Franco's POV

As the assembly concluded, the nobles began to disperse, their murmurs fading like echoes in the grand hall. Some nobles lingered briefly, exchanging terse farewells before retreating to their mansions within the city. Others seized the opportunity to depart altogether, setting off toward their lands scattered across the empire.

Among those leaving was Franco. The Bastille estate lay south of Hafenstadt, beyond the peninsula—a vast expanse of fertile plains stretching to the horizon. Golden wheat fields swayed gently in the breeze, the lifeblood of the empire's granaries. Through these abundant harvests, the Bastille family ascended to power over the past two centuries. Though they had not distinguished themselves in recent wars, their dominance in agriculture made them indispensable. They were the empire's breadbasket and unafraid of leveraging this vital role at the negotiating table.

Franco sat silently in his carriage as it rumbled along the road leading home. The rhythmic clatter of hooves and the creak of wooden wheels provided a steady backdrop to his contemplations. But unlike his solitary journeys of the past, this time, he was not alone.

His carriage was shared with other nobles, and a small convoy followed closely behind—each carriage filled with individuals eager to "discuss" the recent developments that unsettled their comfortable lives. The atmosphere inside was charged with indignation and whispered conspiracies.

"It's an outrage! She employed some petty thief to educate our children," huffed one nobleman across from Franco, his face flushed with anger.

"And the content of his teachings! My daughter returned home utterly shocked," added another, shaking his head in disbelief.

"What was the lesson about?" inquired a third, leaning forward with a furrowed brow.

"He spoke about being a 'Prince.' Can you fathom the absurdity?"

"Clarice came home terrified," the second noble continued. "She said at any moment, we could lose everything we have. Can you believe such nonsense?"

Franco listened to their complaints with detached indifference. Though he bore the noble title, he did not consider himself one of them. Their petty squabbles and narrow concerns bored him. He preferred the quiet analysis of political maneuvers and the subtle art of influence over the clamor of indignant voices.

He shifted his gaze back to the window, watching as the landscape rolled by. In the corner of his vision, ethereal letters shimmered faintly, his Status Page hovering just at the periphery.

--

[Class: Merchant (Rare)]

--

Despite possessing a rare class, he was simply a merchant. His abilities had little combat use, and his magical talents were negligible. But Franco knew power did not solely reside in martial prowess or arcane might.

If not for his cunning, Franco would never have attained the position he held today. It had cost him dearly the lives of two brothers and the removal of several others who had stood in his way. Such sacrifices were necessary in the ruthless game of power.

"If we do nothing, he will poison the minds of our children!" one noble exclaimed, his face flushed with indignation.

"Franco, you should exert your influence," urged another, leaning forward earnestly. "If you appeal to the council, they will remove him from the Academy."

Franco observed the speaker with a cool, appraising gaze. He adjusted the cuff of his impeccably tailored black coat, embroidered subtly with threads of gold, a symbol of his wealth and status. Clearing his throat softly, he interjected, "The Academy? Aren't you all nobles?"

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"Of course we are," they replied in unison, their tones laced with a mixture of pride and confusion at his question.

"Then how can you, in good conscience, send your heirs to a third-rate city like Hafenstadt for their education?" Franco's voice was smooth, tinged with mild reproach. "Instead of complaining, perhaps you should send your children to the capital to study alongside the Emperor's own offspring." He paused, letting his words sink in. "None of my children remain in Hafenstadt. Are you truly willing to jeopardize your heirs' positions by settling for less?"

A moment of silence followed as the nobles exchanged uneasy glances. "You're right," one finally admitted. "We should all withdraw our children from the Academy."

Franco resisted the urge to sigh aloud. Their eagerness to agree without considering the practical implications was both exasperating and predictable. If they all pulled their children from the Academy, they would lose the academic year entirely and be unable to secure immediate placement in the prestigious institutions of the capital. Nevertheless, he offered a nonchalant shrug, feigning disinterest in their decisions. Their shortcomings were not his concern.

"Franco," another noble ventured cautiously, "about the Templars—isn't it dangerous to have them within our territory?"

Franco arched an eyebrow, a subtle sign of his curiosity. "We're speaking of which Order?"

"The Order of Velkaris," the noble replied, lowering his voice as though afraid of being overheard. "They are said to be the most severe—devotees of the god of justice but lacking any semblance of mercy."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. "I know we utilize that argument to avoid additional taxes," the noble continued, "but they seem fanatics, perhaps even capable of turning against us."

Franco leaned back against the plush cushions, steepling his fingers thoughtfully. He allowed a brief silence to settle before posing a pointed question. "What exactly are you all afraid of?"

The nobles shifted uncomfortably, their earlier bravado waning. One confessed, "That they might turn their swords on us. "

"Or interfere with our businesses," added another, his voice edged with anxiety.

"And that is the same fear that Maria harbors. She perhaps has much more to lose than we do," Franco remarked, his voice smooth yet laced with undertones of calculation. "This will be a battle of endurance. How long can we hold out before we capitulate?"

"We've endured a useless governor who has hindered our external relations for years," Franco continued, his gaze drifting over the other nobles in the carriage. "Then a woman steps in, someone who scarcely understands her own territory, and presumes to issue commands without grasping our reality or the rights we possess."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, bringing himself closer to the circle of his companions.

"I don't know about you," Franco said bluntly, "but I'd much rather take my chances with the Templars than tolerate another generation from a family like hers."

"Without a doubt," one noble affirmed, his jaw set in determination.

"We're with you," another added, nodding firmly.

"It will be the downfall of the Hafenstadts," a third declared, a hint of satisfaction in his tone.

As their voices echoed in agreement, Franco felt his confidence swell. The seeds of dissent had been sown, and with careful tending, they would grow into a force capable of reshaping the balance of power.

Outside the carriage, the landscape began to change subtly as they neared their destination. The Bastille estate loomed just ahead, a testament to his family's wealth and influence.

Anyone gazing out the window would behold an immense expanse of cultivated land. Vast fields of corn and wheat stretched in every direction, the golden hues merging with the orange glow of the setting sun to blanket the ground in a warm tapestry of color. The neatly ordered rows seemed endless, save for the grand castle rising majestically. Surrounding the fortress, meticulously maintained gardens burst with blooms of every shade.

As the carriage drew to a smooth halt, a cadre of soldiers approached the convoy. They moved with practiced efficiency, assisting the noble passengers as they disembarked and escorting them toward the castle's main entrance.

Franco, however, was met by a handful of his aides who hurried to his side.

"Sir," one of them began, his voice low and edged with urgency. "We have received news regarding who is crossing the border. One of our scouts has just reported in."

Franco halted, fixing the aide with a piercing stare.

The aide swallowed hard under his master's gaze. "The one leading the Velkaris is the Scourge of the Gods," he reported solemnly.

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air. Franco's grip tightened around the ornate handle of his ebony cane, the carved wood pressing into his palm with almost painful intensity. His mind raced, calculating the repercussions of this unforeseen development.

'Hell!' Franco thought fiercely. 'He's the worst of them all.

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