In the southern part of the Holy Light District of the capital, there lay a grand residence adorned with an exquisite garden.
A robust middle-aged man with short brown hair rested in a gazebo among the garden, appearing from a distance like a lounging brown bear.
This metaphorical bear—no, this person—was none other than Morton Doyle, father of young Doyle, who had served several months as a war prisoner furrowing more than a dozen trenches.
Having been confined to his home for a while since his suspension, Morton, a long-time actual holder of power within the Black Guard, possessed a steadiness that transcended the ordinary. This equanimity kept him not only complaint-free about his situation but actually quite accepting. The only thing troubling him lately was the safety of his son.
Even with scant news of outside warfare, Morton never truly feared for his son's demise. Nobility's battles might be fierce one day and friendly the next. Both the Northwestern dukes would have rhyme and reason not to slay a son of the Doyle family, provided they genuinely intended peace talks.
Two days prior, a ripple had spread hastily from the north to the south, and even the caged Morton sensed the battlefield's shifts. Since then, his sleep had suffered, and with nothing else to do, Morton had taken to reading and napping by day.
Though his body sought recovery through sleep, his heightened sense of awareness let him feel the presence of a manservant bumbling his way toward the gazebo.
Like an awakened beast, Morton's eyes snapped open. The manservant halted abruptly in his step, his body inevitably pitching forward. Once stable, the clumsy servant bowed deeply and said, "Milord, a sealed message has arrived from the palace."
Morton's expression remained unchanged, yet his mind swirled with questions. Since his role in the war had evaporated, why would the king send him a private missive now?
Donning his formal attire, Morton proceeded to the parlor, where he met with a familiar royal envoy. After a brief exchange of glances, the official handed over a sealed casket and promptly departed with a respectful bow.
Alone now, Morton dismissed his attendants and sat down at the long table to decode the message.
The casket's encryption was developed by the great wizard Melrose—a lock without a key. The intended recipient could access the contents by destroying it, whereas any other would trigger a safeguard, reducing the contents to ashes.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Thus, Morton's decryption was straightforward: gripping the casket, he wrapped his hand in his accustomed sword energy and applied slight force, breaking the delicate yet durable shell as if a bear catching fish in the ice melt of spring. Carefully, he plucked out two sealed letters from amidst the fragments before letting the remains scatter on the floor.
A puzzled frown crossed his brow, "Two letters?"
The perfect control of his strength meant the letters' order remained intact, ensuring he understood the king’s intentions without confusion.
[To Lord Doyle:
How fare you? I hear you live a carefree life at home, unmindful of worldly strife. Meanwhile, I am bedeviled by internal conflict and overwhelmed with no time to rest.
A few days back, you must have felt the tremor from the north—a new hero's emergence. Now, the imperative is to halt the civil war as swiftly as possible—for myself, the kingdom, and humanity alike.
I'm loath to see idleness among my kin, so after lengthy deliberation, I entrust to you the task of peace negotiations. You shall represent my royal presence; your words shall be my decree.
These are my non-negotiable terms:
Acknowledge the Heracles Kingdom as humanity's sole legitimate authority;
Recognize the Goddess of Victory as the sole deity;
The allied forces must vacate the royal domain, ceasefire, and together with the kingdom, raise the hero against the demon threat.
And my utmost concessions:
Allow the Northwestern rebels to expand their territories freely;
Publicly bestow the titles of hereditary princes of the kingdom to Grey Alwyn and Spencer Raventa;
Possess the hero for two years, after which he must attend the Noble Academy under the kingdom's tutelage.
These are my terms. Trivial matters like appropriate reparations you may resolve independently, without further consultation.
Leopold Heracles]
Morton's brow furrowed; the king's letter seemed too cordial, almost ingratiating, as if the king had no other reliable allies. Even though the two had enjoyed a robust friendship from childhood to the prince's youthful days, years had passed since those times. Morton wasn’t naive enough to think the king was still the same person.
And upon considering the terms presented by the king, they seemed generous on the surface but nearly void in essence. The condition to expand territories was essentially a charter; territories north of the Northlands were endless barren tundra, valuable only in books, with denizens scarce and far in between. Excluding civil unrest, the Northwest rebels could only claim new lands by conquering the West—demon territory.
Yet the Treaty of Sacred Peace still had nine years 'til expiration. Aside from this, the border between the Northlands and demon lands was significantly shorter than that of the Westlands, which was enough to spur conflicts over an inequitable division. Not to mention the countless monsters dwelling in the Gloomwood, making conquest no walk in the park.
Should they accept these terms, the manpower and resources of both the West and North would be inexorably consumed in a war against demons, preventing any advantageous position during the approaching larger conflict. After all, if either the royal forces or other landlords claimed demon lands first, even dukes couldn't demand a handover without a fight.