Clash at Noble's Estate

There was a powerful marquis in the Southern Province named Cavan Orlando. He held an exalted position and vast fiefs, and wherever the blades of his knightly order pointed, all opposition crumbled. Throughout the Pompey Empire, he was a truly formidable figure.

Unfortunately, Richard's body happened to be the bastard child Cavan had left behind with his mistress.

More unfortunately, in Pompeii, bastard children—especially those whose mothers came from lowly families—had never been regarded as true offspring.

When his mother was still alive, young Richard had met Cavan several times. The marquis had even picked him up himself and repeatedly asked, "Who are you?" But as soon as his mother died, he was driven from the marquis's residence and reduced to having neither food nor clothing, surviving by mingling with street thieves and committing petty theft.

Later, one of his "business deals" went wrong, and the victim tracked him down and beat him within an inch of his life. Just as his breathing was about to stop, a soul from another world took over the street thief's life, along with the Mounted Warfare System.

The original Richard could not read those square-shaped characters and had taken them for meaningless hallucinations. But how could the current Richard possibly fail to understand them?

He immediately burst into laughter while coughing up blood, then fainted again.

After recovering, Richard seemed utterly transformed and began studying Martial Arts and combat.

After all, time in reality was far more plentiful than in the game. Thus, the seemingly useless experience from daily training accumulated year after year until it became quite considerable.

By simply swinging his sword at wooden targets to build training experience, Richard's Martial Arts and physique grew stronger at an unimaginable rate. He gradually earned a reputation in the arena. His beginning had been plain enough, but it had gone smoothly. If things continued like this, gathering a group of capable followers and winning himself a knighthood in the future would be effortless.

But, but.

During last year's unusually damp and freezing winter, Marquis Cavan Orlando, the biological father of this body and a man in the twilight of his life, gradually descended into madness and performed a feat that would be remembered by bards across the nation for ten years—

After getting gloriously drunk, he decided on the spot to bestow the Orlando surname, passed down through twelve generations of ancestors, upon his bastard son—Richard.

Cavan was already too old to lift a sword, yet power remained firmly in his grasp. He was still the iron-blooded marquis whose word was law, and his increasing madness only made him more feared.

Despite unanimous opposition from his wife and children, the absurd order was enforced with unwavering strength. Even Richard's own objections were useless.

It was the sort of mistake that would not have happened even in an ordinary merchant household.

A surname representing countless honors, glory, and history was thus tarnished, becoming a joke for people to laugh over after meals. The entire Southern Province eagerly discussed how the Orlando Family's bastard son had actually inherited the family name!

Thus, street-dwelling Richard became Richard Orlando, and Richard Orlando became a thorn in the side of every Orlando: one marquis, three counts, two viscounts, nine barons, and twenty or thirty knights.

What could Richard do?

Of course, he ran immediately! If he did not run, was he supposed to wait for death?

He packed up his belongings, exchanged them for money, used the Orlando name to obtain a Pioneering Baron certificate, then rode straight for the distant Northeastern Province.

But judging by the green-eyed servant's reaction, the news had likely reached this place long ago.

The spread of mere gossip and juicy rumors depended on one afternoon tea and hunting dinner after another, so it normally would not travel quickly. That meant the Orlandos' arrangements might already have arrived.

"Sir, your identity has been confirmed," the green-eyed servant said quietly. "However, Count Augustus instructed me to make sure you met him."

Count Augustus...

Richard did his best to recall the noble genealogical knowledge he had crammed into his head the previous night. That material was truly complex enough to make one's head ache, but he barely managed to remember.

Soren Augustus, a military noble who had risen during the Glorious War thirty years ago, was now the Akna of Noble's Estate—that was, its administrator. He was a member of the Augustus Family and the younger brother of the Northeastern Province's highest governor.

"Fine. Lead the way."

Only after following the green-eyed servant through the gates of Noble's Estate did Richard discover just how outrageously grand the building's hall was.

The interior rose more than ten blades high. The moment he looked up, he could immediately feel his own insignificance. The overall design clearly followed a clever balance; he could not tell whether it was confidence or arrogance, but such a vast hall had only a single stone pillar standing at its center for support.

Seven or eight wooden doors lined the surrounding stone walls, perhaps leading to different departments of Noble's Estate. A dozen or so clerks and male servants bustled back and forth among them.

"This way, sir." The green-eyed servant stood beside an especially exquisite carved cherrywood door and leaned over to push it open for Richard.

Compared with the intricate, lavish retro style of Noble's Estate, this room was furnished plainly and simply.

There was a heavy, broad mahogany desk and two high-backed chairs facing one another across it, with no other decoration. At that moment, a gray-haired old man sat in the chair opposite the door, bent over his writing.

"Sit, please sit." The old man set his quill in the ink bottle and pinched the bridge of his nose, looking thoroughly exhausted. "I am Soren."

Richard was slightly surprised.

Rumor had it that Soren was a general who had risen to prominence during the Glorious War, famous for strict discipline and brilliant achievements. Richard had always assumed he would be a tall, fierce-looking man. He had not expected the real person to be so slight of build and even kindly in appearance.

"Your swordsmanship is renowned." Richard knew little about Soren, but he felt that any general would consider his swordsmanship fairly good.

"No need for pleasantries."

"There is some very bad news I must tell you." Soren folded his hands on the desk and went straight to the point. "Your father, that old devil Cavan, died last week. The new successor is your half-brother, Winger—Winger Orlando."

Richard raised a brow. Cavan's death was indeed very bad news for him. It had nothing to do with any nonexistent familial affection between them, but rather with very practical concerns.

"Regarding the matter of giving you the Orlando surname, if that old devil had still been alive, little Winger would have had no choice but to endure it, no matter how unwilling he was."

"But now that Cavan is dead, little Winger has long regarded you as a thorn in his eye, and he is now Marquis Wenger." Soren tapped the tabletop lightly with four fingers in turn, producing a sound like galloping hooves. "I heard you acquired a Pioneering Baron certificate? A very wise decision, but I'm afraid it still won't be enough to withstand the hostility of a powerful marquis, even if he is far away in the Southern Province. Isn't that right?"

"That is indeed the case." Richard had to admit that Soren's words were entirely realistic.

Soren was an old fox, a highly skillful old fox. The Orlando Family and Richard were in opposition. Soren was clearly delivering a message on behalf of the Orlando Family, yet his phrasing left Richard with no choice but to agree as well.

The authority represented by the words "powerful marquis" was not something one could resist through individual courage or brute force.

Of course, if that so-called Marquis Wenger thought his private guard could stand against Richard, he was dreaming in broad daylight.