Lord of Caldera

Chapter 149

"Think it over? The nerve!" Philip crumpled the agreement. These weren't conditions; they were demands to surrender his land and leave. Accepting it would be madness.

"That brat has quite the nerve!" Philip seethed, irritated by Sylas's dismissive attitude toward a baron's authority.

"What is he doing now?" he demanded.

"He's wandering around the village, saying he wants to see his grandfather and mother's homeland."

"Unbelievable," Philip scoffed, disgusted by the audacity.

"What should we do about it?" Stay connected with My Virtual Library Empire

"Let him do as he pleases! He'll leave in three days," Philip replied.

"Are you sure we shouldn't stop him?" The implication was clear: should they really allow him to scout the territory just before a potential battle?

"There's nothing to see," Philip said dismissively. His barony was barely the size of a large village. From the nearby hill, Sylas could easily discern their limited defenses and troop numbers. Besides, Falun was a neighboring village—they knew the place well, down to the number of stones in the walls.

"Let him poke around; there's no need to stir trouble. Feed him for three days and then send him off."

"Yes, my lord."

Philip decided to stall for three days, hoping to exhaust Sylas's supplies. He had no idea what consequences this decision would bring.

"I am the grandson of Norman and the son of Lyria! Are there any here who knew them?" Sylas called as he moved around Greve's territory. Startled soldiers tried to intervene, but Sylas countered each attempt.

"I am simply looking for those who knew my grandfather and mother. What's the problem with that?" he demanded.

"Well, it's... just..." The soldiers stammered, but Sylas pressed them.

"What exactly is the problem? Have I poisoned a well? Set fire to the armory?"

Unable to argue, the soldiers stepped back. They continued watching him from afar, but couldn't stop him from meeting anyone he pleased. Slowly, the locals, who had been lingering in the shadows, came forward. An older man cautiously approached Sylas.

"Sir...?"

"Yes, what is it?"

"Are you truly the grandson of old Norman?"

"It's hard to talk like this. Someone, go get some drinks and meat! I'll cover the cost!"

A cheer rose from the villagers, and soon the entire village had turned into a celebration.

Unlike Falun, Elmholt was a fairly active trading hub. Thanks to that, it was easy to procure enough food and drinks for everyone. As the villagers began to feast, Anders raised his glass for a toast.

"To Lord Sylas, grandson of Norman, son of Lyria, and descendant of the Dragon Slayer!"

"To Lord Sylas!"

Once the alcohol began to flow, a storm of questions followed. The villagers, who had previously kept their distance, now gathered around Sylas with curiosity. He answered with a blend of half-truths and charming tales.

'I'm glad I visited here before,' he thought. Sylas's previous visit to Elmholt was impulsive; he had come on a whim, wanting to see his grandfather's hometown. Surprisingly, the villagers had welcomed him warmly, thanks to the goodwill his grandfather had left behind.

"Norman was such a kind soul. I can't believe he's gone," one man mused.

"He caught me once trying to steal some game but just let me go."

"He would leave a piece of fur at cold houses, saying he'd found it by the way."

Sylas smiled as he listened to the villagers reminisce.

'This place is worlds apart from Brick Village,' he thought. Here, they fondly remembered his grandfather's kindness, and the stories carried on late into the night.

As dawn approached and most people had drifted off to sleep, Sylas scanned the guards dozing nearby and whispered to the few villagers still awake.

"So, how's life been around here lately? Are things going well?"

"Going well? What do you mean?" a man asked cautiously.

"Since the baron took over. He doesn't seem like a good lord."

The villagers tensed, exchanging uneasy glances. Speaking ill of the lord could lead to severe punishment. One older man tried to quiet the grumbling middle-aged villager beside him, but the latter, visibly intoxicated, continued.

"We're barely scraping by. The baron doesn't let up, and it's a miracle the devil hasn't come for him yet."

"Hey! You shouldn't say that!" someone scolded, but the man ignored him, sighing heavily.

"He keeps raising taxes, and we're struggling. Can you believe he doubled the poll tax in just ten years?"