Kingdom Bloodline

Chapter 59 The Game of Chess Among Heroes (Part 2)

Under the watchful eyes of everyone, Cohen strode towards the Black Prophet—the young man behind him.

"Raphael!"

The nobles around the thirteen stone seats all turned to look.

Cohen suppressed his emotions and called out to the young man: "Raphael Lindbergh!"

The young man in the white robe also saw Cohen striding towards him. He gave a flippant smile, whispered something in Morat's ear, and then went to meet Cohen.

"You've been missing for three whole years!" Cohen's anger even caught the attention of the king and the two dukes on their high throne.

“Cohen!” The young man’s voice was light and bright—as endearing as his appearance—and he opened his arms to Cohen: “You’re still so energetic!”

Cohen rudely slapped the other man's arm away: "Why did you leave without saying goodbye?"

He glanced at the Royalists in the distance, and at Lord Morat Hansen, who stood alone to one side, no one approaching him, and said incredulously, "You're now... with the 'Black Prophet'? Do you know how much blood and sin he has on his hands..."

“That’s a misunderstanding by the world,” Raphael said with a smile. “Lord Hansen’s contributions to the stars and the magnitude of his sacrifices far exceed those of any other lord present.”

Cohen was taken aback, unable to find the words to refute him, and could only say, "We'll talk about that later. What exactly happened to you these past three years..."

"Stay by Lord Hansen's side, listen to and follow his teachings." Raphael maintained his calm and composed expression.

“Lessons?” Cohen paused, his expression shifting from surprise to annoyance. “That’s the reason? You abandoned Miranda for three whole years without a cause! And the reason is to go and listen to the teachings of that viper?”

“Miss Miranda?” Raphael gently crossed his arms, his expression suddenly turning cold.
"She never belonged to me, so how can I abandon her?"

Cohen looked at his old friend in disbelief, as if he were seeing him for the first time.

"Are you crazy? Miranda is still waiting for you to go find her..."

"For her own good, please ask her to give up those unrealistic ideas."

Cohen's eyes widened, then he sighed, "If you feel you're not good enough for her, then I can tell you right now, she doesn't care at all..."

“That’s in the past. People change.” Raphael interrupted him coldly. “I used to like her a lot, but I don’t anymore. That’s all.”

The young man in white noticed the gazes coming from the six stone thrones. He said softly, "This is not the right occasion for reminiscing. Please excuse me."

But as he turned around, Cohen gripped his shoulder tightly!

“You haven’t finished speaking,” Cohen said, suppressing his anger. “Damn it—what’s wrong with you! A person can’t change that quickly!”

With a cold expression, Raphael grabbed Cohen's hand: "So you've never seen my true colors, heir to the Twin Towers Longsword, the Kalabyan Watchman."

Cohen gripped Raphael's shoulder tightly, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and disbelief.

He knew that the young man before him was a genius with a photographic memory from within the Tower of the End; he was even the first among his contemporaries to awaken the power of the End. And in the final assessment before leaving the tower, he ranked second, only behind Miranda, and one place higher than Cohen himself!
A promising final swordsman!

But why—

Cohen gritted his teeth and said resolutely, "The Raphael I know would never make such a choice! You... you left the tower that day and then never heard from you again... what happened?"

What happened?

Raphael sneered, "I've seen the true nature of this world."

The next second, a chilling and violent force of termination swept over Cohen's hand that was being held!

Instantly, it triggered a fierce resistance from a star-blue, annihilating power within him!
The surging power of termination forced him to let go.

But Cohen didn't care about that.

He was concerned with something else entirely.

Cohen looked at his old friend in utter shock and asked incredulously, "Raphael, your, your finishing power... I remember it was clearly 'The Sorrow of the Sword,' but why... why did it turn out like this?"

Raphael raised an eyebrow, gave a cryptic smile, and said lightly, "Compared to the old me—I've transcended."

Cohen could only stare blankly as his old friend from the Tower of the End turned away without hesitation or lingering attachment.

Raphael, with his back to him, turned his head and revealed a cold look: "Here's a piece of advice for you, Cohen Karabyan."

Be careful today.

Raphael walked coldly back to Morat Hansen's side.

The guard frowned, clenched his fists, and looked on with a mixture of confusion and astonishment.

That feeling... could it be...?

Cohen's mind flashed back to the sword fight on Red Street that night.

The swordsman in red and black attire, and his murderous, unstoppable, and frenzied swordplay.

More importantly, there is his violent and out-of-control power of termination.

Cohen took a deep breath.

No way?
A few seconds later, he exhaled and slowly walked back to his father's side.

"Do not ask."

Faced with questions from his father and the director, Cohen, filled with doubt and anger, unusually concluded with just two words.

When the Havia family, whose emblem is the bow that shoots down the sun, the Amund family, whose crest is a deep blue giant wave, and the Lasia family, whose emblem is a four-winged giant lizard, arrived, there was another stir in the crowd.

But it couldn't compare to the sensation that followed when the Kevin Deer family arrived—this time, it was more about enthusiasm.

Thales, with his sharp eyes, spotted the person who had caused the sensation in the crowd from the dark room.

The well-mannered and amiable Lord of Emerald City, Duke of the South Bank, Jann Kevindir, walked slowly towards them, accompanied by a dignified old man, nodding and smiling at the people around him.

As he approached the Thirteen Stones, many nobles rose and bowed in respect, and Jann patiently returned their bows one by one.

Jan walked to the central stone throne, knelt on one knee before the expressionless King Catherine V, and kissed the ring on his hand.

“Kevin Deer,” Kessel frowned slightly, “I heard you had a little misunderstanding with the Royal Guard yesterday?”

“It’s nothing,” Jann said with a charming smile. “No need for Your Majesty to trouble yourself.”

Kessel nodded, his meaningful gaze sweeping over Jenn's smile: "I hope it's the same today."

Jann paused slightly.

Sure enough, something must have gone wrong.

It should have been a drama of nobles forcing the establishment of an heir, but His Majesty seemed to have been prepared all along.

The guards relayed the message from floor to floor to the square outside the hall, and once again, thunderous cheers erupted from the bottom up:
"Hu-hu-"

"Kevin—Kevin Deer—"

"Iris—Tricolor iris—"

Thales's heart sank: Was that Iris Duke really that popular?
Hearing the cheers coming from below the Palace of Restoration, the young duke remained calm and composed as he rose to his feet, while his butler discreetly took his cloak from him.

Jann sat on one of the six stone seats and smiled at the other two dukes, who had different expressions.

The smiling Duke Bob Cullen raised his hand and introduced the icy-faced "Iron Eagle": "Val, this is young Jenn..."

But the Duke of the North, who was coldly scrutinizing Jann, interrupted the fat duke without a second thought:

"Iris...you are the youngest duke of the Stars?"

The Duke of Cullen, who was interrupted, smiled without taking offense and patted his belly.

Jann was taken aback, feeling that the other person's gaze was like a sword, sharp and unbearable to look directly at.

Is this "Iron Eagle" Val? Just as rumored...

But who knows what will happen when Exter's army heads straight for the North...

"Nice to meet you, Master of the White Eagle, Duke Aaron." Jann chuckled and gave a slight bow, placing his hand on his chest. "The youngest duke? I am unworthy of such a title. As far as I know, the master of the Tebak family is much younger than me."

But Val remained unmoved and said in an irrefutable tone, "It's alright. Now that you've taken that position, it means you also have the right to participate in this game."

At that moment, a discordant, shrill voice pierced through the crowd, interrupting the sounds of almost half the hall.

"What a pity..."

Thales heard a sharp, abrupt voice coming from another side door, piercing through the crowd:
“Every time I step into this city, this so-called capital…”

The crowd dispersed, the nobles' gazes a complex mix of hatred and excitement. "You can even smell that distinctive city dweller's scent..."

"That pampered stench...it's absolutely nauseating..."

On the carpet, the owner of the shrill voice, accompanied by his attendants, limped toward the nobles.

"...like an old man who is clearly about to die but still holds a position without doing any work, and a greenhorn who is still wet behind the ears—who can still sit on the throne of the six dukes."

These words caused an uproar among many nobles.

On the six stone thrones, Jann's expression stiffened slightly, while the portly Duke Cullen laughed heartily, and Val Arend narrowed his eyes and clenched his fist.

To Thales' surprise, the man approaching was a middle-aged man with thinning hair, a withered and bloodless face, and a sunken lip that made him look as if he was missing his upper teeth. Only his bright and sharp eyes proved that he was a living person.

With a noticeable disability in one leg, he relied on a cane to support himself as he stepped onto the star-blue carpet, walking slowly toward the six stone seats.

Val Arend cracked his fist and said with an unfriendly expression, "It's been many years, you damn old bones."

“Cyril!” King Catherine V on the throne revealed a playful smile: “You’ve come, very good! Otherwise, the title of ‘most unpopular person’ at this meeting would have been snatched away by our Duke Arend.”

The Duke of the North snorted coldly.

"Hahahaha-"

This withered, middle-aged man, Lord of the Wastelands, Duke Guardian of the Western Wastelands, Cyril Falkenhaus, let out a long, sinister laugh, limped towards the king, leaned on his cane, and knelt down to kiss his ring. He raised his voice, cold and shrill:

“Falkenhaus is never absent, Your Majesty.”

The three dukes present had different expressions, but none of them spoke.

Thales frowned: the moment Cyril bent down, a horrifying skull pattern appeared on the scarlet cloak behind him, and the skull had four eyeholes.

The Falkenhaus, a powerful family whose emblem is a four-eyed skull, has always been shrouded in mystery, standing at the forefront of the Western Wilderness in the battle against the Bone Tribe and the Orcs.

“It’s three o’clock. Four of the six dukes have arrived, and eleven of the thirteen nobles have also come. Your Majesty, it’s ready.” Gilbert looked around the entire hall and nodded solemnly to Kessel.

Kessel nodded slightly, without saying a word.

He flipped the scepter in his hand in mid-air and slammed it hard onto the ground!
"Boom-"

For some reason, in Thales's eyes, the sound of that thud reverberated throughout the entire hall, like a heavy hammer striking in people's hearts!
The noise in the hall gradually subsided.

"Gentlemen, it's time—"

Thanks to the ingenious design of the Hall of Stars, Kessel's deep and majestic voice resonated clearly.

"The Star Kingdom, concluding the 672nd year of the calendar, holds a national conference."

"Let's begin."

The bustling Hall of Stars fell silent instantly, and all eyes turned to the center, where the King, four dukes, and eleven earls stood in an eerie silence.

Until the guards relayed the king's words outside the hall.

And so, cheers and commotion erupted once again at Xingju Square beneath Fuxing Palace.

But it was quite different from what the residents of the capital had imagined.

The National Affairs Conference was initiated by a nobleman who questioned the conference itself, as well as by the mutual attacks among the thirteen prominent families.

"Sorel, what do you mean by this?" Bern Taren, a middle-aged nobleman from the Pentagram and a distant relative of the Starry Sky royal family, angrily questioned:

Are you questioning His Majesty's authority to convene a state affairs conference?

“I’m not questioning His Majesty’s power—he is the king, of course he can do whatever he wants!”

Smith Sorel, a critic of the legitimacy of the National Conference, an opponent of the "Frontier Expansion Tax Exemption Decree," and a man with the golden sun emblem, retorted without hesitation: "What I question is whether he has maintained the most basic respect for our nineteen noble families!"

His Majesty Kessel stroked his cane, remaining silent as if he hadn't heard the words.

Count Sorel snorted and continued, "What we received was the Starry Sky General Decree! It was for wise nobles to gather in the High Council to determine the future of the stars! Not this chaotic, run-down national affairs conference where anyone can come!"

The civilians on the periphery immediately raised a chorus of protests, but they were quickly suppressed by the voices of the nobles in the center of the hall and the angry glares of the guards.

“That makes sense,” said Count Lewis Bozdorf, who had just implied that “as long as the Lionhead remains wise and brave,” stroking his stubble chin thoughtfully. “Under these circumstances, no matter what is discussed, it will not yield good results, let alone such an important matter—the High Council is more appropriate.”

"We should move to the small conference room immediately."

"Bozdorf, do you mean we should call it a day and have another small meeting of nineteen people?" Count Zemuto, the Northern Earl whose emblem is the white bear and who is also the Lord of Watchtower, said coldly, "At this point, you're still arguing about this—did your mother not give you a brain?"

In the hall, the crowd erupted in uproar over this undisguised insult and attack!

Even Duke Cullen and Jann, sitting on the six great stone thrones, frowned, while only the Duke of the North scoffed.

“My mother has a good memory; she shouldn’t have forgotten that,” Bozdorf replied with a light laugh, unperturbed. “But you, Count Zemuto—”

But he was interrupted by another northern nobleman.

"Shut up, Black Lion. We don't really care about your mother or whether you have a brain."

Lord Fores, also from the north and marked by his iron-colored longwall, tapped the stone seat repeatedly. His face was ashen as he coldly said, "We came south to the capital to deal with that important matter! We are concerned about the safety of the stars. And you bunch of sons of bitches from the south are still worried about whether the salutation on your invitations is correct?"

"The safety of the stars?" Earl Hodge Dastan, the nobleman who had previously mocked the king for "standing too high and not being able to see clearly," interjected. He shook his head: "Don't be arrogant. All you care about is your own safety—but I don't want to blame you for that, because I am no more noble than you."

He leaned forward, his sharp gaze sweeping over each nobleman: "But this isn't about the invitation's title; it's about whether His Majesty is using the state conference to manipulate public opinion and coerce his lords—this concerns the safety of all of us, not just the northern nobles!"

The audience erupted in another uproar!
Some were even shouting, "Get out! Selfish nobles!"

But Count Dastan, still amidst the chaos, waved at the lords, his face contorted with rage, and shouted, "Don't forget the Desert Wars! Don't forget how you were forced to conscript the people of your territories, just to vent your anger for the royal family!"

Only now did King Catherine V furrow his brow.

But he had to admit that his words were very persuasive—Thales also began to ponder the purpose of this state conference.

“We can discuss the procedures later, but that matter is urgent!” Earl Taren propped himself up with his hands, his brow furrowed. “We must make a decision today on how to deal with that matter!”

"Decision? How do we make a decision?" Count Sorel slammed his fist on the stone seat, his eyes wide open. "In broad daylight! In front of so many civilians, and even enemy eyes and ears, we can't even mention what that matter is! How are we supposed to discuss it?"

“Simple,” “Black Lion” Bozdorf smiled. “Everyone knows what happened. Tell me what price you’re willing to pay to resolve this matter.”

Just then, a sharp, sarcastic laugh came from among the six dukes: "Hahaha, that matter? — I say, you've been talking about it for so long, why are you still being so secretive?"

"What are you all afraid of? Are you afraid of Exter?"

"Afraid of the king? Afraid of us dukes?"

"Are you still afraid of those people in this hall, and afraid of those civilians in the square below?"

The expressions of everyone in the room changed, and they looked at the emaciated Cyril Falkenhausen.

The Duke, the guardian of the Western Wilderness, whose family crest is a four-eyed skull, gave a chilling smile:
"Let's be frank!"

"The Ekster delegation, and their prince, were killed in the stars!"

Everyone was startled!
Although the nineteen nobles knew about this matter through a general edict, it was still a secret that had not yet been made public!

How dare he? How dare he?
Duke Cullen frowned, Duke Arend slapped his thigh and shook his head with a "Ha!", while Jann pursed his lips and remained silent.

“Lord Falkenhaus!” Earl of Wingburg, Cohen’s cousin and also residing in the western part of the kingdom alongside the Duke of the Western Wilderness, Deler Klomar, tried to stop him with a grim expression: “We don’t need to discuss this at the state conference—”

"Shut up, boy! The adults are speaking!" Falkenhaus rudely interrupted him, leaving the Earl of Wingburg, who knew him somewhat, speechless.

Even Count Kalabyan, who had always been on good terms with the Cloma family, couldn't help but frown.

Cyril Falkenhausen, his face grim and teeth clenched, continued to speak this forbidden secret:

“You all know it, but the common people don’t! Those barbarians won’t let this opportunity pass them by!”

“That damned treaty—they’ve been waiting for it for twelve years.”

"Listen up, everyone in the Stars, whether you are a king, a nobleman, or a commoner!"

“Stars, and Exter.”

"Between the shield and the blade of the Western Continent."

"War is imminent."

Thank you "Glory of Iris Pattern" for the 100 Qidian Coins donation—how old are you?
Also, fasten your seatbelt.

We're about to drive.

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(End of this chapter)