Reincarnated as the third son of the Duke

Chapter 146 146 The Last True Lord

146 The Last True Lord

William observed quietly, absorbing the weight of what he had just learned.

So this was how it was.

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In the civilized heartlands of the Empire, nobles ruled with an iron fist. But here, in the north, where the world was cruel and survival was a constant battle, there was no room for pretenses.

Here, respect was earned, not inherited.

Harald, still standing in the middle of the gathering crowd, raised his voice.

"The rebellion has been crushed!" he declared. "It was a damn close call, but we made it through, thanks to our esteemed guests."

There were scattered cheers, but something in the crowd shifted—a strange tension.

Harald's brows furrowed.

"What is it?" he demanded. "What's wrong?"

The commoners hesitated, glancing at each other uneasily.

Finally, one of them spoke.

"Milord, the rebels barricaded themselves inside the manor," the man admitted. "We... may have gotten a bit carried away during the siege."

Harald's face darkened.

"Define 'carried away.'"

There was an awkward cough.

"We, uh... might have broken a few things."

Harald groaned. "How bad is it?"

"Most of the bodies are cleared out," another man added helpfully. "But there's... a lot of blood. The smell is still pretty strong."

The older noble sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Great. Just great. Can't exactly host guests in a half-ruined, blood-soaked wreck, now can I?"

William raised a brow. "Then where will we go?"

Harald grinned.

"Somewhere with good alcohol."

"Ha! Now that's what I call a drink!"

Thud.

Harald slammed his massive tankard onto the wooden table, foam sloshing over the sides.

His manners? Completely abandoned.

William's group simply watched in silence.

Harald noticed their expressions and smirked.

"What?" he asked. "Not dignified enough for you?"

William sipped his drink, then nodded. "If I'm being honest? No. Not at all."

The older man grunted, momentarily looking displeased.

"He trained," Harald continued, "even though his body failed him. He studied, even though it left him exhausted. And no matter how sick he was, his first concern was always for his people."

He exhaled, shaking his head.

"The man couldn't throw a punch to save his life. But if some fool disrespected him, you can bet that everyone else in the room would beat that bastard into the ground for him."

William stared.

The north was a place of survival. Strength was everything.

And yet—

Yet, this fragile, sickly man had been respected.

No. Not just respected but loved.

"If he had ever chosen to unite the north," Harald mused, "half of the lords here would have followed him without question."

William exhaled.

"I doubt I could inspire that kind of loyalty," he admitted.

Harald grinned.

"Of course not," he said bluntly. "You're not Klaus Grimaldi. You weren't born here. You didn't grow up in this land. Even if you try to act like a northern lord, you'll just be a southern prince playing pretend."

William remained silent.

"That doesn't mean you can't win them over," Harald added.

William raised a brow. "How?"

Harald's grin widened.

"Simple," he said.

He flexed his fingers.

"Fight me."

William found himself at a rare loss for words.

He had asked how to build power in the north.

And Harald's answer?

Fight me.

"Apologies," William said carefully. "But... was that a metaphor of some sort? Are you asking me to prove myself through strategy? Wisdom?"

"Metaphor, my ass," Harald snorted. "I mean it literally. Pick up a weapon and fight me—fists or steel, I don't care."

"Ah."

So he hadn't misheard.

Harald was dead serious.

William hesitated, uncertain where to even begin questioning this logic. Sensing his hesitation, the older man took a swig of ale before speaking again.

"It's been centuries since the north fell under the Empire's rule," Harald said, voice even. "And with each passing year, the old ways fade a little more. Nowadays, it's all about pale-faced politicians playing their little games in candlelit chambers."

William remained silent.

"But tradition," Harald continued, tapping his tankard against the table, "is still tradition. There are plenty of us left who remember the old ways. Plenty who still respect a warrior's strength."