FL - Chapter 79: Merit

"Third in merit—Baron Calvin, Louis Calvin."

The adjutant had barely finished before the banquet hall erupted. Its solemn stillness shattered, and whispers raced through the crowd like an avalanche.

"Him?! You've got to be joking!"

"How old is he? Eighteen? Nineteen? And he ranks third in merit?"

"Did someone… pull strings?"

"Don't forget his name is Calvin. One of the Empire's eight great houses."

"A southerner—hasn't even put down roots in the Northlands for half a year—and he walks away with a medal? Who's going to believe that?"

"Corruption. It's got to be corruption."

Suspicion and hostility filled the gazes aimed at Louis, sharp enough to feel like a volley of arrows.

And yet the young man remained calm and unruffled through it all.

Until a roar detonated above the hall: "SILENCE!!"

Duke Edmund's voice.

Every whisper, every mutter, cut off instantly.

He said nothing more. He simply raised a hand, a light gesture signaling the adjutant to continue.

The adjutant cleared his throat, unfurled the record of battle, and continued in a ringing voice:

"Baron Calvin was ordered to reconnoiter Clearfeather Ridge, where he discovered the enemy's movements and took the initiative. After a night march of nearly sixteen miles, he led one hundred and thirty knights in an assault on the enemy outpost and seized Clearfeather Ridge. He then laid an ambush, combining Mana Blast Bombs with a deliberate mountainside collapse to destroy eight hundred elite wolf riders. The enemy force was annihilated. His own force suffered no deaths."

The hall filled with the sound of sharply drawn breaths.

Many nobles' eyes flew wide with shock.

"One hundred and thirty against eight hundred? And not a single one of his own men died?!"

"Elite wolf riders—aren't those the Snowsworn's crack troops?"

"He only had a hundred and thirty men?!"

The adjutant continued without pause. "The victory at Clearfeather Ridge secured the critical passage into Ice Sea County and overturned the enemy's campaign plan. By denying passage to the enemy's main force, Baron Calvin stabilized the northern defensive line. The Military Affairs Office judges that although his victory was smaller in scale than those of the two counts named before him, it was the campaign's most remarkable result—won with scarce resources, too few troops, and no reinforcements."

The nobles traded glances. Many wore complicated expressions.

They projected themselves into that battlefield. Into this young noble's shoes. In all honesty, if it had been them, they were not certain they could have done what he did.

The murmuring began to change.

"…He really does have some serious skill."

"Ranking third in merit for this—hardly unfair."

"He's young, but that courage, that judgment… not ordinary at all."

"True. If Clearfeather Ridge had fallen, this whole campaign might have dragged on for who knows how much longer."

More and more nobles turned their eyes toward the young man standing before the dais. Their gazes now carried a measure of genuine respect.

Those who had sneered earlier fell silent and replaced their scowls with smiles. Their thoughts had already turned to the evening banquet. Perhaps they ought to introduce themselves to the young baron. A capable noble without an existing grudge was welcome anywhere.

There were still a few sour voices muttering under their breath, of course.

"Hmph. In the end, it's still just luck," a certain young nobleman whispered with a cold smirk. "Give me that same opportunity, and who knows—I might have done it even better."

But before the words had fully left his mouth, a gray-haired count beside him swept a cool glance over him. "Stop boasting. Would you have had the nerve to lead your hundred men in a charge against the Snowsworn?"

The young noble's face flushed scarlet. He didn't dare say another word.

Once the crowd had quieted somewhat, the adjutant continued his proclamation:

"Baron Calvin, for displaying courage and strategic acumen far beyond the ordinary in the Clearfeather Ridge engagement, is hereby awarded by His Grace the following honors—

"The 'Shield of the Northlands' combat merit medal, one.

"A reward of twenty thousand Imperial Gold Coins.

"An additional grant of roughly three hundred and eighty-six square miles of territory, contiguous with his existing holdings.

"Eight hundred military warhorses, one thousand five hundred standard infantry spears, five hundred heavy shields…"

As the proclamation concluded, utter silence fell over the hall.

Even after witnessing the rewards bestowed upon the two counts, the nobles drew sharp breaths.

"That's… an enormous reward…"

"Nearly four hundred square miles of new territory—some viscounts don't even possess that much."

"And the Shield of the Northlands? At his age? Getting that?!"

Louis stood at the front, listening as each reward was read aloud. His face remained as calm as still water. But beneath his sleeves, his hands quietly curled into fists.

Nearly four hundred square miles of territory—more than three times the size of Crimson Tide Territory. It was effectively the foundation of a future viscounty, handed straight to him. The gold, warhorses, and weapons would also let him build a compact but formidable army.

The Shield of the Northlands was no mere campaign keepsake. It was reserved for nobles and commanders who had rendered outstanding service in battle. The recipient's house banner would hang forever in the Northlands Battle Banner Gallery—an honor coveted by every noble and officer in the region.

The medal carried substantial privileges as well. Its bearer could attend wartime councils of the northern nobility and speak with the standing of a count's advisory representative. His territory would receive priority access to Imperial military supplies, and the treasury would pay him an annual stipend of two thousand Gold Coins for territorial development or personal use.

For the two counts before him, these perks might have meant little. For Louis, they represented the highest honor and reward imaginable.

Even with all his mental preparation, he had to admit—the reward was staggeringly generous.

Yet when Louis climbed the steps, none of that turmoil reached his face.

In the back rows, nobles seeing him for the first time couldn't hold back their low murmurs of amazement.

"So young?"

"He looks even younger than my youngest son."

"How did he do it?"

Jon sat near the front. Hearing the whispers, he answered with unmistakable pride. "Baron Calvin is nineteen."

The faces around him shifted subtly.

Nineteen years old. And such achievements already…

On the dais, Duke Edmund personally pinned the Shield of the Northlands Medal to Louis's chest—a shield-shaped emblem of silver and blue, gleaming brilliantly in the lamplight.

"Well done, Baron Calvin." Edmund clapped him on the shoulder. "You've proven yourself with results."

He paused. Then he added one more line. "I have already submitted a commendation application to His Imperial Majesty—requesting a viscountcy for you."

Hearing this, silence seized the hall once more.

Louis inclined his head in a slight bow. "My gratitude, Your Grace."

He showed little emotion, accepting the news with the composure of a man who had expected nothing less.