Chapter Five: Exchanging Territories

Blackfort was built as a military stronghold, its walls thick and its windows few and small, leaving the castle’s interior dimly lit. Victor followed the old butler, whose attire and posture were as meticulous as his own, through a long corridor. Along the walls, thick tallow candles burned, casting flickering shadows that seemed to dance, lending an eerie atmosphere to the passage.

The rhythmic thudding of marching feet echoed from nearby. Victor’s pupils contracted slightly as he saw a squad of burly guards approaching. Even the shortest among them stood over one hundred eighty centimeters tall, clad head to toe in heavy chainmail, each gripping a steel halberd in one hand and bearing a round shield reinforced with metal and sturdy wood on their back.

These fully armed soldiers passed Victor and the butler without so much as a glance, likely on their way to change the castle’s guard. Victor estimated that just the chainmail weighed around fifty kilograms, and with the steel halberd, shield, helmet, and other gear, each man carried a load of at least eighty kilograms. Yet their indifference to the weight made clear it had no effect on their combat prowess.

People in this world were generally robust. Victor had once witnessed a farmer carrying two hundred kilograms of stone to build the wall of the town behind Blackfort. Even Victor himself was stronger than Zhang Xiaoqiang had been before crossing over, though in this world Victor was considered a frail minor noble.

If ordinary folk possessed such strength, what heights might the knights, standing at the pinnacle of human power, reach? And humans were not even the strongest race here—what might the beastmen, barbarians, elves, dwarves, or those mysterious underground races be capable of?

Victor had agility far beyond the norm, but lacked strength. Luckily, the X-3 chip stored numerous training methods to enhance strength and stamina, including several sets from martial arts masters in the Hua nation, reputed to have miraculous effects. All this filled Victor with anticipation.

“Lord Victor, we have arrived,” the old butler said, bowing slightly. “Allow me to inform the Governor of your arrival; you may enter once he is ready to receive you.”

“Go ahead,” Victor replied with a gesture.

“Governor, Baron Wimbledon requests an audience,” the butler announced, knocking on the oak door.

The heavy door swung open, and a well-dressed secretary addressed Victor: “The Governor invites the Baron to enter.”

Victor followed the secretary into the room, which was much larger and more lavish than his own quarters. The floor gleamed with polished ironwood, several masterpieces adorned the snow-white walls, and two crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their dozens of water-lizard oil candles illuminating the room as bright as day.

Soon, Victor spotted Earl York, seated at his desk, enjoying a pastry.

Earl York gave Victor an impression of roundness—round face, round eyes, round nose, round hands, round waist, round bottom… If there was another impression, it was of whiteness: pale and plump, squeezed into a widened golden chair, dressed in ornate earl’s attire, he evoked an inexplicable sense of mirth.

Yet the words of this jovial-looking lord were anything but cheerful.

“Baron Victor, as Governor of Centaur Hills, I order you to proceed to your fief and assume your duties immediately!” Earl York said, taking a silk napkin from a pretty maid to wipe berry juice from his lips.

“Governor, I suffered a head injury during the last bandit attack, and it still aches. Much of my memory is lost, and I fear I must recuperate in Blackfort a while longer before I am fit to serve,” Victor replied, feigning distress.

Earl York wore an expression suggesting he had expected this. He gulped down a mouthful of honeyed milk, then barked sternly: “You’ve been overdue for more than a month since you submitted your appointment papers. This is dereliction—serious dereliction! I don’t care for your excuses; go to your fief at once. Before the end of the Water Season, you must plant crops on your land, or I shall impeach you before the Kingdom’s Elder Council!”

“Max, send men to escort the Baron to his fief at dawn tomorrow. That’s final!” York snapped, pounding the table and instructing his secretary.

“My lord, you can’t do this. Bandits still roam my lands, and my family’s guards haven’t arrived yet. If I go, they’ll surely kill me in vengeance,” Victor sneered inwardly, but outwardly wore an anxious, fearful expression.

Earl York replied with malicious delight, “Baron, as a feudal noble, it is our duty to protect our lands and fight evil. How can you shrink from danger? You should recruit troops and wipe out these vile bandits. Go now—don’t delay the Water Season’s sowing. I’ll await your triumphant news in Blackfort.”

“You are right, my lord, but the gold sors I brought have almost all been stolen by bandits. I am penniless—how can I recruit soldiers? Perhaps you could lend me some gold sors to recruit an army and rid the land of bandits. I promise the sowing will proceed and the Council will not blame you for any negligence,” Victor said, maintaining his woeful façade.

“Never! I won’t lend you a single copper sor!” York thundered, slapping the table with his pudgy hand at Victor’s request for money.

“If you will not assist me, I must wait for my family’s guards to arrive before I can deal with the bandits. If you wish to impeach me, so be it—I shall appeal to the Elder Council. I take my leave!” Victor feigned sorrow, turning to depart.

Just then, a servant approached York, bowing carefully. “Master, the Lady has arrived!”

Earl York struggled to rise from his chair, failing several times, and angrily snapped, “Help me up, you useless swine!”

Several attendants hurried to yank the earl from his seat, his flesh rippling as he stood, prompting Victor to worry whether that mass might spill from his body.

“Oh, dearest, you remain so thrifty—I’ve told you many times to replace this chair. Why do you still keep it?” came a soft, charming voice from the doorway.

Two women entered. The first wore a red, waist-cinched gown, her golden hair styled in a noblewoman’s chignon. Her skin was ivory, her waist slender, her bust high, her hips full. Her gaze brimmed with allure. This beautiful lady was Countess York.

The second woman wore a finely crafted leather armor, stood tall at nearly 1.8 meters, her long legs powerful beneath tight riding pants, her hand resting on a sheathed longsword. Her features were sharp, her expression bright and spirited—a noblewoman’s bodyguard, surely.

“Sylvia, what brings you here?” York’s round face split in a fawning smile.

“You have a guest? Who is this handsome young man?” Sylvia ignored York’s ingratiation, her eyes brightening as she caught sight of Victor.

“My lady, even the Fire Moon’s purple aster pales beside your beauty. I am Victor of the Wimbledon family, and it is my honor to meet you.” Victor stepped forward and offered a noble’s salute.

“So you are Baron Victor—how young you are,” Sylvia smiled at him. “I heard you were wounded in a bandit attack. How are you now?”

“Ahem, my lady, I was just discussing Baron Victor’s assumption of his duties,” York interrupted, cutting short his wife’s warm greeting.

“Oh? What’s the matter?” the countess inquired of York’s secretary.

The secretary promptly recounted the recent exchange between York and Victor.

“Dear Embiser, Sophia is a longtime friend of mine. Can you do anything to help poor Victor?” the countess pleaded with her husband.

“My lady, it’s not that I lack compassion, but as governor I cannot openly defy the lordly laws. Moreover, the Council requires all Centaur Hills lords to finish sowing by the end of the Water Season. Truly, I have no solution,” York said, shaking his head with a bitter smile.

“Then send knights to purge the bandit remnants from that fief,” Sylvia said coldly, clearly dissatisfied with York’s evasions.

“They hide well, and several sweeps have failed to find them. With wolfkin and goblins harassing farmers everywhere, and rumors of ogres appearing, our knights are stretched thin—they have no time to chase a few roaming bandits,” York replied, mopping the sweat from his brow.

“My lord, there is another way,” the secretary suggested. “Victor’s chief concern is the bandits on his land, and his guards are not yet recruited. Assuming his duties now would be risky. I propose a land exchange.”

“According to kingdom law, fiefholders may exchange their land once freely. If Baron Victor swaps his fief with another baron, he need not face the bandits without guards. The exchange document must be filed with the Elder Council, and this period will not count as overdue. Victor can use the time to recruit guards and settlers, and the governor need not fear the chancellor’s reprimand.”

“Excellent! But who would exchange fiefs with the Baron?” York asked, drumming the table.

“My lord, your brother, Viscount Fred York, has opened a viscountcy in the southwest hills, built a castle, and recently received hereditary approval from the Elder Council. You might ask if he’s willing,” the secretary proposed.

“Victor, what do you think of this suggestion?” York, satisfied, patted his belly and eyed Victor like a greedy badger eyeing a hapless quail.

“But the gold sors I brought were stolen by bandits—I have no funds to recruit guards or settlers,” Victor said mildly, finding himself outmatched by this display of noble theatrics.

“I’ll lend you twenty thousand—no, ten thousand gold sors. Just sign this,” York said, gritting his teeth. He produced a document and nodded to the secretary to hand it to Victor.

“How can I accept? I have an elven ring, a family heirloom from my mother, which I’m willing to sell to you for the modest price of one hundred thousand gold sors,” Victor said, slipping off a turquoise ring and tossing it onto the exchange document.

The elves had long withdrawn from the human world, and all their jewelry was coveted by nobles. An elven ring in the capital would fetch at least three hundred thousand gold sors.

“Quick, let me see!” York demanded, impatiently calling for the attendant holding the document and ring. But seeing Sylvia’s cold gaze upon him, he sheepishly handed the ring to his wife.

“This ring is the latest style to trend in the capital, designed by the jeweler Benjamin in the elven fashion. I have several similar rings with blue diamonds, each worth about three thousand gold sors,” Sylvia said, cradling the ring in her ivory hand and smiling at Victor.

“Madam, your eye is keen indeed. Master Benjamin based his new designs on this very heirloom,” Victor replied with a gentle smile. The moon elf blood in him lent Victor an airy, elegant charm, making his smile captivating. The tall bodyguard blushed, lowering her head shyly.

Sylvia’s bright eyes flashed with a hint of admiration as Victor spun his half-truths with such composure.

“Fifty thousand gold sors, Baron Victor. Tonight I shall host a banquet for you at Rose Manor to celebrate your recovery. I will send for you—please be sure to attend,” Sylvia said, her watery gaze lingering on Victor.

“As you wish, beautiful lady,” Victor replied, bowing gracefully to her.