A Mage Reborn: Legacy of the Fallen Emperor
Chapter 70. Celebration

Chapter 70: Chapter 70. Celebration

A cacophony erupted from outside.

"Ian’s going to be the new Lord!"

"Congratulations, Lord Ian!"

"A toast! Hey, you there, Cheonryeo! Less brooding, more drinking!"

"Viscount, is it? Huh. Guess we’ll have to get used to that."

News of Ian’s appointment had spread like wildfire, drawing the territory’s residents out in droves. The night blurred into a festival. Ian watched from the window, a faint smile gracing his lips.

Cielonia had departed without a proper conversation with Molin. Only a look, heavy with shared history, had passed between them.

"Damn it all."

While everyone else, including Ian, celebrated, Romandro nursed his wine, a frown etched on his face. The bottle popped open, and he shook it absently.

"The Viscount title... I can understand that. The territory’s too big for a Baron, but a Count would’ve been overkill."

Besides, most of the Borderlands were effectively run by Counts, regardless of their actual title. It was the rank just below the Dukes and Marquises, who were of royal blood. The minimum requirement for acknowledging their autonomy.

"Viscount of the Borderlands. It sounds... strange."

"But 10,000 gold coins in a year? Anyone who’s so much as glanced at Bratz’s tax reports would know that’s impossible."

They knew.

He couldn’t fathom the Emperor’s reasoning, but whoever had proposed this condition had undoubtedly done so expecting Ian to fail.

And that... was most likely Gale.

"Bratz’s annual taxes are around 10,000, aren’t they? And now they want another 10,000? How can they demand double? The Emperor is heartless. Doesn’t he realize the people of Bratz exist before his power plays?"

Romandro fumed, his gaze softening as he looked at Ian. The celebrating residents were oblivious, but this was akin to savoring a year of sweetness before being sold into slavery.

At least if he’d lived it up as a proper Lord, he’d have no regrets!

And that wasn’t the end of it. He’d undoubtedly be registered as a Mana Operator and placed under Mage management during the appointment ceremony.

"Three, maybe four months? That’s all the time he’ll have to relax here."

"About that, until the New Year."

"No! Three or four months is nothing. He’s been busting his ass rebuilding this place! Maybe he’ll get a month to rest after the first snowfall!"

"Why are you getting so worked up, Romandro?"

Ian refilled his wine glass, a gesture meant to soothe him.

"Regardless, I’ve achieved my goal of becoming Lord here. We should enjoy the moment while we can."

BANG!

"Ian!"

Berik burst through the door, shouting. His flushed face could have been from excitement or alcohol—it was impossible to tell. He barreled through several Cheonryeo tribesmen as he entered.

"Pig! Let’s hunt a pig!"

"I told you, he won’t let us, Berik!"

"Aw, come on! Just asking!"

"Fine. It’s a special occasion. Go on."

"YES! See? I told you!"

CRASH!

Berik roared and charged back out. Kakantir and Nersarn appeared, their faces split by wide grins as they approached Ian.

"Congratulations, Lord Ian."

"Thank you. It’s all thanks to the Cheonryeo’s help."

"Ah. Things have turned out very well."

"Better than expected?"

"Yes. To put it mildly, yes, hahaha!"

It was a day that confirmed their decision to back Ian, setting Derga aside, had been the correct one. Now, they would no longer be considered mere barbarians, but allies, and they would achieve economic and cultural growth to match. This place was practically the Welcome Gate to Bariel.

"May I see the Emperor’s decree?"

"Of course."

Ian unfolded the scroll Cielonia had bestowed. At the very bottom, neatly written, was the name of the current Emperor: Clyne Verosion.

I don’t get it.

Ian mulled over the name, but nothing came to mind. It was an era of chaos. Countless Emperors had come and gone in a single century; it was hardly surprising. Even he had only served three years before stepping down.

"Hmm?"

"What is it?"

"...Nothing."

It was the Emperor’s seal that had caught his eye. It was subtly different in size from the one he remembered. He thought it might be a trick of the light, but the more he traced it with his fingertip, the clearer the difference became.

This was the seal he’d stamped every single day.

He could picture it perfectly, even with his eyes closed. This subtle discrepancy was deeply unsettling.

Is the seal different?

But that was impossible. The Emperor’s seal had been passed down for over a thousand years, since the founding of the nation. He’d never heard of it being lost, and even if it had...

I would know.

Ian couldn’t shake off his confusion. He continued to examine the seal, his certainty and doubt warring within him.

There was only one conclusion.

The seal had been changed.

But why? How?

Romandro, watching from the side, spoke up. "You’ll wear it out."

"Is something wrong?"

"Well, uh... Now that you’re a Viscount, I... I’m not sure how to address you..."

Romandro mumbled, glancing nervously at Kakantir. He hadn’t thought about it when they were alone, but the presence of an outsider brought the reality crashing down. Viscount Ian was, in every respect, his superior.

"It’s not official yet. Please, relax."

"B-but... is that really alright?"

"Of course. You don’t have a family name, after all."

"Ha, ha! I can’t wait for winter. I never imagined I’d be heading to the capital before the New Year’s Meeting. I need to write to my wife."

Romandro’s voice was brimming with excitement. He’d thought he’d barely make it past the new year, so it was natural to be thrilled that his mission would be completed sooner. Kakantir also announced his intention to return.

"We’re planning to gradually reduce the number of Cheonryeo warriors here. It’s getting colder, and they miss the Great Desert."

"Ah, so you’re returning."

"I will be, soon. Nersarn will remain here for a while longer."

It clearly hadn’t been a mutual decision. Nersarn, standing behind them, looked as though he might faint from terror. Given their sensitivity to the cold, the concept of "snow" likely held a terrifying significance for them.

"Speaking of which, I heard the capital demanded 10,000 gold coins."

"That’s correct."

"Will you be able to manage that? I’d help if I could, but that’s beyond our capabilities. I could offer you 10,000 enemy heads, though..."

It was a joke, but it didn’t sound like one. It didn’t seem entirely impossible for them. Ian raised his wine glass, a gesture of reassurance.

"It’s not a problem. They aren’t demanding it immediately; they’ve given me a year. It only took me a couple of months to rise from the Great Desert to becoming a Lord."

Life could change in the blink of an eye, so 10,000 gold coins... a year was ample time. Besides, his primary goal was to reach the Imperial Palace. He couldn’t predict what would happen afterward. Which meant there was no point in worrying.

"Indeed, the gods don’t present unsolvable problems. Once you’re in the capital, you’ll find another opportunity."

"I believe so too."

Ian drained his glass and glanced out the window. The residents were still celebrating, showing no signs of fatigue despite the late hour. It seemed the ravaged territory needed a spark of life. Everyone was having such a good time...

"Oh, Ian. Now that you’ve received your letter of appointment, shouldn’t you inform the neighboring territories?"

Neighboring. At Romandro’s words, Ian looked at Kakantir. The closest one was right here.

And then...

"Ah. Yes, of course."

The remaining one was Mereloff. He’d sent a letter of protest regarding the assassination attempt, but there had been no reply. It was a level of disregard he’d never encountered before.

"I’ll write to Mereloff. Now that the official letter of appointment has arrived, I expect a response."

"What? That bastard received a title?"

"The letter just arrived, my lord."

Mereloff snatched the letter from his butler’s hand. He read the handwritten note, stating that Ian would be officially appointed at the end of the year and granted the title of Viscount. At the bottom was a ridiculously insincere note of thanks: "It’s all thanks to dear Count Mereloff."

"Preposterous. The world’s gone mad. A brothel-born lowlife pretending to be a noble."

"We must send a reply of congratulations, but we are behind on replies due to the previous letter..."

He was referring to the news of Ian’s attack, sent under Romandro’s name. Mereloff had scoffed at it at the time. If Ian had sent it directly, he would’ve accused him of killing Mereloff’s people and turned the situation on its head, but since it was from Romandro, he’d simply ignored it.

"Don’t bother. Just have a servant relay the message. It’s a waste of paper and ink."

"Yes, my lord."

His arrogance was absolute. Even with a formal noble appointment, he should at least treat Ian as a neighboring lord. They were rivals, but in the Borderlands, they were ultimately reliant on each other.

The butler resigned himself to writing and sending the reply himself. Count Mereloff tossed the letter aside and continued reviewing documents, summarizing the territory’s profits before winter.

"Butler."

Count Mereloff suddenly asked, a flicker of curiosity in his voice.

"Has there been any word from Bratz regarding food supplies?"

"No, my lord. I haven’t received any correspondence on that matter."

Strange. The harvest was worse than last year’s, and even Mereloff, who had prepared to some extent, was seeing warning signs. Thankfully, foreign merchant caravans were expected to stay longer during the winter, but he wondered what that Ian fellow was planning to do without any communication.

"Is he planning to eat corpses? Tsk, tsk."

Count Mereloff suppressed a chuckle and flipped through the documents. The butler bowed and exited to the hallway, where the Countess was waving her fan, signaling him to approach.

"Madam. What is it?"

"I heard a letter arrived from Bratz?"

"Yes. It was news of Lord Ian’s official appointment as Viscount."

"Oh."

The Countess let out a small, surprised exclamation.

"What did the Count say?"

"About..."

"The reply, of course."

The butler hesitated, unable to give a straight answer. He was planning to write it himself. The Countess, understanding his predicament, smiled and nodded.

"Please take care of it. And, separately, I believe we should send a gift. Open the private vault."

"The Count’s permission...?"

At the butler’s words, Mereloff’s wife snapped her fan shut. The airy, meaningless smile instantly vanished.

"I’m on my way to get it now."

"You really don’t need to go to such lengths, Madam."

The butler tried to dissuade her. The Count had already abandoned any thought of replying. He couldn’t risk trouble over a gift. But the Countess firmly brushed him aside.

Thwack!

"It must be done."

With those ominous words, the Countess entered the office.