I Became a Dark Fantasy Villain

Chapter 347

In the Western Gate of Travelga, Bilmor, dismounting his horse, addressed the gate captain with a trembling voice.

"Hurry to the inner castle and deliver the message to His Grace directly. Inform him that the Margrave of the Northern snowfields has requested an audience."

Bilmor, dismounting his horse, addressed the gate captain with a trembling voice.

"The Margrave of the Northern snowfields?" The gate captain, narrowing his eyes in confusion, instinctively turned his gaze past Bilmor. His eyes widened the moment they landed on Ian, who was descending from his mount.

"It’s true… My heavens, Lu Solar…"

"Get moving. Quickly."

"Understood…!" Panting, the gate captain turned and bolted away.

So they recognize me immediately. Was word of my position already widespread?

Ian raised an eyebrow slightly as Bilmor, sighing faintly, turned to him.

Before finishing his sentence, Bilmor staggered to the wall and retched. It seemed he had endured with superhuman patience while speaking to the gate captain. Spending an entire day on a jostling saddle must have taken its toll.

"You’re welcome," Ian replied flatly, holding the reins as he walked.

Of course, his request for Bilmor to announce the meeting in advance wasn’t out of consideration for the duke. Before heading to the castle, he could look around the bustling artisan district filled with smithies, general stores, and merchants. With no sign of Seras’s support arriving, he needed to seek alternatives, no matter how slim.

"W-Wait. Surely not…?"

As he passed through the gate, Travelga’s scenery unfolded before them. The distant castle, the monotone buildings, and the somber air of the residents—all of it was exactly as Ian remembered. The uneasy and desolate atmosphere among the people was likely due to the looming threat of erosion.

"Oh my, the Northern Superhuman."

Even amidst this tension, a few townsfolk stopped in their tracks, eyes wide in astonishment as they recognized Ian. As he strode past them, Bilmor hurriedly caught up, his face pale and drawn.

Glancing nervously at Ian, Bilmor finally ventured a cautious question. "Why are you taking this route? The path to the castle is—"

"I’m checking the smithies and workshops. I want to see if there’s anything useful." Ian’s calm response drew a quiet sigh from Bilmor.

"I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I doubt you’ll find anything to your satisfaction. External trade has been cut off for over a month, and all quality goods have already been sent to the front lines or the capital."

"Well, I figured as much…" Ian’s reply carried no trace of surprise, though his steps didn’t falter.

"Wait… Could it really be him?"

"No way. He’s exactly the same…"

As whispers spread through the air, Bilmore glanced nervously at Ian. On horseback, the rush had left no room for conversation, but walking together now, the tension was palpable.

"There’s something I’d like to ask." Ian suddenly broke the silence as they entered a quiet, lifeless street.

"Y-yes, of course, Your Excellency. Please, go ahead," Bilmore stammered, bowing his head hastily.

Ian cast a glance at the meager displays lining the road before continuing, "Do you have any idea why so many people seem to recognize me?"

Since their arrival, dozens of people had stopped in their tracks upon seeing Ian, either wide-eyed with shock or tilting their heads in puzzled familiarity. The reactions came from all demographics—young and old, men and women. While it wasn’t entirely surprising in a place like Travelga, where his reputation was likely known, the sheer number of people recognizing him was excessive. After all, the only common folk Ian had interacted with in the past were a tavern owner and a few barmaids.

"I see you were unaware."

A faint smile spread across Bilmore’s lips. "I’d wager there’s not a single person here who doesn’t recognize you, Your Excellency. Everyone has seen the ceiling fresco."

"... What?" Ian’s head snapped toward him, fragments of a distant memory flooding back—the church in Travelga, where someone had suggested painting a mural commemorating his feats.

"They actually painted it? And finished it?"

"Yes, several months ago," Bilmore confirmed with a nod. "Two of the Empire’s most renowned artists volunteered for the task. It became a sensation among the nobility—the first collaboration between Vilhelm and Leonardo. Have you truly never heard of it?"

"... No, never."

Bilmore chuckled, his expression brimming with pride. "The two masters worked tirelessly, often sacrificing sleep to complete it. General Gelud oversaw the process to ensure accuracy, insisting every detail matched what he had witnessed firsthand."

"General Gelud...?"

"Yes, he was deeply committed to the project. It’s no surprise; the man worships you."

That crazy old man.

Ian muttered inwardly before speaking aloud, "Is the General still here?"

"Regrettably, no. He was recently appointed Commander of the Helinese Fortress. I’m sure he’s disappointed he couldn’t greet you in person."

"... Well, I’ll have to make sure we meet again someday."

And when we do, I’ll repay his devotion with a solid punch.

"If the opportunity arises, I’ll be sure to convey your regards," Bilmore replied, completely oblivious to Ian’s thoughts.

His gaze shifted toward the distant church roof as he continued. "For a while, the church was flooded with visitors. Even with the steep entrance fees, people emptied their pockets to see it. It’s become a landmark of Travelga, alongside the Fallen Dragon’s skull. Though, admittedly, the church has since lost much of its public favor."

Ian remained silent, his expression unreadable.

Sensing an opportunity, Bilmore lowered his voice, speaking with subtle enthusiasm. "If you’re curious, why not pay a visit? I’ve seen it several times myself. Truly, the vividness and grandeur of each scene... every visit feels like the first—"

"That’s enough."

Ian’s curt tone froze Bilmore mid-sentence, leaving him stiff and bewildered.

Ian sighed, his voice cooling just slightly as he added, "Let’s head to the castle. As you said, there’s likely nothing worth salvaging here."

By now, the Archduke should have made all the preparations to welcome him properly.

***

Archduke Olaf awaited in the grand hall of the castle.

"I’ll take my leave here, Your Excellency," said Bilmor, stepping politely aside near the heavy wooden doors reinforced with iron.

"Well done," Ian nodded as he stepped forward, the massive doors groaning open on their hinges to reveal the chamber within.

Ian’s footsteps echoed faintly as he entered. The hall was far from lavish, instead exuding a dim, austere atmosphere, much like the rest of the castle’s exterior. On either side of the hall, torches flickered along the walls, casting light on heavily armed guards standing at attention. Each guard was fully armored and holding halberds upright—an escort far too imposing for a single visitor.

Are they rattled, or just trying to intimidate me?

Ian mused silently, suppressing a smirk. Either way, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t here for a fight, and having witnesses to the conversation he intended to have with the Archduke was helpful.

Ian’s extraordinary sight didn’t miss the tense eyes of the guards peering through their helmets. Despite their outward stoicism, the mix of awe and fear in their gazes was unmistakable.

Thud, thud.

His steps echoed as he strode forward, barely sparing the guards a glance. Instead, his focus remained fixed on the raised dais at the end of the hall. Atop it sat a grand yet unadorned chair, its sharp lines and lack of ornamentation lending it a foreboding presence.

The man seated there, bald with a thick beard, was none other than Archduke Olaf, ruler of the North.

Beside him stood two figures—one clad in full plate armor and the other draped in a richly adorned hooded cloak.

A spellcaster, Ian thought, his expression unchanging.

Judging by the context, likely a red mage, though he couldn’t be certain. Not that it mattered. There’d be no room for this person to meddle in the forthcoming conversation.

"Hmm…"

The Archduke’s gaze had been locked on Ian from the moment he entered. Despite the smile tugging at the edges of his beard, his eyes betrayed a calculating glint.

He’s trying to figure out why I’m here.

As Ian approached, the knight standing beside took a half-step forward, but Archduke Olaf raised a hand to stop him, his fur-lined sleeve rippling with the motion.

"Truly, you look just as the fresco depicted!" The Archduke’s voice boomed as he rose abruptly. Like many Northerners, he was of a robust build, though his heavy clothing suggested that time had turned much of his muscle to fat.

"Let us dispense with unnecessary formalities. It would be foolish to assert authority before the Superhuman of the North." His hearty tone filled the hall, though his gaze never left Ian, who now stood a few steps away.

"I regret we didn’t meet sooner," Archduke continued, his smile widening. "But it is a pleasure to finally do so now. Tell me, how would you prefer I address you? The Great Warrior? The Dragon Slayer? The Margrave? Or perhaps the Agent of the Saint?"

Fishing for information, I see.

Ian suppressed a chuckle. It was no surprise the Archduke was cautious. Ian was a living legend in the North, his deeds immortalized in frescoes, and now a wildcard sent directly by the Emperor himself. Clearly, the Archduke was grasping at straws, still clueless as to Ian’s true purpose here.

"Margrave shall suffice," Ian replied with measured composure. After all, he was here to collect, not to incite conflict. Extending this courtesy seemed only fitting.

The Archduke blinked rapidly, seemingly caught off guard by Ian’s courteous response, before a faint smile spread across his face.

"Very well, Margrave," Olaf said.

Ian’s reply was more than enough to convey that he hadn’t come to challenge the Archduke. Of course, judging by the flicker of doubt in the Archduke’s eyes, it didn’t seem like he entirely believed it.

Settling back into his seat, the Archduke rested his elbows on the armrests and spoke.

"Then allow me to ask. I left orders, a decree of appointment, and even a personal message. Why, then, did you feel the need to visit in person, especially in such urgent times? Surely…."

Archduke’s voice dipped, growing quieter. "... you’re not here to defy me, are you? Not again?"

My, you hold quite the grudge.

Ian’s lips curled into a faint smile. It was true; he had left the North before without meeting the Archduke face-to-face. Nobles and mages had a peculiar tendency to forget gratitude, but cling tightly to grievances.

Ian didn’t miss the occasional tingling sensation under the Archduke’s gaze. It was such a faint sensation that only someone with extraordinary intuition could perceive it. This implied that the Archduke, too, might be a spellcaster or harbor some innate power tied to his bloodline. It was hardly a surprise anymore.

"It seems there’s been some misunderstanding between us," Ian said, pushing aside his thoughts as he spoke. His tone was even, though softer than usual.

"Though appointed by Imperial decree, that does not mean I intend to disobey Your Grace’s commands."

"Oh...?"

"At least until the impending crisis is overcome, I will act in complete unity with Your Grace."

The Archduke blinked rapidly for a moment before responding with a wry remark.

"Are you implying things might change afterward?"

"Indeed. By then, I will leave the North once more."

"As you did before?"

The Archduke bared his teeth in what could almost be called a smile, though his gaze remained fixed on Ian’s. It was as though he were trying to dissect Ian’s thoughts and intentions.

Shadow boxing at its finest. What an exhausting way to live, Ian thought as he nodded in acknowledgment.

"Yes. Just as I did before."

"... Then why have you come personally? If you claim to be of one mind with me, you must understand the current state of affairs well."

"It is precisely because I understand that I’ve come," Ian replied, his smile growing even softer. "To overcome this crisis together, I require Your Grace’s assistance."

"Assistance...?" For the first time, the Archduke’s expression wavered slightly, his eyes twitching as if caught off guard. It was clear he hadn’t expected such a request.

As expected, his mind seemed to be occupied entirely with political maneuvers, schemes, and grand strategies aimed at consolidating power.

"As you know, my forces comprise barbarians and mercenaries. While the barbarians are exceptional warriors, their equipment is severely lacking. Therefore..."

Ian’s voice remained calm as he lifted his gaze to meet the Archduke’s directly.

"I ask that Your Grace open the armory and supply us with weapons and armor."

"Weapons and armor...?" One of the Archduke’s brows furrowed deeply, a mix of confusion and suspicion clouding his expression. It was evident he couldn’t believe Ian had come all this way for such a request.

"Margrave, you will head to Karlingion, correct? Surely there are sufficient supplies there to arm your forces."

"Enough to fully rearm an entire legion?"

The Archduke’s narrowed eyes widened in an instant, the caution lingering in his gaze evaporating almost as quickly. His lips parted as if to speak.

"A legion...?"

"It seems you weren’t informed yet. The number of troops currently stationed at the barbarian settlement exceeds a thousand."

The Archduke drew in a breath. As expected, he hadn’t received an accurate report on Ian’s forces. Although Ian had passed the wall fortresses and gates, there hadn’t been enough time for such reports to reach Travelga.

After all, Ian had advanced faster than even the undead army. The true reason for his speed, of course, was that he hadn’t left a trail of destruction in his wake like the undead had.

"The barbarians of the snowfields. Are you saying you’ve truly united those outlaws into a force of legion scale? In such a short time?"

"I’ve unified the entire snowfield territory, Your Grace."

"...!"

"And I selected only the most exceptional warriors to accompany me here."

As Ian’s matter-of-fact responses continued, the Archduke’s expression shifted by the moment. His eyes, wide with disbelief, resembled those of someone witnessing magic for the first time. He had no way of knowing that Ian had scarcely rested during his march.

At the same time, the implications loomed large. A margrave’s army, composed of the North’s finest warriors and mercenaries, was now only a day’s march from Travelga. With most forces concentrated near the front lines, Travelga itself was relatively defenseless.

Of course, all of this was mere speculation born from the Archduke’s endlessly scheming mind. Ian, for his part, had no intention of sacrificing his forces just to topple an aging fox.

"Surely, we cannot allow such formidable warriors of the North to meet their deaths due to inadequate equipment."

Ian’s gaze remained fixed on the Archduke’s flickering eyes as he continued, his lips curling into a cold smile.

"If Your Grace were to extend your assistance, they would not forget your generosity."

The unspoken warning was clear: should he refuse, neither would they forget that slight. The Archduke’s face hardened immediately, understanding Ian’s implication.

Meanwhile, the guards flanking them were no longer looking at Ian, but at the Archduke himself.

Every one of them was a Northerner. Not a single one failed to grasp the significance of the barbarians’ newfound unity. Refusing the request would amount to abandoning the barbarian warriors to their fate.

"Any remaining supplies after the battle will be returned to Karlingion. They are Your Grace’s property, after all, and it is only right to return them."

With a polite yet unyielding smile, Ian drove the point home.