it begins with war."

Ryan rose to leave. His voice echoed through the ornate council hall.

"You can refuse. But when I look back without regret—make sure you won’t regret it either."

Ryan exited the hall, mounted his warhorse, and galloped across the noble lands. The deep black hoofprints etched into the pristine ground were jarringly stark.

"Hooah~!"

Ryan tugged the reins. All eyes turned to him—but not a single person dared breathe too loudly.

Because in that moment, Ryan sat astride his horse at the city gates, and behind him stood two hundred fully armored, impeccably disciplined heavy cavalry knights.

Even as the mages departed, Ryan had opened a dimensional gate and sent Harrington back to the Frozen Lands to bring every soldier back. Ryan hadn’t returned personally—once the gate closed, reopening it outside the city would have been disastrous.

Two hundred silent, majestic knights appeared in Furnace City, stunning and thrilling all who saw them.

Ryan drew his knight’s longsword. His mithril armor gleamed under the sun. He spoke no unnecessary words—only raised his sword high into the light.

"Victory!!"

With his cry, the two hundred knights behind him raised their lances in unison and roared:

"Victory!!"

A blood-red stag’s phantom rose above the small army—faint, but soul-stirring.

The Spirit of the Stag!

Countless eyes looked up at the phantom stag, breath quickening. Some had grown up hearing tales of it. Some had longed for its return to save the people of Exneer. Now, these people began to echo the knights’ chant.

And perhaps stirred by this momentum, the entire Furnace City broke into a thunderous roar:

"Victory!!"

Ryan galloped through the streets with his two hundred men. His voice was powerful, striking the heart of every citizen:

"Winter stole our past. Now the spawn of demons seek to claim our lands. They steal our food, gnaw our flesh, and sacrifice our souls!"

"I, Ryan Rimehart, will not allow such evil on my land!"

"By the honor of my house, no one shall take our land or food. If the demons wish to kill us, then our swords shall strike them down!"

"I shall protect my loyal subjects. I shall defend my land!"

"By the Spirit of the Stag, I swear—a war to the death against the invaders!"

"By the Spirit of the Stag, I swear—I will lead my people to a land where we can survive!"

"Roar!!"

With his final shout, a massive stag’s phantom burst forth above him—vivid and lifelike, as though pulling everyone back to over a hundred years ago, to the flourishing, free, story-filled, and wine-soaked land of Exneer.

Many elderly people knelt, tears in their eyes, praying for the stag’s protection.

In that moment, Ryan’s prestige reached its peak. He returned to the northern wall. As he climbed it, every soldier bowed their head in reverence and loyalty.

Ryan raised his knight’s sword, watching as the cultists charged once more from the distant horizon to the base of the wall.

"Soldiers—kill our enemies!"

"Victory!!"

Once just slaves, these soldiers now seemed possessed by a furious spirit. They hurled stones down with frenzy, and once the stones ran out, they grabbed pitchforks, hammers, and farm tools—fighting off the cultists clawing their way up.