How to survive in the Romance Fantasy Game Chapter 672: Frozen North 4

At events like this social assembly, it stood to reason that folks motivated by avarice and desperation would flock in unison.

Wherever desires for power accumulated, the rancid aroma of falsehoods, betrayal, and sly intrigue always permeated the atmosphere, lingering invisibly but all too evident.

"Folks from the core truly can't conceal their craving for wealth..." a hushed tone grumbled.

"Quite so..."

From a distant edge of the vast hall—right next to the balcony on the second level—a figure watched the activity downstairs with a face that betrayed no emotion.

Aristocrats chuckled behind covered palms, traders shared grins edged with cunning, and couples whirled on the dance area like each movement hid a secret bargain.

His locks of gray-silver hue and matching gaze pegged him as someone well along in years, but his aura showed no hint of weakness or decline.

His posture remained upright, his bearing firm—much like a weathered flag from ancient battles that had braved endless tempests yet stood defiant.

He seemed less like a lord reveling in opulence and more like a seasoned commander donning formal attire for the occasion.

Count Roverick Astadil from the northern reaches steadily raised the wine goblet he held and savored a deliberate swallow.

At his side stood his trusted aide, Klaus, a lanky fellow whose keen gaze swept over the throng beneath without pause.

In contrast to his master, Klaus displayed open interest; his eyebrows lifted just a touch as he observed the display playing out.

As natives of the North, both men found the extravagant traditions of the central realm quite foreign.

This held especially true for Klaus, who seldom ventured beyond the rugged northern wilds, much less entered Lumen Academy—this event struck him as dreamlike, bordering on overindulgent.

Riches, melodies, merriment... everything appeared overly cozy.

Excessively gentle.

Though Roverick had preferred to steer clear of Lumen entirely, events had compelled him to attend.

Private matters—far weightier than mere diplomacy or politeness—had rendered his attendance essential.

After a short pause, Klaus ventured to speak once more, pitching his voice low.

"By the way, my lord... are you sure we should just linger here?"

The count shifted his attention to him, his stare even and composed.

In that instant, Klaus sensed he was being evaluated like a trooper pending commands.

"Yes," Roverick answered straightforwardly, offering a brief inclination of his head.

"They will approach us."

His focus drifted back to the chamber below, keen and enduring—like a tracker who had picked his spot, fully aware the quarry would stray into sight soon enough.

Yet on this occasion, he might well end up viewed as the target.

In typical scenarios, even if he loathed these assemblies, upholding decorum and forging ties formed a core obligation for any aristocrat.

A domain unable to thrive solely on its raw assets and workforce had little recourse but to lean on pacts, obligations, and the unseen webs of sway.

Like it or not, coin propelled the realm—and those who shunned it frequently plunged under first.

But this evening diverged from the norm.

For the Count, the trip marked no routine outing.

His journey to Lumen Academy boiled down to one straightforward aim, though fraught with thorny challenges in practice—to encounter the Emperor in person.

As the frontline defender against the beast surges battering the empire's northern edge, Roverick had lost troops relentlessly over the weeks.

Incursions by monsters in the North weren't novel; they formed a bleak fixture his folk had endured for ages.

Still, this instance carried a profound, disturbing shift.

The surges hit more often.

The beasts packed greater might.

And most alarmingly, they emerged with eerie synchronization.

He harbored no uncertainty now.

A dungeon break had taken place.

Addressing such a disaster ought to rank as the realm's utmost concern.

If ignored, it would intensify, spawning beasts that crept southward month by month.

With the troops at his disposal, Roverick stood no shot at quelling it solo.

His forces grew weary, his provisions stretched thin, and his casualties had surpassed tolerable bounds.

Hence, he had dispatched plea after plea to the heartland, begging not for extravagance or acclaim—but for backup.

The Emperor had replied, if only in writing.

The Grand Duke received orders to "take action."

Yet apart from sustaining the status quo—bracing the front, staving off the unavoidable—the Grand Duke offered scant meaningful aid.

No bold offensive. No dungeon cleanse. No firm pledge to crush the peril at its root.

Simply put, no true fix for the crisis.

Roverick's hold on his goblet firmed just a fraction.

Should this drag on, the North would shatter before long.

Naturally, the count wasn't foolish.

The Grand Duke held fame as the mightiest blade-wielder across the land.

Purging S-rank—and even SSS-rank—dungeons posed him no genuine hurdle.

Should he desire it, the duke could trek northward unaccompanied and wipe out the dungeon break single-handedly.

Indeed, his simple vicinity at the fringes had already warded off myriad lesser beasts from nearing his domain.

And precisely that rendered the state so off-kilter.

During his prior exchange with the Grand Duke, the fellow had stated plainly.

He insisted on his post to halt the beast surges' spread and voiced worry for the North and its dwellers.

His statements rang true, nearly comforting.

But deeds outshone utterances.

For all his prowess, for all his command, the Grand Duke had launched no bold stroke.

That fact alone sparked doubt.

Roverick now saw plainly that bolstering the North wasn't the Grand Duke's core task.

The Emperor had placed him there for a wholly distinct aim—one unrelated to rescuing northern hamlets or lightening the load on drained warriors.

Of course, Roverick might have pressed the Grand Duke for clarity.

Yet he recognized boundaries.

Exchanges between the Emperor and the Grand Duke lay beyond a count's reach, regardless of his vital role.

In the empire, it formed an tacit edict—decrees from the crown remained locked between those parties.

Nevertheless... that left Roverick with avenues untried.

And as humiliating as it was to concede, his final lifeline hinged on fortune.

This school.

This assembly.

Should a slim chance arise to face the Emperor amid this, he must grasp it without fail.

"My lord... I know it's somewhat embarrassing for me to mention, but wouldn't it serve us better to bargain with the lords nearer our lands rather than tangle with these central... sorts?" Klaus whispered, his eyes darting momentarily to the bustling group downstairs.

"Watch your tongue, Klaus," Roverick replied evenly, though a keen bite lurked underneath.

"P-please pardon my impertinence..."

The count savored another careful taste of his wine prior to responding.

"Such a path holds value. Still, do you honestly think those adjacent rulers would aid us from pure kindness?"

Klaus went quiet.

"In the mildest case, they'd drain us with outrageous stipulations—rations, forces, clout, territory—whatever they could wring out. And in the harshest, they'd deny us flat-out, trotting out their usual pretext." His gaze sharpened. "That the Grand Duke has already been sent to the North."

"...So what options remain?" Klaus inquired softly.

"Even if it means our necks on the block," Roverick declared without pause, "the Emperor represents our sole true shot."

Klaus clenched his jaw.

"We lack the funds to enlist outside groups, S-rank adventurer guilds, mercenary bands, mage towers—each one requires payments we no longer hold."

Klaus bit back his words hard, irritation simmering inside.

The count spoke truth.

No matter how bitterly he acknowledged it, their vaults stood too barren to purchase rescue.

Scouring the dungeon via mercenaries had devolved into mere wishful thinking.

That explained their presence here.

This assembly.

At minimum, Roverick aimed to build links—any links—that could pave a way ahead, even as his prime intent centered on gaining the Emperor's ear.

Still, as Klaus surveyed the ocean of feigned grins, contrived chuckles, and sleek phrases hiding ulterior motives, his unease swelled.

Their manner of talk.

Their style of smiling.

Their habit of appraising value in every glance.

He despised it all.

Maybe he was simply a rigid elder—but that didn't render the spot any more tolerable.

Fortunately, navigating that mob wasn't his lone recourse.

Through pure luck—or maybe destiny—a crucial prospect had landed in his lap only the day before, arriving as a lone missive.

A missive stamped with the emblem of the imperial house.

It alone justified Count Roverick Astadil's tolerance for this venue.

"Count Roverick Astadil."

Hearing the crisp, poised voice utter his name, Roverick spun around at once. His weathered eyes flared wide, true astonishment crossing his features.

He had absorbed endless tales of her allure—claims that she evoked a deity stepped from the skies—but even prepared, he failed to mask his startle upon beholding her there firsthand.

He promptly adjusted his form and inclined in a profound bow.

Klaus, momentarily stunned in admiration, scrambled to mimic the gesture.

"I greet the star of the empire," Roverick stated resolutely. "Your Highness, Princess Snow."

Snow regarded the pair below with a serene, impartial look, her stance regal without strain.

Then Roverick spotted the figure positioned directly in her shadow.

Riley.

The instant his sight landed on him, the count's breathing faltered.

...Formidable.

The notion resounded in his thoughts unbidden.

Unknown to those around, Roverick had borne a hidden gift all his days—one he had kept from even his most intimate confidants.

He possessed the knack to gauge individuals.

Not via figures or ranks, but through gut feeling—a firm intuition of what simmered below.

And as his eyes grazed Riley, a single notion roared through him.

Dominion.

Nigh total.

It lacked the force of a mighty fighter, or the crisp aura of a lofty peer.

It carried far greater weight.

Something akin to godhood.

For the first time in ages, the Count of the North experienced a shiver tracing his back.