Arc-6 Ch-12

I place a piece of cheese in my mouth and chew slowly. The distinctive tang and acidity give way to a rich, creamy sweetness that spreads across my tongue.

I swirl the wine in its glass, savoring the aroma first, then down it in one gulp.

The lingering cheese flavor mingles with the fresh pour, creating a harmonious blend.

It’s undeniable: food from the same soil pairs best with its local wine.

Yet, sometimes, a wine from one land finds perfect harmony with cuisine from a distant realm.

Price and rank mean nothing—fine dining can pair exquisitely with cheap tavern swill.

Human connections are much the same.

Pairing high birth with high birth, or talent with talent, doesn’t guarantee the best outcome.

The capricious compatibility of relationships must be another of God’s whims.

As a bystander, it makes fine conversation fodder.

As a participant, it’s infuriating.

*Knock knock*

The door is rapped several times.

I swallow a tsk, wipe my mouth, and straighten my attire.

I’d ordered the household staff to clear out so I could enjoy a quiet drink alone—pointless now.

Still, few would dare visit the duke’s private chambers uninvited.

Wife, son, or daughter.

My wife resides in the distant ducal domain; my daughter married off to the frontier.

Only one remains—a dull answer.

“Father, pardon the intrusion.”

Gilbert enters without waiting. My brow furrows at the sight.

I mask it with a rub of my hand and lean back in my chair.

Most shrink before my arrogance.

Gilbert’s unflinching demeanor isn’t courage—it’s familiarity from years as family.

“Drinking again? You should moderate.”

“I abstain at soirées. With sycophants swarming regardless of time or place, home is my only refuge.”

As head of the Redgrave ducal house—branch of the Holfort royal line and foremost territorial noble—social obligations pile up inevitably.

Snubbing invitations breeds rumors of discord, shifting court power dynamics.

Attending unwillingly means endless petitions—no time for calm dining.

Drinking what I want, when I want, at home.

The pinnacle noble of the kingdom scrapes together a commoner’s simple joy—what a farce.

“Any emergencies? If not, leave me be. Lately, nothing but irritations.”

“Perhaps poor daily conduct.”

“…Even if it breeds rebellion, it’s for the kingdom. Thus, savoring God-given wine and fleeting peace is no sin.”

The Holfort royals and Redgrave ducals are inverting in power.

Repeated misrule and wars exhausted nobles and commons—inevitably craving new strength.

For nobles: Redgrave. For commons: Saintess Olivia.

These two barely maintain the kingdom’s stability.

Though Redgrave orchestrated much behind the scenes.

“First, noble petitions. Territorial lords seek loans; court nobles query merit rewards.”

“Rewards aren’t my sole decision—chancellor and ministers approve. Tell incompetents losing posts it’s their own lack of ability. The kingdom lacks talent but promotes the capable; no room for dead weight.”

Harsh, but fitting the realm’s state.

Two wars with Fanoss left deep scars.

Yet, talents long suppressed by birth or status emerged.

Territorial lords died in droves; court nobles in the capital suffered near-zero casualties. Save martial houses like Arclight, only traitors colluding with the principality—charged with sedition—were executed.

Corrupt bureaucrats demanding bribes under office prestige, or nepotistic incompetents citing lineage, starve without impacting governance.

They receive minimum stipends fitting status and ability. Still, I advocated for capable lower bureaucrats in this reward round.

Their achievements and promotions will aid Redgrave greatly in five, ten years.

“Loans to territorial lords?”

“Force them to reveal fund usage first. I have no soft touch for wasteful spending. Reject those without viable management plans and repayment prospects.”

“Understood.”

“Too many bypass me to beg you. Gilbert, kindness is a weapon—but misjudge the dose, and it becomes poison that destroys you.”

“…I’ll etch it in my heart.”

Knights and bastards earning merits gained titles and lands, ascending to nobility.

Most lack skill in territory management or fiscal governance.

Even talented, funds shortage hampers development—kingdom aids new nobles.

But bankrupting the treasury on them defeats the purpose.

Redgrave expanded influence by readily lending to cash-strapped newcomers.

Frampton marquess faction—scheming to usurp us—colluded with the principality and self-destructed in purge.

That ugly traitor finally contributed by dying; I could spare some pity for his pathetic head.

Yet, nobles relying on Redgrave daily grow problematic.

Our assets rival small nations but aren’t infinite.

Reckless lending exhausts us before the crown.

Once the royals lose everything payable, Redgrave extends salvation—then ends the enfeebled Holfort line.

To ease our burden, the crown must persist awhile.

“Too perfect a match, perhaps…”

“Something, Father?”

“Idle words. Ignore.”

Ignoring Gilbert’s skepticism, I recall my absent daughter’s face. Originally, incorporating Bartfort under Redgrave was mere strategy.

Bartfort: legitimate royal lineage, Holfort’s deepest founding secret.

No matter his merits, a duke’s daughter and upstart viscount had too vast a status gap.

Key: make them believe Redgrave 'needed' Bartfort—willing to offer our daughter.

A doomed engagement—I’d assumed she’d marry a vassal or faction noble later. Never imagined Angie choosing Leon Fou Bartfort. Post-marriage: territory development, new ventures, immediate heir—exemplary ducal wife.

Rumors spread: “Redgrave duke lends without bias to new nobles”—petitions never cease.

Half-resigned, I pop more cheese and gulp wine.

Unexpected pairings can harmonize perfectly—the world is wonderfully bizarre.

“Next: temple alms demands.”

“Again? Those vexing priests.”

Heretics gorging worldly desires via god and saintess. They run rampant knowing we secretly arrange Saintess Olivia’s marriage. Countless times, priests extort under alms or poor relief—still cuter than useless nobles. The temple stems from a faith allied with royals for legitimacy.

Nominally worships god, but truly reveres the saintess—a refuge for low nobles without court prospects or problematic sons/daughters.

Yes—a dump for misfits. The tide turned with Olivia. Common-born, twice savior saintess.

The hollow organization suddenly vitalized, gaining strong voice kingdom-wide—headache for royal and ducal factions.

Saintess Olivia is undeniably good, upright.

But common origin makes her politically naive, idealistic. Orphanages, aid to near-collapsed Alzer Republic, soothing war-torn hearts.

Her actions are right—'right'… thus exploited by the malicious. No matter how pure the saintess, she doesn’t manage everything alone. Priests and temple knights handle the gaps.

They solicit alms “for the people’s beloved saintess”—who knows what fraction lines their pockets.

Recalling the grand priest’s brazen face heats me with something beyond wine.

Between the lavish grand priest and the ascetic saintess, who’s truly in charge?

The temple needs radical reform soon—fortunately, the saintess wills it. Glancing at my glass, my mouth twists in a wry smile.

Hoisting the saintess’s banner for temple reform or throne usurpation—I’m no less a villain.

Someday, the grand priest will join Frampton’s severed head on the execution block.

If this fails, I’ll be the dew on that scaffold.

Thus, I must push forward, excluding all obstacles. Even future foes are allies now.

Framing it as expenses to monitor the saintess eases some anger.

“…Pay them. But start negotiations at half the requested sum. Make them feel we grudgingly conceded—stoke their pride and indebt them.”

“Understood. Next report.”

“Still more? This’ll ruin my drink if it drags on.”

Gilbert’s reports are always unpleasant.

I was savoring fine wine as consolation—constant bad news would sour heavenly nectar.

Is he harassing me?

My once-reliable honest son grows irksome.

“Last one. Count Atley hosted a soiree last night.”

“A private gathering for those gaining posts or rewards this round. Only low-status invitees—I’m not crass enough to crash uninvited.”

“The queen consort attended, reportedly. Her youthful vigor overwhelmed all.”

“Still energetic. Desperate to rally allies. Can’t openly reprimand the count or her.”

“Did you know Angie was there, Father?”

“…No. Why was Angie there?”

“Ducal faction reported to me. Contact initiator unclear, but Angie’s currently attending the queen in the palace. Spotted accompanying her post-soiree.”

“That vixen. Finding me hard to negotiate with, she targets my daughter.”

“Probe the palace?”

“…Hold off. The palace is one thing; the inner court is her domain. Rash moves will invite painful bites.”

“As you wish.”

“Just Angie? What of Lord Bartfort?”

“Not present.”

“Leaving his pregnant wife—what’s he doing?”

“Unknown. But Lord Bartfort’s been active lately. Reports say he’s expanding connections among territorial lords like Count Motley.”

“Ducal faction only?”

“Crosses neutral and royal factions. Started about two months ago—with Angie present.”

“What’s that man plotting?”

If Bartfort were here, I’d yell. Anger at Angie for acting without reporting surges too.

He bears Bartfort blood—my son-in-law.

I’ve extended countless favors, readily lent when in need.

All because Bartfort’s name and rare power would benefit Redgrave eventually.

Thus, unexpected moves grate.

Allying with the queen consort—a royal faction core—what’s his aim?

I reach for wine—glass and bottle empty.

“Interrogate?”

“He’d answer honestly. But I doubt he harbors rebellion against us. Turning him enemy is unwise.”

“Such timidity. The future Redgrave head can’t afford that—I couldn’t entrust the house.”

“His personal strength aside, many kingdom nobles owe him their lives—great popularity. Punishing him risks splitting the ducal faction. To young nobles, he rivals the princes as an idol.”

“Troublesome man. I drew him in, yet he’s this hard to handle.”

Handsome but no pretty boy, scarred face.

Capable but not immediately promotable.

Indifferent to status, money, concubines—easier if lustful. Ennobled for war merits, quiet yet bares fangs at his duke father-in-law if displeased.

An enigmatic noble outlier.

Values too far from typical nobility—actions unpredictable. Still can’t fathom why Angie fell for him. Thought post-Julis breakup despair—no, apparently not.

Fathers can’t grasp daughters’ tastes, but Angie’s attachment to Bartfort truly baffles me.

“…They’ll visit the ducal manor within ten days. Best to question then.”

“Yes. But don’t slack palace surveillance. Report royal movements instantly.”

“What of Lord Bartfort?”

“Nothing if he doesn’t come. Rash provocation risks future issues.”

“Understood. I’ll take my leave.”

“Send another glass of wine.”

“You’ve had enough. Rest now.”

“Unfilial brat—don’t steal your father’s small joy.”

Tracing the glass with a finger, I curse. The world piles unpleasantness. Irony: one cause is my own daughter. Objectively, Angie’s accomplished.

But betraying Redgrave for grudge-bearing Holfort royals? Unthinkable.

Pre-breakup Angie would hesitate but return home. Narrow-minded, passionate—troublesome child, yet my proud daughter. I stand, approach the window. Distant white palace faintly visible.

Is she really there? What’s she thinking?

All unknowns.

One certainty: that man changed her.

Leon Fou Bartfort.

He was meant as a mere mob in this regime change drama. Yet he moves unseen, stirring unforeseen chaos. Eerie—that feeling since first meeting him. Tamed dogs stay tamed. Biters get beaten—that’s the way.

Suddenly, I notice my royal-directed rage dominating. How much disappointment in this kingdom? I count stars to calm, recalling distant memories.

※ ※ ※ ※ ※

Born the legitimate heir to the Redgrave ducal house, I was raised from childhood with the finest education, expected to become the future duke.

Branching from the Holfort royals yet holding succession rights, Redgrave stands apart from other territorial nobles.

Dreaming of one day bearing national governance, I devoted myself to training.

On the eve of entering the national academy at fifteen, my father summoned me to his study.

His face twisted in pain as he revealed the royal family’s purpose—passed only to Redgrave heirs.

The house I prided myself on was a disposable pawn to the crown. In a future selection, many nobles would be culled, leaving only those convenient to the royals. The academy was the sorting ground. Young as I was, shocked by the truth, I still felt pride.

Childish loyalty: serving lord and protecting people is a noble’s duty.

I voiced it; Father gently stroked my head.

My academy expectations turned to disillusion in under three years. Before me: fools passionate not for study or training, but only inherited bloodlines. Fawning over stronger or higher, tormenting weaker or lower without remorse—vile scum.

This kingdom must change.

Alarmed, I honed myself relentlessly and graduated. I never wanted to revisit the academy—symbol of the kingdom’s shame.

Years after returning home, I was entrusted with Redgrave domain governance, soon married my fiancee, and formally inherited the house.

Holfort was then embroiled in succession strife; I was dragged in as a low-ranked claimant.

The king wasn’t wise, but no tyrant or fool either.

No major wars; stability. No great feats, no fatal blunders. Noble corruption persisted; the king lacked talent for radical reform.

Two strong heirs.

Crown Prince Roland Rapha Holfort.

Prince Lucas Rapha Holfort, the king’s brother.

I backed the prince.

The unmotivated crown prince clearly lacked kingly vessel.

The trusted prince should govern—I expected a righteous kingdom from him.

But Roland ascended. Lucas became a nominal duke, retiring from duties. Abandoning royal obligations and noble trust for seclusion. He likely feared weakening the kingdom by splitting it in succession war. Any reason aside, royalty must meet supporters’ hopes.

Losing in battle is one thing; refusing to compete disqualifies him. My first disappointment.

King Roland remained unchanged. Brilliant mind, robust body, superior talent—wasted on governance. Chasing skirts or pointless revelry.

Using blessed gifts and environment solely for himself, never self-reflecting.

I wanted to spit in his face more than once. Second disappointment—ongoing since his coronation.

Then, Leopart United Kingdom proposed marriage. Princess Mylene, renowned for talent, to wed in. Holfort, relations strained with Rachel Holy Kingdom, bit. Queen Consort Mylene proved capable. Alarmed by the kingdom’s state, she sought my aid as duke. Julius and Angie’s engagement aligned our interests.

She, lacking power base in Holfort, needed ducal backing; I, seeking reform, needed her voice.

It worked—until Angie’s engagement broke.

Political motives for her queenship? Undeniable.

But as a father, I genuinely wanted her happiness.

I’d watched her endure harsh queenly training since childhood. Consoled her tears with my wife.

This the reward for Redgrave’s loyalty?

The fool’s son was a fool too. Third disappointment—loyalty to Holfort nearly exhausted.

Frampton marquess faction’s slander and sabotage cornered us. When Fanoss invaded, I focused solely on defending Redgrave.

Holfort’s fall? I didn’t care.

The commoner Olivia caused the breakup. Outstanding scholarship student even in academy. Excelled in studies, adventuring merits, recognized by temple as saintess—saved the nation.

Angie’s loss understandable. But she was abnormal—too much. Shocking report from bribed priests: Olivia likely direct descendant of missing first saintess Anne.

Everything clicked. Why a commoner entered elite upper class. Rumors of saintess marrying into royals.

Academy principal: former prince Lucas. Breakup: Prince Julius. Royal-saintess marriage needs king and queen approval.

Holfort planned to discard Redgrave. Unneeded, they broke the prince-duke engagement. Let Frampton’s plots slide to destroy us.

All preparation to eliminate us. We served these people for years?

I won’t be destroyed by their schemes.

Unexpected turn: a youth halted Fanoss elsewhere, not at the capital.

Leon Fou Bartfort.

Baron’s son, led troops, slew enemy commander—prodigy.

Redgrave knows fragments of founding strife.

Bloodline aiding founding, banished to history’s shadows by ancestors.

Thin frontier survival—emerging in crisis, true king and first saintess’s descendants.

Fate’s terrifying weave; I sense divine intent.

Then I’ll act on God’s will.

First: marry Gilbert to Saintess Olivia, absorb first saintess blood.

Next: wed Bartfort and Angie’s child to Gilbert’s, merging Bartfort blood with Redgrave—bolstering usurpation legitimacy.

Bitter excuse, I know. Kinslaying is grave sin; perpetrators suffer eternally in the underworld. 

God,

All my foolish sins.

For children, grandchildren, kingdom.

I’ll drag all hardships to the underworld with me.

So at least forgive my descendants living in a righteous world.

┳⁠━━━━⁠━⁠⁠━⁠━⁠━━━⁠┳

Authors Note

┻━⁠━━━━⁠━━⁠━━━⁠┻

Interlude: Duke Vince’s POV.  

Lucas, Roland, Mylene, Julius each schemed to reach now; Vince believes Holfort plots Redgrave extinction.  

Paranoia, stubbornness, bias block truth.  

Vince’s past: pure fanfic. Angie’s mother: alive, retired to domain per non-canon.  

Next: back to Angie’s POV.

Addendum: Per requester, illustrations by Choros-sama, vierzeck-sama, Tuji Nouson-sama. Thank you.

Choros-sama: Pixiv  

vierzeck-sama: Pixiv  

Tuji Nouson-sama: Pixiv

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