Chapter 308 - 303: The True Colors of Grey Marsh Territory

Chapter 308: Chapter 303: The True Colors of Grey Marsh Territory

The sails of the allied fleet blanketed Minas Tirith Port.

With his belly puffed out, Baron Kroo was the first to step off the gangway of the Sealion.

Behind him followed six heavily armed and armored Level 4 Knights. This was the foundation of his family’s power and the source of his confidence for this campaign.

Ordinarily, this would be the moment for the flattery of port officials, followed by a round of haggling over the location of their barracks and their treatment.

However, there was no welcoming crowd on the docks, only a young man in the attire of a high-ranking official who approached.

Tristan held a folder in his hand. Without even glancing at Baron Kroo, his gaze fell directly on the Baron’s ship.

"Sealion, Captain Barkley, passenger Baron Kroo and one hundred twenty-six armed personnel," the young man confirmed, reading from his file.

"Berth three, assembly point in Area B for roll call. Quartermaster Barton is in charge of reception. My Lord Baron, your quarters are Room Seven, on the third floor of the east wing of the Lord’s Mansion."

The entire speech Baron Kroo had prepared was caught in his throat.

The man not only knew his ship’s name but was also perfectly clear on the number of men he had brought—which, admittedly, was quite impressive.

But what infuriated him was the other’s purely business-like, utterly disrespectful attitude.

He cleared his throat and put on an air of feudal authority. "My Knightly guard must be quartered with me. They are responsible for my safety."

Tristan finally looked up. "My Lord Baron, it’s a military order. All established units are not to be broken up. Your six Knights, being a cavalry unit, have been assigned to the northern joint barracks, which is adjacent to the stables and training grounds. There are three hundred guards patrolling the port, and the Lord’s Mansion has its own standing guard. You need not worry about your safety."

Baron Kroo could tell the young man was no commoner, and he spoke with displeasure.

"What kind of attitude is this? Hmph. It seems no one has taught you the proper etiquette for addressing a nobleman. State your father’s name! I’ll have him teach you a lesson!"

Tristan smiled faintly. "I reserve my etiquette for those who are worthy of respect. As for my father’s name... are you sure you want to know?"

Angered by his attitude, Baron Kroo let out a smug laugh.

"Of course! As allies, we’ll likely see him at the banquet tonight. Tell me, and perhaps for your father’s sake, I can forgive your insolence."

Tristan said nothing more. He simply took a seemingly plain signet ring from his pocket and casually slipped it onto his finger.

Baron Kroo was about to continue his tirade when his gaze was suddenly drawn to the ring—engraved on it was the family crest that could only be used by the direct bloodline of Marquis Lorenzo.

The color drained from his face, and a cold sweat broke out on his back.

’I can’t believe Velin’s chief Civil Servant... is actually the Marquis’s son! Just who in the world is this Velin!’

"My Lord Baron." Tristan’s voice pulled him from his shock. His tone was as flat as ever, as if nothing had just happened.

He pulled a sheet of paper from the folder and handed it over. "This is your materiel dispatch order. Please complete unloading within half an hour; the next ship is about to dock. Any delays will be officially recorded and will affect your unit’s logistics rating."

With that, he ignored the dumbstruck Baron Kroo and turned to walk toward the next ship that was docking.

Baron Kroo held the flimsy piece of paper, his hand trembling.

He looked around and saw that every nobleman disembarking from their ship was experiencing the same thing.

There was no chaotic squabbling, only a stream of commands that channeled the nearly one thousand troops and their supplies to various corners of the city.

In this city, it seemed even nobles received no special treatment; they were all just cogs in a war machine waiting to be put in their place.

After completing the handover, Diana and the others followed a road to a massive platform embedded in the side of a cliff.

The platform was forged from steel, its edges inscribed with glowing Magic Runes. Two soldiers pulled a lever, and the platform began to rise smoothly, carrying them upwards with a low hum.

It was a magic-powered elevator.

As the platform continued to ascend, Diana’s view opened up dramatically.

She looked down upon the several tiers of the city built into the mountainside.

Above the port district, the second tier was a storage area. Standardized warehouses were arranged like a checkerboard, and cranes and workers moved in perfect sync, efficiently transporting goods to their designated areas.

In the middle was the residential and workshop district. The roads were wide enough for three carriages to travel abreast, and clean water flowed in the drainage ditches on either side.

From her high vantage point, the pedestrians hurried along, their faces showing none of the usual numbness and hunger of commoners. Instead, they were filled with drive and energy.

Further up were the barracks and training grounds.

She could see squads of soldiers patrolling along fixed routes, and the pre-set foundations for watchtowers were all placed in critical locations... Here, civilian life was militarized, and daily routine was combat readiness.

The welcoming banquet was held in the great hall of the Lord’s Mansion.

Unlike the glittering gold and intricate decorations of a traditional noble’s residence, there were no ancestral portraits hanging on the walls, nor were there any draperies embroidered with Golden Thread.

The high-vaulted ceiling and massive stone pillars were largely unadorned, projecting a style of imposing grandeur.

The overall style was simple and open, creating a feeling of comfort, yet it also exuded a sense of power.

The nobles from the Dawn Territory exchanged glances, unable to suppress their inner critiques.

This style was too unconventional, completely lacking in heritage.

But when the first dish was served, all such doubts vanished into thin air.

First, there was the peculiar aroma.

On an earthenware plate sat a type of fungus, slow-roasted in a rich sauce and sprinkled with finely chopped, vibrant green herbs. It looked incredibly appetizing.

"Is this... a mushroom?" Baron Kroo frowned. Serving mushrooms as a main course was unheard of.

The steward in charge of the banquet explained with a smile.

"My Lord Baron, this is the ’Gray Marsh Meat Mushroom.’ A local specialty, cooked with an exclusive Secret Technique. You’ll understand once you taste it."

Dubiously, Baron Kroo cut off a small piece.

The moment it entered his mouth, he almost forgot to chew.

A rich, savory flavor far exceeding that of beef, mixed with the fragrance of the sauce, exploded in his mouth. The texture of the mushroom was thick and springy, and with each chew, delicious juices burst forth, leaving an endlessly satisfying aftertaste.

His eyes widened, his composure lost.

"This..." he mumbled indistinctly. "This stuff... how many Golden Suns could this sell for per pound?"

The surrounding nobles quickly started on their own portions, and the hall was soon filled with gasps of amazement.

The dishes that followed overturned their perceptions one after another.

A series of dishes they had never even heard of were brought out.

There was a "Potato and Chicken Stew," where the chicken was so tender it fell off the bone, the broth rich and savory, and the potatoes, having soaked up the juices, were simply irresistible;

"Steamed Giant Marsh Perch," seasoned simply yet bringing out the fish’s natural sweetness to perfection, with none of the muddy taste of inland fish;

And a fried potato dish, where golden-brown potato chunks were coated in a sweet and sour sauce made from tomatoes, crispy on the outside and soft on the inside.

The atmosphere of the banquet grew lively.

People from the Grey Marsh Territory, the Dawn Territory, and the Golden Sail Commerce Association all began to cast aside their affiliations and chat freely in the lively atmosphere.

After several rounds of drinks, the lights came up on a stage to one side of the hall.

Several actors took the stage and began to perform the play "Rocky."

It came to a scene where the protagonist, Rocky, was trying to temper his will and strength by tying rocks to his legs and struggling to imitate a Knight’s charge in the mud.

He fell again and again, covered in mud, but he stubbornly got back up each time, the fire in his eyes only growing brighter.

Seeing this, even the nobles could empathize and cheered for the protagonist.

Diana’s gaze, however, was focused more on the people below the stage.

The servants attending to the guests, the guards standing post in the corners—all the local people of the Grey Marsh Territory—watched the resilient figure on stage with pride in their eyes.

The banquet ended, with both guests and hosts thoroughly pleased.

「The next morning.」

The great hall was filled with the aroma of wheat porridge and the stench of alcohol from the hungover guests.

Most of the nobles were listless, rubbing their aching foreheads.

Baron Kroo was yawning while complaining that the Grey Marsh Territory’s red wine had too strong of a kick.

Velin walked in.

His hair was impeccably combed, and his entire presence was like a drawn sword, carrying the chill of the morning air and dispelling the sluggish warmth of the room.

"Good morning. It seems the wine of the Grey Marsh Territory agrees with you all."

Baron Kroo was just about to offer a compliment when Velin continued speaking, his tone completely flat.

"Good. But the Sea Race won’t wait for us to sober up."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over every noble present, finally landing on Diana’s face.

"War council. One hour, in the strategy room. Everyone must be present."

With that, he turned and left.

The sound of his hard military boots striking the stone slabs echoed through the hall like a prelude to the drums of war.

The warmth of the banquet vanished completely, replaced by the chilling reality of war.