Translator: CinderTL
Upon hearing this, everyone shook their heads and sighed.
For them, the rise of the commoners wasn't just about economic losses; it was a threat to their social status and dignity.
"The line between nobles and commoners is blurring," Earl Aiden Fallenburgh said gravely. "If we let this continue, we'll lose control of this kingdom."
Prince Jassim listened quietly, knowing their anger wasn't entirely unfounded.
The newly emerging class of wealthy commoners was rapidly gaining influence, threatening the interests and status of the traditional noble class.
Yet he also knew it was unrealistic to completely halt this trend. After all, Malon Ganard's success was undeniable, and the prosperity of the Westport Special District had brought tangible benefits to the kingdom.
Candlelight cast long shadows on the stone walls, illuminating faces etched with anxiety and resentment. Their ancestors had expanded the kingdom's borders, yet now they watched helplessly as power and wealth slipped through their fingers, flowing into the hands of those "upstarts" with no noble blood or traditions.
Prince Jassim slowly rose to his feet. "We must find a way to strike a balance."
His words instantly silenced the entire hall, the firelight casting his steady, dignified silhouette into sharp relief.
"My lords," he began, his voice low but clear, reaching every ear, "I have heard your concerns and understand your anger."
His gaze swept across each noble present—
"Thorne, Hall, Fallenburgh, McKie, Cranton... These surnames were once etched on the kingdom's earliest War Banners, borne by your ancestors as they swept across the wild lands, vanquishing the barbarians and raising the Crystal Glare walls."
"This kingdom did not rise from nothing. Your ancestors carved its path through the wilderness with sword and blood. Your families upheld Aldor's crown through loyalty and sacrifice."
His tone grew firm. "Therefore, the kingdom has a natural duty to uphold your honor and safeguard your interests. This is not a privilege, but a covenant forged by history."
The assembled nobles straightened their backs, their faces hardening with haughty expressions.
"It must be acknowledged that Earl Ganard's Westport Special District has proven effective, greatly alleviating the kingdom's financial strain. Therefore, we cannot stifle the vitality of the burgeoning industries. We need silver coins, firearms, and factories—things the commoners can build, and we need them to build them."
He paced before the fireplace, the flames dancing in his eyes.
"But the ancient order cannot collapse, the dignity of the nobility cannot be trampled upon. A kingdom without the noble spirit is merely a swamp of wealth, destined to decay."
He turned to face the crowd directly. "I will advise His Majesty the King to reaffirm the central role of the noble class in the kingdom's structure. The distribution of power—taxation, official positions, fiefs—must reflect the weight of history."
He raised a hand, his voice steady and profound. "I will promote a new social consensus—one that allows the dignity and glory of the nobility to endure, ensuring that ancient surnames continue to receive the respect befitting their history. But at the same time, I will create pathways for those of lower rank to contribute their talents and labor to the kingdom, transforming their efforts into national vitality rather than a threat to order."
A subtle smile played on his lips, a hint of profound meaning in his eyes. "We do not reject change, but the direction of that change—must be controlled by the noble!"
The banquet hall erupted in enthusiastic applause.
In the office of the Lord's Manor in Alden Town, the flames in the fireplace burned quietly, casting a warm red glow over the heavy desk and the map of the northern territory hanging on the wall.
Outside, the night wind howled against the stone window frames, producing a low, mournful wail.
Paul Grayman sat behind his desk, holding a letter from Crystal Glare. The wax seal had been broken, and the edges of the paper were slightly curled, clearly from being repeatedly unfolded and refolded.
After reading the final line, a bitter smile slowly formed on his lips. He gently placed the letter on the desk.
"His Majesty said that upon receiving my request, he immediately drafted the imperial decree and even had it sealed with the royal seal," he said, his gaze sweeping across the assembled subordinates. "But the ministers at the royal council vehemently opposed it. Some even brought up the old incident of Giles's rebellion. In the end, the king had no choice but to withdraw the order."
Paul pushed the letter forward. "Read it for yourselves."
Starting with Old Ford, each person passed the letter around.
Hansel took the letter and quickly scanned it. His brow furrowed deeper with each line, a flicker of wariness flashing in his eyes.
As the other subordinates passed the letter around, he stepped back, leaning against a bookshelf, his fingers unconsciously stroking his chin.
As a descendant of nobles raised in Crystal Glare, he knew Rodney XVIII well. The young king was outwardly gentle but inwardly resolute.
Moreover, Paul's request was justified by wartime needs and supported by sound reasoning. If Rodney XVIII had been truly decisive, he would have overridden any opposition with a firm "I have already decided." But he hadn't. He had chosen to yield to his ministers in the royal council.
The other subordinates in the office finished reading the letter and gradually looked up, their expressions varied.
"From what I know of Rodney XVIII..." Hansel began softly, "If His Majesty had truly made up his mind, he wouldn't have brought it before the royal council for discussion. And if he had decided to respect the ministers' opinions, he wouldn't have sealed it first... unless he wanted to create a pretext."
"I believe the king is trying to send us a message," Hansel said, meeting Paul's gaze gravely. "He wasn't forced by the ministers. He wants us to understand that your authority comes from him."
He paused, lowering his voice. "My lord, His Majesty the King may already be wary of you."
The flames in the fireplace flickered, casting Paul's silhouette onto the northern territory map behind him, stretching it tall and thin.
A suppressed rage quietly spread through the room.
"Absurd!" Bryce slammed his fist against the corner of the table, his voice low and furious. "We're shielding the Royal Family from Abal's iron hooves, while they sit in Crystal Glare's warm halls drinking wine, denying our front-line war needs simply out of suspicion?"
Victor sneered. "Crystal Glare probably hopes we grow weaker."
Old Ford remained silent, but his gaze remained grave.
As the others seethed, Paul raised a hand.
There was no rebuke, no glare, just a gentle lift of his hand, and the room fell silent.
"Enough!" His voice was low. "I know what you're saying, but you must understand—your position dictates your perspective!"
He rose slowly, pacing to the window and gazing at the unbroken sea of lights in Alden Town below.
"If I were king, seated in Crystal Glare, with Vibern carving out a fiefdom to the south and a powerful lord in the north, commanding a large army and deeply respected by his troops, requesting conscription authority..."
He paused, his tone chillingly calm. "I'd probably hesitate too. I'd probably refuse."
(End of the Chapter)
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