FL - Chapter 80: A World Apart

Duke Edmund had not elevated Louis solely to reward a battle well fought. Politics also shaped the decision.

Far too many colonization nobles sent from the South had died in the campaign, stirring discontent among the southern houses. Everyone knew those pampered wastrels had come north to satisfy an obligation and coast their way into a fief. Yet so many deaths at once were difficult to explain. They invited accusations that the northern houses had deliberately used the enemy to dispose of southern rivals.

Elevating Louis—a colonization baron from the South—was the best possible response.

The message was not: *the Northlands shuts out outsiders.*

It was: *you were simply too useless.*

If any of them had possessed even half of his ability, they would have survived and earned their own merits.

Louis had seized the opportunity created by that contrast.

Louis descended the dais at an unhurried pace, treating the medal and honor that other nobles would scramble to obtain like an ordinary formality.

Yet as he passed, the nobles watched him one after another. Their eyes held envy they could not disguise. No one now dared to look down on this nineteen-year-old baron.

The commendations continued. Names of rewarded nobles were announced one by one, but they were all names Louis didn't recognize—overwhelmingly old northern nobles. The southern colonization lords were few and far between.

Until the adjutant's voice rang out again: "Baron Jon Harvey. Second-Class Merit."

Jon nearly leaped from his seat in the back row. In an instant, every hint of boredom vanished from his face. *I got one too?!*

"A reward of two thousand Gold Coins and an additional thirty-nine square miles of territory…"

Jon slapped his thigh, tears of joy gathering in his eyes. *Following the boss really was the best decision of my life!*

True, he had coasted through most of the campaign at the rear of the column and gone nowhere near the fiercest fighting. But the knights under his command had genuinely distinguished themselves at Clearfeather Ridge. By following Louis, Jon had ridden their achievement all the way to military merit and a reward beyond anything he had expected.

Jon congratulated himself. *Excellent judgment. I chose exactly the right man to follow.*

Once the adjutant had finished reading the long page of commendations, he turned over the parchment in his hands. His tone abruptly turned cold.

"The commendations are concluded. What follows is the notice of those who failed in their military duties."

The hall fell silent. Even the nobles exchanging whispers closed their mouths. Iron-armored knights marched in through the rear doors with several officers in noble military uniforms. The prisoners' faces were deathly pale; some still muttered excuses while their terrified gazes darted around the room.

Louis recognized one of them. Golden-brown curls, a bedraggled expression. Zachary Diaz.

Several southern colonization nobles exchanged startled glances, unable to hide a flicker of petty satisfaction. Jon was already grinning in the back row. "So much for competing with the boss. One's in heaven, the other's in the gutter. That's what all your scheming earned you."

He had assumed Zachary would only face a fine. Never, in his wildest dreams, had he imagined the man would end up on the punishment list at all.

The adjutant's face was expressionless. His voice was ice.

"Zachary Diaz. Former commander of Snowhawk City's western defensive sector. On the day the battle commenced, he fled his post and abandoned the city. Verified as fact by the Military Discipline Office. The crime is beyond pardon. Sentenced to death."

As the words fell, Zachary convulsed in desperate struggle, stumbling backward. His eyes were wild with terror and despair.

"No! I didn't flee! It was… a tactical retreat! My father is Duke Diaz! I am a son of the Eight Great Houses! You can't kill me! I'll pay a fine—I'll pay anything—"

He never finished. A heavy slap cracked across his face and sent him sprawling to the ground. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.

Down in the assembly, voices murmured with cold scorn.

"Thought this was still the South? That game doesn't work here."

"The Eight Great Houses? Their name means nothing in the Northlands."

"A deserter… killing him is doing his family name a favor."

Zachary was still screaming and sobbing as they dragged him away, his voice heavy with total collapse. That proud, handsome face of his, once so haughty, was now twisted into something wretched as a beaten cur. Not a shred of noble dignity remained.

And Louis, in the front row, simply watched the scene in silence.

He sat straight-backed, the Shield of the Northlands Medal gleaming on his chest.

Two scions of the Eight Great Houses had come to colonize Snowpeak County.

One was being dragged to the execution grounds, weeping and begging for his life.

One had been personally decorated, crowned with glory.

A world apart.

Finally, Duke Edmund ascended the high platform once more. "I'll say a few more words. This campaign—we did well. Next year, we will go further. No more passive defense. The Northlands will take the offensive against the Snowsworn's strongholds."

His voice was not loud, but it rang with unshakeable resolve. "The Snowsworn must be completely exterminated! Your merits—I have recorded them. Next time, I want to see more names in the rolls of honor."

As his voice faded, the entire hall erupted in fervent response.

The post-war commendation ceremony officially drew to a close.

Louis did not leave Frostspear City. An evening banquet remained, and he needed to build connections. His roots in the Northlands were still shallow; this was his chance to forge ties with nobles who might become useful allies.

And for a young noble who had just earned such towering merits, this night was destined to be anything but quiet.

Sure enough—the banquet had barely begun and Louis had not yet even lifted his wine glass before he found himself surrounded.

The first to approach was a well-dressed middle-aged nobleman with neatly trimmed sideburns. His accent immediately marked him as a colonization noble from the Empire's southwest. With practiced familiarity, he said, "A worthy son of Duke Calvin indeed. Your achievements in the Northlands command admiration."

He went on to introduce himself as a colonization baron from a minor noble house in the southwest. Like Louis, he had been among the first wave to answer the colonization edict and come north.

"To be honest," he lowered his voice, "those of us from the South—life hasn't been easy here. If Your Lordship would be willing to lead his brothers… we would not let you down."

The request bordered on a plea, eager and unmistakably ingratiating.

Louis betrayed nothing, but he understood the subtext perfectly: *we southerners need to stand together, with you at our head.*

To be honest, the idea had a certain appeal.

But he had only just found his footing. If he started building a faction too quickly, it would only draw suspicion and wariness. Not to mention—he had no idea what kind of resources this baron's family actually commanded, nor anything about the man's own ability or character. He was completely in the dark.

"You flatter me. The war in the Northlands is not yet over, and we are all in the same boat." Louis raised his glass, his smile flawlessly neutral. "When the opportunity arises, I will naturally seek ways for us all to prosper."

It sounded warm and welcoming. In truth, it committed to absolutely nothing.

The middle-aged baron looked ready to say more. His mouth had just opened. His wine glass wasn't even steady in his hand.

And then the other nobles came flooding in.