FL - Chapter 60: Nothing But Eating and Drinking

The banquet hall glittered beneath a blaze of light.

A chandelier set with more than a hundred mana crystals hung from the high domed ceiling. Gold-threaded tapestries covered the walls, each bearing the crest of House Firth.

Silk cloth draped the long banquet table, where silverware and crystal goblets stood in orderly rows. Servants stationed along the walls hurried in and out with platters of food.

The smell of roasted meat and wine filled the air.

The dishes were absurdly lavish.

A roasted Snow-Mountain Demon Deer sizzled beneath its golden skin. Whole racks of Snowstone Bear ribs sat piled like hills on silver platters.

Wine, beloved by southern nobles and rarely seen in the north, flowed without end into crystal goblets.

Such extravagance would have been rare even at a southern castle banquet.

It demonstrated the wealth House Firth had accumulated as one of the old northern houses.

Yet in the cold and resource-starved Northlands, that luxury was painfully out of place.

Several local nobles were already frowning before the banquet formally began.

Count Firth sat at the head of the table, his body resembling a round ball of flesh.

A gold-threaded silk robe wrapped his bloated frame. Its collar hung open, revealing skin that gleamed with grease from his forehead to his chest.

His hands rested on the armrests, all ten fingers crammed into mana-crystal rings that pinched his knuckles red.

His drunken, piglike cackle echoed through the hall.

"Lord Firth, the Northlands will surely prosper beneath your brilliant leadership!"

"Without your protection, lesser nobles like us would be lost!"

The speakers were colonization nobles from the south.

Their clothes were immaculate, their hair perfectly arranged, and their manners elaborate enough for an Imperial court banquet.

But they had no military achievements and no roots in the Northlands.

Apart from flattery and sycophancy, they had little to offer.

They crowded around Count Firth and praised him one after another.

One claimed he had "the bearing of a crown prince." Another swore that "his presence surpassed the late king's."

Someone even declared that he could "make the Northlands great again."

Count Firth laughed until his mouth couldn't close. Even the hand holding his wine trembled.

He raised his glass in response, only to choke and spray out half his drink.

The praise he enjoyed most came from Zachary Diaz.

"Lord Firth, the Snowhawk assembly has been organized flawlessly. It is a model for the entire Northlands. Even my father would be humbled if he were here."

Those words sent Count Firth's pride soaring.

Zachary belonged to House Diaz, one of the Empire's Eight Great Houses, an equal of House Edmund.

How could Firth remain unmoved by praise from a man of such noble birth?

"Ha, ha, ha! You flatter me. I am only fulfilling my responsibilities!"

He waved a hand, grinning so broadly that his mouth twisted sideways.

In a dim corner of the hall, the atmosphere was far colder.

Several nobles in northern military uniforms sat in silence, watching the flattery around the main table with faces as dark as the sky before a blizzard.

They were old retainers of House Firth, among the family's earliest vassals.

They had campaigned across the icefields with the old Count, fought magical beasts, and surrounded barbarian tribes.

Now they could only watch a round fool occupy their lord's seat while southern sycophants fawned over him.

"If the old lord were still alive, he would've kicked over this entire disgrace," the eldest veteran muttered, cold fury in his eyes.

A rough-bearded man beside him sneered. "Have you ever seen those southerners do anything but eat, drink, shit, and put on their fancy accents? Have any of them lifted a sword?"

"No," another answered. "Their armor gleams like stage costumes, and not one of them bears a scar. If battle came, they'd probably stop to wipe away the first drop of blood before it stained their clothes."

Their quiet voices mingled with the scents of wine and cold air, utterly at odds with the lively hall.

"The old lord built the name of House Firth with his life."

"He didn't build it so this fool could turn the hall into some southern dance house."

Their words dwindled into bitter silence, their eyes heavy with anger and disappointment.

They had once tried to advise the new Count. They had offered to train the troops, manage military affairs, and even do the work themselves.

The fat man had refused to listen.

When he wasn't hosting banquets, he was bathing in perfumed water. At best, a servant would dismiss them by saying, "The Count is occupied."

They all knew House Firth was in danger if this continued, especially with the Northlands becoming more unstable by the day.

The gloom in their corner stood out against the banquet's gaiety.

Count Firth noticed nothing.

Surrounded by southern nobles, he laughed until his eyes nearly vanished and the flesh on his face quivered.

Even if someone had warned him that the old northern veterans were displeased, he would only have waved the concern aside.

"Them?" he would sneer. "A pack of stubborn relics still obsessed with battles from decades ago."

In his eyes, those men weren't merely useless. They were an obstruction.

They wore shabby clothes, never said anything pleasant, and spent every day glaring like someone owed their families several thousand Gold Coins.

He had complained in public more than once.

"My grandfather followed the late Emperor and destroyed the Snow Kingdom. He already finished all the work my generation had to do!

"A northern lord is a lord for life. All we need to do is eat and drink! Why work ourselves to death? Who would we even be earning it for? Risk my life? Don't be a fool!"

Halfway through the banquet, the music swelled.

Colored light flowed from the mana-crystal lamps. Nobles exchanged endless toasts, and laughter filled the hall.

When everyone's spirits had peaked, Zachary approached the head of the table with a wineglass in hand.

"By the way," he said lightly, "have you heard of a certain Louis Calvin, my lord?"

Count Firth's brow moved. A scrap of meat clung to the corner of his mouth. "Who?"

Zachary feigned surprise. "So he hasn't visited you or sent an invitation.

"Almost every noble in Snowpeak County has arrived, yet no one has seen him. Does he believe this assembly is beneath him?"

Count Firth's smile stiffened.

Zachary narrowed his eyes. "I hear he was sent to the Northlands for 'seasoning' at a young age, but he neither manages military affairs nor trains his troops. His entire force exists only because his family supports him."

He lowered his voice as though sharing a secret, while ensuring the nearby nobles could hear every word.

"They say his family discarded him here. Since arriving in the Northlands, he has spent every day drinking tea and writing poetry in his castle. Apparently, even riding a horse makes his backside ache."

The southern nobles exchanged amused glances.

"A highborn young master," one murmured. "Naturally, he would be a little... aloof."

Another chuckled. "Perhaps Louis plans to arrive after the banquet so he won't have to trouble himself with a bow."

"Hmph!" Count Firth slammed his wineglass onto the table. "Who does he think he is, showing such contempt for the lord of Snowpeak County?"