"If you are willing to become nobles, then I will bring you both there so that you can enjoy the life of noble lords," Locke said.
"If you are not willing, then I will have to refuse His Majesty Celes' offer."
"Wait, wait, wait…"
Locke's father rubbed his forehead, feeling the need to sort through everything his son had just said.
His son, Locke, was a Sanctuary-level mage.
Even when the villagers were still around, Locke had already confirmed this.
A Sanctuary-level warrior—even in the Frostsnow Empire—was almost legendary.
Their might was built through wave after wave of crushing battles.
Even a Ninth-Order warrior was like an ant in the face of a Sanctuary.
Of course, the villagers, limited by their own understanding, only knew that a Sanctuary was immensely powerful, capable of killing tens of thousands or even hundreds of thousands in an instant.
To announce that their village had produced a Sanctuary would surely spark envy and admiration in nearby settlements.
Yet beyond that, the villagers couldn't truly grasp the significance.
For Pu'er Village, who became a Sanctuary mattered far less than who could lead them to a better life.
On that note, the villagers thought Locke's younger brother, Cole, the head of the Ross Guild, had done better.
Every year, Cole brought the Ross Guild to Pu'er Village to purchase local herbs at the highest prices in the Enzo Territory.
What the villagers didn't know was that Locke had played an indispensable role in helping the guild grow.
In its early days, Cole would rely on Locke's strength to intimidate bandits along the trade routes.
Whenever goods were stolen or high-level beasts blocked the roads, Locke personally intervened.
But in recent years, with Cole now a Seventh-Order warrior, the Ross Guild had firmly established itself.
For nearly a decade, Locke had received no aid requests from the guild.
Manra paced the room, hands behind his back.
If it weren't for Locke's overwhelming strength, he would have liked to give him a slap—just to see if his son's brain was functioning properly.
A noble title… and not just any title, but the highest-ranking Grand Duke after His Majesty in the Frostsnow Empire.
If this news spread, not only would Locke be criticized, but so would Manra himself.
Who in this world could reject such a title?
Yet… thinking of his son's character, Manra sighed.
Though he loved the quiet life in the village and chatting with old friends, and though both of his sons were now the most accomplished in the village, if they could become nobles, this life was something they could leave behind.
"Son, you don't need to think any further. Your mother and I will go with you," Manra said.
"Quickly now, dear, see if there's anything we need to pack. We'll go with Locke immediately."
"If we delay, he might change his mind and give the title to someone else," Manra added.
"I—I'll pack right away," his wife replied.
For years, she had always followed Manra's lead.
As long as her husband made a decision, she would never oppose it.
"All right, Father, Mother. I understand your intentions," Locke said with a wry smile, seeing them hastily packing.
"Rest assured, since you want to experience the life of noble lords, I will not give this title to anyone else."
"However, Father, Mother…"
"The war over there just ended. Many places are still damaged and not yet rebuilt."
"So here's the plan: I'll first go to the imperial capital to have His Majesty Celes officially grant the title."
"Then I'll instruct my subordinates to begin constructing the castle and the lord's manor in the territory."
"Father and Mother, you'll stay here for now. I'll send a message to Cole so he can come and bring you over."
Manra nodded with relief, patting Locke's shoulder.
Locke had grown far beyond Manra's expectations.
Yet, he remained the same filial son and caring older brother.
"All right, then go handle your matters. We'll coordinate with Cole," Manra said.
"Hmm."
"Whoosh…"
"Lord Locke!"
As Locke descended from the sky, the guards at the tent immediately saluted.
"Thank you for your efforts," Locke replied with a nod, walking toward his tent while addressing the guard.
"By the way, that prisoner… he hasn't died, right?"
"No. Following your instructions, Lord Locke, we've only been giving him thin gruel for food each day."
"A few days ago, the prisoner broke free from his bindings. Following your orders, I cut off one of his hands. Since then, he's behaved and hasn't caused any trouble."
"Oh?" Locke raised an eyebrow.
Truly worthy of a Sanctuary warrior.
Even with most of his bones shattered, relying only on a single Water Therapy spell to sustain him, he had recovered enough in about ten days to break free from the ropes.
If not for Locke's prior arrangements, the man might have already escaped.
"Well done," Locke praised the guard.
"Also, send a message to the five battalion captains. Tell them I'm back and that they should come see me."
"Yes, Lord Locke."
After dismissing the guard, Locke entered his tent.
Compared to half a month ago, the tent now had a cross-shaped wooden frame embedded in the ground.
A bloodied man was bound to it.
The ropes were so tight that they had dug almost entirely into his flesh, making it seem as if he had no bones—his body sagged loosely.
Additionally, his right hand had been severed at the elbow, a scab of congealed blood still visible.
Locke felt no sympathy for the man's treatment whatsoever.
(End of chapter)
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