Kingdom Bloodline

Chapter 497 His Majesty's Grace

sunset.

Thales rode slowly eastward on his brand-new, glossy saddle.

He peered over the scout's shoulder, gazing at the distant weeds and cooking smoke, lost in thought.

The land here is different, unlike the north or the desert; it's more humid, more fertile, and more flat—this is the unwavering force that allows him to know this information in the darkness.

"Your horsemanship is excellent, Your Highness, no less than that of a skilled cavalryman."

The prince, who was lost in his dream of "never getting lost," was startled by a sudden sound and quickly turned around.

"Count Cloma".

Amidst the rolling hooves, Earl of Wingburg, Deler Clomar, holding the reins, sped past several guards and arrived beside the prince's mount. The guards tactfully dispersed, giving the earl and prince some space.

The freaks who should have been his personal guards were kept out of the "Head Ravens'" personal guards. Snake Hand looked somewhat resentful, but not daring to offend the Earl, he could only lower his head and mutter complaints.

“In this day and age, many noble families with distinguished lineages would find it difficult to maintain a proper riding posture for such a long time.”

Count Deleuze said calmly and casually.

More than ten hours had passed since their large entourage left the camp. Except for one midday rest, the well-trained Crow Whistle cavalrymen had been riding at full speed.

Thales rubbed his legs, then glanced at Deler's calves in the stirrups, noticing that the other's riding posture hadn't changed much.

How long could one "endure" on horseback?
The prince subtly raised an eyebrow: You're praising yourself, aren't you?

The long journey had already made Thales' thighs and back ache, and now the light, leisurely pace of his horse, which allowed him to comfortably enjoy the scenery, was a form of rest.

The Earl of Wingburg continued with his lament:
"The military training of the northerners is indeed extraordinary."

Thales nodded politely and chuckled twice:

"Thank you."

As for the training of the northerners...

You should ask the Meteorite and the Deathrattle.

The former taught him through years of consistent equestrian lessons how wonderful it is to ride a "normal" horse.

The latter taught him, through years of constant running around, how wonderful it was to be able to ride a horse "normally".

Recalling the bitter past and appreciating the present, Thales sighed softly.

Indeed, people are often driven to their limits by pressure.

However, on the other hand, from Nikolai and Monti to Tuleha in the Black Sand Territory before...

The thought that three of the five famous generals of Exter had gotten on his bad side during his trip to the North filled Thales with helplessness. He was probably the most unlucky person in the world—cough cough (the prince secretly glanced at the air behind him)—the second most unlucky person.

By the way, how did Yodl catch up?
Could it be that it's clinging to the back of some horse?
"And I've heard that Your Highness doesn't like to drink?"

Thales snapped out of his daze: "What?"

He doesn't drink? How did he know?
Count Deleuze seemed to intend to take this opportunity to speak with Thales for a while; he smiled slightly.
"Previously at the Blade Fang camp, I saw from afar that the Baron's men presented you with a jug of desert wine, but you sternly refused it."

Desert wine? A firm refusal? Oh…

Thales recalled the huge blunder Snake Hand and his gang had made and scratched his head:
"Actually, it was a misunderstanding. It's not that I don't drink..."

“It’s quite a coincidence,” Count Deleuze said succinctly, gazing into the distance, “I also don’t drink alcohol.”

Thales could only chuckle before he could finish his sentence.

Well, this nobleman really went to great lengths to start a conversation and build rapport.

"Finally, we've seen land beyond the yellow sand, haven't we?"

Deleuze looked at the distant wasteland and the smoke rising from the village chimneys, and smiled slightly:
“When I was serving on the border, I would spend weeks in the desert and then come out and see even the slightest bit of green, which would excite me.”

Thales, half tactfully and half sincerely, took over the conversation:

"Isn't it?"

"It feels really good."

After six years of wandering in a foreign land, seeing different landscapes and people again, this was the first time Thales realized that he was neither in the dry and cold Northland, nor in the desert full of yellow sand.

He is in the Kingdom of Stars.

A feeling that was both strange and familiar washed over me.

Noticing where Thales' gaze was directed, Deler pointed to a few small houses at the end of the line of sight:

"These small villages belong to Grace Town. They are our supply point for today, and they are not far ahead. They are the farthest town in the western wilderness and the closest to the Blade Fang Camp. For many years, they have provided support and protection for the western front."

Enci Town.

Deleuze's explanation sparked a long-lost interest in Thales—the kind of leisurely pleasure that was impossible to imagine in moments when danger was ahead and pursuers were behind.

“And we will turn onto Grace Road there—the road is much easier to travel on.” Deleuze, clearly understanding the prince’s feelings (and the muscle soreness from riding for too long), continued his explanation.

"The Great Way of Grace?"

“I read about it in books when I was in the North,” Thales raised his eyebrows:

"But this is my first time going."

Count Deleuze smiled:

"Then I believe that firsthand experience is more interesting than reading about it in books."

The Great Way is bestowed upon us.

Thales strained his neck to look ahead, trying to see the road in the distance.

However, the next second, when Thales's gaze fell on the distant horizon, a strange feeling came over him.

After a barely perceptible ringing in his ears, a broad, flat, and solid plane appeared in front of him, in his consciousness.

Thales instinctively closed his eyes, only feeling the plane stretching eastward until it touched a cold, damp, chaotic, enormous, seemingly endless wall of liquid.

This is……

The Great Way of Grace?

"But maybe it's not the first time."

Deleuze's words interrupted the prince's wandering in the world of consciousness; he drew a horizontal line in the air:
“The Grace Avenue extends east and west from Yongxing City as its center. To the west, it connects the wasteland, Wing Fortress and even Grace Town in the western wilderness. To the east, it reaches the seven ports of the East Sea, with Huigang City as its leader.”

Deleuze smiled slightly and teased:
"So, if you have ever set foot in Yongxing City, then you have also walked the Avenue of Grace."

Thales laughed too:

"Thank you for your comfort."

Deleuze nodded:

"In addition, there is the Fuxing Avenue, which also passes through Yongxing City and runs north to south. These two avenues complement each other, connecting countless towns and castles along the way, and unblocking the geographical arteries of the kingdom. They are known by merchants as the 'Star Cross'."

Fuxing Avenue.

Star Cross.

Thales raised an eyebrow:
"I have indeed been to Fuxing Avenue, six years ago, when I went north to Exter—I also know that it runs through a large birch forest all the way to Broken Dragon Fortress."

Memories flooded back, and Thales drifted into a daze.

"This is thanks to your ancestor, Thormund III, who was born in the early third century. It was his policy of encouraging pioneering that led him and his successors to rebuild the old roads of the imperial era, which resulted in the kingdom's current territory."

Deleuze gestured to his surroundings:
"Therefore, to express their gratitude and to gain support, the earliest nobles here named this border town, which was threatened by the desert, 'His Majesty's Grace'."

His Majesty's grace.

“Very clever,” Thales said with interest, looking at the faintly visible village and its inhabitants in the distance.
"When facing foreign enemies, is it more impactful for the Fuxing Palace to say that 'a border region has fallen' or 'His Majesty's grace has fallen'?"

Deleuze nodded, then turned and scanned the path he had come from:

"exactly."

"Back then, the Western Wilderness was not a good place. Not to mention the Blade Fang Camp, it was an unknown sand bandit stronghold in the desert. Even the desolate ruins that had been built for a hundred years were seen as nothing more than a place outside the kingdom's jurisdiction—you can tell from its name."

Thales' eyes darted around.

Desolate ruins.

What lord with a brain would name his home city "Ruins"?
As Deleuze watched the village recede from view, a sense of melancholy washed over him.
"Historically, the ruling family of Enci Town has changed several times due to the extinction of its lineage and intermarriage."

"Now, its owner is the Hermann family, who are vassals of the Wasteland. Their ancestors were a branch of the Falkenhaus family, and they even have many connections with the genealogies of Bozdorf and our Kloma."

But Derek's tone turned slightly somber:
"But their glory is gone, and the current Viscount of Grace Town is even living on borrowed money."

Thales frowned and turned around:
"Borrowing money? Why?"

The mounts continued to move forward with the procession, with scouts occasionally passing by to scout ahead or protect the rear, bringing with them powerful and resonant commands.

Deleuze's gaze drifted into the distance, a hint of realization dawning on him.

"Because of war."

Thales' eyes flickered:
"A bloody year?"

Deler kept a close eye on Thales, picked up the reins, and rode alongside him.

"Yes."

"But that's not all."

He stared intently at Thales:
"Eleven years ago, in order to seek justice for the bloody year, the kingdom decided to launch an expedition to the desert."

An expedition to the desert.

Thales had an idea:
"You mean the Desert Wars, and the subsequent mopping-up operations?"

Deleuze raised his eyebrows, as if remembering something, and then gave a slight apologetic look:
“Oh, I almost forgot, of course you know. You were raised by Viscount Mann, who died in that war.”

Thales's face stiffened.

No, I do not know.

I heard it from some unscrupulous tavern owner.

The setting sun shone ahead, and the column continued its march, but Deleuze gazed into the distance, seemingly lost in thought.
"Before the war, His Majesty and the Council of State passed an appendix to the mobilization resolution: In times of emergency, Baron of the Fierce Dunes at the front can exercise wartime control over Grace Town in the name of the King, including but not limited to martial law, mobilization of troops, requisition of supplies, and even bureaucratic appointments, tax collection, and judicial enforcement."

Wartime control.

Thales suddenly realized:

"I see."

But he immediately sensed something was wrong:

"Emergency period?"

Deleuze nodded, his expression slightly somber:
"And since then, from the protracted mopping-up campaign to the recent orc invasion..."

Deleuze's gaze sharpened considerably:
"The so-called 'emergency period' at Baki Camp has lasted for eleven years."

He turned his head and looked directly at Thales, the meaning in his eyes difficult to decipher:

"Never lifted."

Thales was stunned.

Eleven years of martial law and...military control?
"Thus, Viscount Hermann remained the lord of Grace Town, but lost his rule over it."

“And Grace Town is just one of those attached cases.”

Deleuze's voice was deep, just like his mood:
"Now do you understand what this turmoil at Baki Camp means?"

Thales frowned.

This time, the Earl of Wingburg posed a very important question to him.

It was so big that he didn't know where to begin.

But Deler showed no intention of asking him for an answer; the Count simply continued on his own:
"War is terrible, isn't it?"

The young count rode along the road, the setting sun turning his armor golden.

But his eyes held an indescribable sorrow:

"Because it destroys more than just lives."

Thales pursed his lips, unsure how to respond.

"During the war, faced with the king's army and the people's fervent enthusiasm, the old Viscount Hermann had no choice but to bow his head and submit to the situation, obey orders, work diligently and faithfully, and offer up the family's territory in the name of the kingdom."

Deleuze's voice rose and fell slightly:
"After the war, facing Williams, the sixty-year-old Viscount Herman could only hold his family tree and the yellowed decree of investiture of Grace Town in one hand, and hold a sword to his own neck in the other, tearfully accusing his family in our lords' meeting, trying to reclaim his ancestral lands."

"The entire Western Wilderness is watching, but all we cowardly so-called great lords, so-called guardian dukes and conferred earls can do is try to persuade him to go back with painstaking efforts—using delay and lies."

Deleuze frowned, staring straight ahead:
"So when the old viscount died in despair, and his son secretly came to Wing Castle, humbly asking for a loan to make a living, I did not hesitate or be stingy."

The Earl of Wingburg spoke in a calm voice, yet his words carried a suppressed power:
"This is what we owe him."

Thales's gaze was somewhat heavy.

The silence lasted for a while, with only the sound of horses' hooves.

"How many."

After a long silence, Thales finally spoke:

"How many similar situations exist in the Western Wilderness?"

Deleuze paused for a moment, seemingly deep in thought.

But he finally spoke.

"I do not know."

"But I know that about five years ago, the Baron of Emory, who had been under my command for hundreds of years, and his entire family fell ill and died, leaving no heir—at least that's what we say to the outside world."

This time, the count's voice was unusually low.

Thales frowned:
"foreign?"

Deleuze raised his head and snorted:
"He has clearly been protesting the implementation of the Frontier Expansion Tax Exemption Ordinance—according to him, the countless nouveau riche nobles spawned by that decree are eroding his interests, taking away his people, and cutting off his livelihood every day."

"Regardless of whether Baron Amory's defense was exaggerated, the worst thing was that, whether it was because he was utterly stupid and helpless, or because he had nowhere to appeal and was too stubborn, or because he was drunk and confused... he did not heed our advice, but followed his instincts and chose the radicalism of the ancestors of the Rudo Empire."

Thales shuddered.

Radicalism?
Deleuze gripped the reins tightly, a chill running through his eyes:
"That guy is conscripting soldiers and mobilizing the army, planning to cross the Western Wilderness and create a 'big news' that the entire Star Kingdom can see, to 'protest' to the King and the Kingdom."

Mobilizing the army. Big news.

Thales's heart pounded with anxiety.

"And then, how did my father react?"

But to everyone's surprise, Deleuze simply shook his head and closed his eyes.

“There’s nothing there,” Earl of Wingburg said calmly.
"The Palace of Resurgence never knew about this—at least, before they did, Duke Falkenhausen, Count Bozdorf and I made the decision together."

Thales was momentarily puzzled:
"Don't know? Make a decision? What is that..."

Deleuze answered him with a single sentence:

“We dealt with him.”

The sentences are short, the grammar is simple, and the meaning is concise.

deal with?

In that instant, Thales felt a chill run through him.

"you know."

Deleuze gently opened his eyes, his words indifferent:
"The lessons of the Bloodstained Era are still fresh, the Blade's Edge Territory remains, and the Western Wilderness..."

"We can't let that happen."

In that instant, the count's eyes turned incredibly dark, and his voice became so tight it seemed as if even the air itself could not move:

"We can't."

and so……

He was dealt with.

Baron Emory...

The whole family contracted the disease.

He died tragically.

Thus... his line ended.

Thales felt a slight tingling sensation in his back.

He couldn't help but recall the words the Duke of the Western Wilderness had once spoken to him about nobility and royalty.

A spirited horse will not yield to an iron whip, nor will its rider cease the whipping; and whoever is on the carriage, cannot simply wait for it to fall apart.

Amidst the sound of horses' hooves, the Earl of Wingburg's words drifted over leisurely:

"cannot……"

Thales took a soft breath.

The prince's procession continued onward, the golden-striped raven gleaming in the setting sun.

But for those few seconds, Thales had the illusion that the air between him and Deler, between their two mounts, was so cold it could freeze a Northman to death.

After a long while, Thales finally managed to speak:
"You don't like it, do you?"

"My father's actions over the years."

Upon hearing this, Deleuze took a deep breath.

Fortunately, the warmth of the setting sun seemed to instantly dispel the cold from the count, restoring some warmth to his expression.

"It's not a matter of liking or disliking."

Deleuze's meticulous riding posture loosened slightly, and he murmured softly:
"But I live here, I feel here, and I am connected to this place."

“My people, my vassals, my family, everything I cherish is in the Western Wilderness.”

"I have an obligation to them and to this land."

Deleuze's expression was slightly lost in thought:
"When they are alive, I want them to live in peace; when they breathe, I want them to breathe freely; when they die, I want them to die a worthy death."

The count's gaze slowly focused:
"And if they are destined to disappear..."

"I want them to leave peacefully, at peace, without any regrets."

Earl of Wingburg slowly exhaled:

"Instead of being shattered to pieces in the unknowable, surging waves."

Another awkward silence ensued.

At this moment, countless thoughts flashed through the prince's mind, but none of them could make him happy.

Thales could only sigh deeply.

Seemingly noticing the prince's mood, Deleuze smiled and changed to a more relaxed tone.

"But do you know what the most ironic thing about Grace Town is?"

Thales returned an inquiring look.

"Before the lords assembled their armies to welcome Your Highness back home, Count Bozdorf of Heroes' Castle petitioned His Majesty and secured a decree to lift the emergency for Grace Town—with the withdrawal of the standing army from the Blade Fang Camp, Grace Town will return to the rule of the Hermann family."

"but……"

Deleuze's smile faded, and he sighed softly.

"It's been eleven years. If you include the war and the period of decline before and after the Bloody Year, the Hermann family has been away from the center of Grace Town's operations for more than twenty years and has become just a wealthy family."

Thales felt a chill run down his spine.

"Therefore, young Herman, carrying on his father's last wish, discovered from day one that from the execution of official duties and maintenance of public order to institutional management, and then to the reserve of talent and the coordination of relationships..."

"They have lost the ability to rule Grace Town."

Deleuze's voice carried an eerie quality:
"If a fine horse hasn't left its stable for twenty years, or a cacophony crow hasn't flown out of its hut for twenty years..."

At that moment, Thales suddenly felt a chill run down his spine.

"After a chaotic and stressful first week, the residents were protesting incessantly, and no one was satisfied."

Deleuze stared intently at the reins in his hand:
"In order to avoid chaos, Grace Town had to retain, or even recall, some of the officials appointed by the royal family."

"After the incident at the Baki Camp, the Hermann family even had to compromise and seek help from the royal standing army, which was originally scheduled to withdraw—to guard against any sporadic threats that might infiltrate the defenses. After all, even the lords' armies at the Baki Camp suffered a crushing defeat, didn't they?"

"Poor Herman, he can no longer be the master of Grace Town."

"Or rather, Grace Town no longer belongs to Herman."

Deleuze's expression darkened:
"Then you see, the turmoil at Baki Camp has subsided, Williams is back, the Standing Army is back, and His Majesty's decrees are back."

“It all came back.”

He turned around, gazing at the setting sun behind him as it disappeared behind the western mountains, his tone tinged with melancholy:

"Everything is gone forever."

In that instant, Thales unconsciously took a deep breath.

He then recalled what Cyril Falkenhaus had said not long ago:
Over hundreds of years, from the succession of families and the rise and fall of titles, the adjudication of tax laws, the appointment and dismissal of officials, the judgment of laws, to the mobilization of the army, the Restoration Palace, in a methodical yet unstoppable manner, gently, slowly, but resolutely, seized power from the lords...

The column slowed down, the scouts galloped back and forth more frequently, and a large portion of the cavalry had already accelerated ahead and disappeared around the bend in the hillside.

"So, sometimes I think, wouldn't it be better if there were no desert wars?"

Deleuze seemed to have forgotten the prince's existence; at this moment, he was more like talking to himself:

"Even further back, if only there were no years of bloodshed?"

What if there were no bloody years?
So many people...

Thinking of this, Thales' gaze also drifted off for a moment.

A few seconds later, Deleuze let out a heavy breath, as if trying to expel the resentment of the past few days from his chest, and his tone became normal:
"I apologize, Your Highness, I lost my composure."

But Thales simply curled the corners of his mouth into a smile:
"No, thank you for your honesty."

The group rounded a hillside, and a small town, quite different in style from both Ext and Baki Camp, came into view.

"I understand what you mean, and I will keep it in mind."

Thales said solemnly.

The prince looked at the approaching settlement, his smile somewhat forced.

But his words were more sincere than his previous polite conversation.

“You’re right, Your Excellency,” Thales said, his voice tinged with mixed feelings.

"Sometimes, firsthand experience is more interesting than reading about it in books."

It is also heavier.

He said it silently in his heart.

This time, Deler stared at him for a long time.

"Thank you."

The count responded softly, but with utmost seriousness:

"Your Highness Thales."

Having said that, Deler turned his horse around as it slowed down and stretched out his arm toward the small town that had unknowingly appeared before him:

"Well then, welcome to Grace Town."

Thales took a deep breath and turned his head.

He gazed at the small town before him, its houses scattered in a neat and orderly fashion, its roads paved with stone bricks—nearly a hundred residents waited anxiously behind the sentry line formed by the light cavalry, casting curious glances toward the center of their ranks.

Thales clenched his fist lightly.

"Don't forget the origin of its name."

Deleu said meaningfully:
“This is His Majesty’s grace.”

But the next second, before Thales could reply, the "welcoming crowd" in front of him started to stir.

Thales and Deleuze both became alert at the same time.

Under the watchful eyes of the Raven Guard (and the "freaks" shouting and yelling on the periphery, trying to get close to the prince but failing), a group of dozens of black-armored soldiers roughly pushed through the crowd, marching in with heavy steps, their imposing presence and intimidating aura overwhelming.

"Give Way!"

Many civilians complained, but no one dared to object. Everyone willingly or unwillingly left the road to make way for the soldiers.

Thales frowned.

Many of the light cavalrymen instinctively reached for their weapons, but made no further moves.

Because a flag was advancing with the black-armored soldiers, tearing through the crowd like a sailboat cutting through the waves, and rising high.

Thales paused for a moment when he saw the flag.

The flag was pure yellow with a lion outlined in black lines.

Yellow background with a black lion.

“That is…” Thales said with some confusion.

Count Deleuze sighed, turned to Thales, and whispered:
"The Black Lions of Heroes' Castle, the Bozdorf family, they're here earlier than I expected."

Heroes' Castle...

Black Lion...

Bozdorf?

Before Thales could react, Deler reached across the saddle and nudged his arm:
“That is the Earl of Lewis. Although he is also one of your father’s vassals, I sincerely advise you, Your Highness, whatever he said…”

Deleuze's tone was extremely cautious, and a slight smile played at the corners of his lips:
"Just smile."

Thales was completely confused again.

Just then, a high-pitched yet slightly rough voice, carrying a hint of enthusiasm, a hint of cunning, and perhaps even a touch of coldness and sinister tremor, rang out among the black-armored soldiers:

"Dele, Deleuze, my dear little Deleuze!"

"You came really fast, didn't you!"

A middle-aged nobleman of medium build and slightly overweight, clad in black armor with a sword at his waist, rode on horseback, flanked by soldiers on both sides, to the front of "Head Raven's" formation.

Deleuze's guards clearly recognized him; no one stopped him, and no one spoke up.

The guards of the middle-aged nobleman also stopped in front of the formation, letting their master rein in the horse and move forward.

Thales keenly noticed that Deleuze took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled.

The middle-aged nobleman, with a somewhat insincerely enthusiastic smile, stopped in front of Deleuze's horse and stretched out his arms to him:

"Indeed, in the entire Western Wilderness, whether it's fine horses or carrier ravens, your place produces the most!"

The middle-aged nobleman sized up Deleuze's mount, his expression one of admiration for the steed, but his tone gradually changed:

"It's obedient, easy to use, fast, and convenient."

Deleuze frowned.

The middle-aged nobleman glanced sideways at the Earl of Wingburg, a meaningful expression on his face:
"From commoners to the king, everyone loves it."

Thales pursed his lips: the deeper meaning in the other person's words was vague.

Count Deleuze seemed not to have heard anything, nodding respectfully and responding with a smile:

"Count Lewis Bozdorf".

Deleuze politely removed his iron glove and extended his right hand:
It's an honor to meet you.

The middle-aged nobleman smiled, took off his gloves, and shook Deler's hand.

He didn't answer, but his eyes, sharp as knives, pierced directly at Thales, who was standing next to Deler.

Thales, who had been smiling, felt a sudden tightness in his chest.

"So, where?"

The next moment, the man known as Earl Lewis, though staring intently at the prince, narrowed his eyes, his face arrogant, and his tone somber:
"Where is our hero prince, who is said to have defended world peace, conquered the dragon kingdom, and saved the entire planet...?"

No, no, no, the Sword of Daily Scripture hasn't returned! No! He just… this… this is just a trivial rebellion! Just a minor ailment! It will be quelled quickly! Those who betray us, behead them all, behead them all, behead them all! The throne is mine, mine, mine! —The Sword of Daily Scripture, in a fit of rage
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(End of this chapter)