Raising the Northern Grand Duchy as a Max-Level All-Master

154. A Holiday in Bardenheim (1)

By the time the envoy returned to the Empire, the workload that Yulkanes and I had agreed upon had been successfully completed.

"……."

Yulkanes squinted against the sunlight, which he was seeing for the first time in nearly a month.

After a moment, when his vision adjusted, he glared at me as if he was about to punch me in the face.

"You’ve worked so hard! As expected of an 8th-circle Archmage! Here, I’ve added a little extra as a token of appreciation."

Beaming at him, I handed over a money bag filled with sincerity.

"……."

Just as he was about to cast a spell, Yulkanes cautiously opened the bag. His jaw clenched as he ground his teeth before finally speaking.

Spit!

After stuffing the thick bundle of Ren bills into his robes, Yulkanes spat on the ground and bid his farewell.

Without looking back even once, he coldly headed south.

"He’s gone."

"Gone."

Once we confirmed that both Yulkanes and the Imperial envoy had completely departed—

"Are you ready, Arina?"

"Of course, Arad."

Arina and I boarded the golden carriage and left the High Tower.

Our destination: Arad Shipyard, where the airship awaited.

***

"Do you like the sword and knight uniform I made for you this time?"

"Of course. Who do you think made them?"

Arina’s outfit for the trip to the shipyard was different from usual.

Not just her, but even the knights escorting us had a new look.

Normally, Northern knights wore tunics made of Rian Fabric, full plate armor of Northern Cold Iron, and a fur cloak draped over like a mantle.

But now, they were clad solely in deep blue knight uniforms.

In this bitter cold, just looking at them would make anyone shiver. Yet, the knights wearing them seemed completely at ease.

The familiar image of Northern knights, armed with Northern Cold Iron and fur-lined attire, was now a thing of the past.

"How do the clothes feel? Any discomfort?"

"They’re incredibly comfortable. Neither too cold nor too hot."

Inside the golden carriage, just the two of us sat together.

Like the knights outside, Arina was also wearing the knight uniform.

As for me, since I wasn’t a knight, I made myself a coat instead. The enchantments were mostly the same as those on the knight uniforms.

"But it looks like you like the sword more than the uniform."

What really caught Arina’s attention wasn’t the uniform.

"Was it that obvious?"

"Yeah."

She hadn’t let go of the sword, the one she had received as a birthday present, for even a moment.

"I do love the uniform, but the sword… it just speaks to me more."

"Well, it’s not just an ordinary magic sword."

"Exactly. It’s still unbelievable."

"It’s just an extreme application of the Bluetooth series’ subspace. Nothing too special."

The sword’s name was Cry of the Snowfields 2.0.

Forged from a magical alloy of adamantium, orichalcum, mithril, and synthetic ether, it was a magic sword.

Its appearance was nearly identical to the original Cry of the Snowfields—white overall, embedded with blue magic stones.

It had the same enchantments as the original Cry of the Snowfields, but with one special feature added.

And Arina was completely hooked on that feature.

"Well, I did put quite a bit of effort into making it."

Seeing how much she adored it, I couldn’t help but feel a little proud.

"I feel like we could just march straight into the Empire right now."

Admiring the sword and knight uniforms, Arina suddenly seemed tempted to change our plans.

"…The Empire still has plenty left for us to squeeze out of it."

I held her back with my own kind of logic.

Her reaction was proof of just how extraordinary the new magical equipment for high-ranking knights was.

Each piece of weaponry, accessories, and uniforms was custom-made with the optimal blend of adamantium, orichalcum, mithril, and synthetic ether, tailored to suit the knight’s individual fighting style.

And the magic stones embedded in the equipment shone with high-tier magic circuits, painstakingly inscribed by an 8th-circle Archmage.

‘Thanks, Yulkanes. Because of you, I can leave for my honeymoon right away.’

Locking an 8th-circle Archmage in an underground workshop and forcing him to work had definitely paid off.

If I had done all the work alone, the project wouldn’t have been completed until at least mid-next year.

***

"In Bardenheim, you have to be in your Mary persona."

"Of course, Chairman."

"…You don’t have to start already."

"Why? Does it feel weird?"

"It’s just… it throws me off when you act like Mary while still looking like Arina."

"Then I should do it more often so you get used to it."

"And what if you get caught? You always make such a fuss about the risk of being exposed."

"Well, we’re inside the golden carriage, aren’t we? It’s soundproofed, right? And the windows are enchanted with illusion magic."

Arina, who had adapted to the Magocratic lifestyle better than anyone in the world, made me chuckle as I looked at her.

And so, we set off on our slightly delayed honeymoon.

In the distance, at Arad Shipyard, an airship clad in iron armor awaited us.

The previous Emperor of the Empire, Soled the Advancer, had pursued an aggressive expansionist policy both within and beyond the Empire’s borders.

In just ten years, not only had he consolidated power within the Empire, but six duchies and two kingdoms adjacent to it had also been absorbed.

Sensing the growing threat, various kingdoms and duchies of the continent hurriedly banded together.

However, as the saying goes, too many heads ruin a decision—merely uniting wasn’t enough.

It became clear that decisions and actions on behalf of the United Kingdom needed to come from a single authority.

Thus, they chose a city as the capital of the alliance and agreed to station an ambassador with full authority there.

That city was Bardenheim.

Bardenheim.

Even before the United Kingdom was established, Bardenheim had been a thriving metropolis.

In Arcadia, it was considered one of the two greatest cities, rivaling even the Imperial Capital.

A historical city brimming with diverse cultures and ambition.

A political hub where four nations—Gargant, Aurelia, Feze, and the island nation Scania—shared borders.

Bardenheim had long been a neutral city that leveraged its strategic position at the intersection of these borders to exercise a high degree of autonomy.

Its history was as rich and prestigious as the Imperial Capital or the Holy See’s Centra.

Thus, it was only natural that Bardenheim became the capital of the United Kingdom.

No one contested it.

Perhaps because of that, the citizens of Bardenheim simply referred to their city as “the City.” They called themselves Citizens—as if no other place in the world deserved to be called a city.

It was an expression of their pride, and perhaps a touch of arrogance.

“Northerners! The Rensletians have arrived!”

“They’re here! The ship from the land of magic has arrived!”

For the past year, this grand city has been in an uproar.

And at the heart of the commotion was an unknown nation and an unknown people from the distant northern reaches of the continent.

“Out of the way! The Renslet magic stones are all mine!”

“Exchange for Ren first, you fool!”

“To hell with everything else—just get me Celadon and Arad Salt!”

The moment the lighthouse spotted the approaching Rensletian ship, word spread like wildfire throughout Bardenheim.

Within moments, merchants and nobles of renown, throwing all dignity aside, rushed toward the ever-expanding harbor district.

“Everyone, remain calm! Maintain order!”

The city guards quickly deployed to the docks to manage the chaos.

“And who the hell are you to tell us what to do?”

“Out of the way! A mere city guard dares stand in my path?”

But the crowd gathering at the harbor merely scoffed at the guards’ attempts to control them.

“Do you even know who I am?! Move aside immediately!”

“If my lady doesn’t get her Northern Artifacts, you will be responsible! Can you take responsibility for that?!”

As expected of the city known for its wealth, power, and so-called progressive values, the city guards’ authority meant nothing.

“This is an order from Damian White, Mayor of Bardenheim and Chairman of the United Kingdom! You must—”

“Oh, and what are you gonna do about it? Does being mayor make him a god? Do you even know how much I’ve greased that bastard’s palms?”

“That bastard mayor! He did this last time too, bypassing the Trade Guild! This is blatant abuse of power!”

“Hey! Watch your mouth! You can’t just talk about the mayor like that—”

“Watch my mouth?! Listen here, I’ve hunted with that man! Watched plays with him! Drank with him! We go way back, you fool!”

Truly, in a city teeming with the wealthiest and most powerful individuals, even the mayor’s orders were worth less than a handful of dust.

‘…Screw this. This job is a goddamn nightmare.’

Watching the utter chaos unfold before him, the city’s 5th Guard Captain muttered under his breath, making sure no one could hear him.

“You there, Guard Captain. Judging by your uniform, you must be the 5th Guard Captain. What’s your name?”

A noble merchant approached the weary Guard Captain with a smile, speaking to him in a smooth, amicable tone.

“You may call me Oslo.”

“Ah, Sir Oslo. I believe I recall seeing you before.”

“…Is that so?”

Oslo tilted his head.

He couldn’t quite place the man’s face, but something about him did seem vaguely familiar.

Given the current political climate, could he be in disguise?

As Oslo puzzled over this, the noble merchant continued.

“Well then.”

“Yes?”

“Step aside.”

“…!”

Being a Guard Captain in Bardenheim was equivalent to being a Chief Inspector in other cities.

And in Bardenheim, there were only seven Guard Captains in total.

That meant that Oslo, the Captain of the Harbor Guards, was of noble lineage himself.

But the man before him? Even at a glance, he was of a higher rank.

“Damian White sent you, didn’t he? Told you to block the passage.”

“…That’s correct, but—?”

The man looked like a merchant from Feze, but his attire exuded confidence, and above all, the way he referred to the city mayor—Damian—as if he were some mutt next door was proof enough of his standing.

"Come now, step aside."

"But I’ve received direct orders..."

"If Damian throws a fit, I’ll take responsibility."

"Still..."

"You’d be wise to step aside while I’m still asking nicely."

"Ugh… Fine, but only your trading company."

"Hahaha! Good!"

In the end, the Guard Captain had no choice but to yield to the merchant’s polite intimidation.

"Sir Oslo, Lord Damian explicitly ordered us not to let anyone through…"

A subordinate whispered to him in concern.

"Then you deal with him."

"Uh… That’s…"

The orders Oslo and the 5th City Guard had received from the mayor were to block access to all outsiders until a select group of nobles and merchants—those with close ties (read: bribes) to Damian—had secured their trade deals with the Rensletians.

But—

"If they’re gonna give orders like this, they should at least pay us properly. The danger pay doesn’t match the risk."

What choice did he have? The one who gave the order was nowhere to be seen, while the one who held the real power was standing right in front of him.

And what if I let him through, only to find out later he was some nobody?

A worst-case scenario flashed through his mind for a brief moment, but Oslo quickly shook it off.

No, no. This man is the real deal. At the very least, he’s on the same level as our mayor—or someone even Damian himself can’t touch.

Oslo had fought in the past war against the Empire.

Having survived countless near-death encounters, his instincts were screaming at him: Let him through.

"Let only this trading company pass. Close the gate immediately after."

Once again, Oslo chose to trust his gut.

"A very wise decision, Captain. Since I find you rather admirable, I’ll give you a little tip—"

The merchant, flashing a grin, gestured toward the harbor.

"See those two carriages? The purple one and the black one? Everyone else here is below Damian’s level."

"Is that so? Thank you for the information."

Oslo took the hint, then subtly signaled his men.

Immediately, the guards sprang into action.

"You lowly guards dare—"

"You think a mere peddler can order us around?"

"Do you take us for fools?! You’re no high noble!"

Thud! Thwack!

"Ghak! Aaargh!"

With unexpected efficiency, the situation was resolved.

Oslo turned to the merchant and bowed slightly.

"Much appreciated. There are so many lavish carriages in the city that it’s hard to tell who’s who. You’ve saved me quite the trouble."

As the merchant directed his men to move their carriages and staff toward the dock, he let out a broad grin, revealing several golden teeth.

"Apologies for my earlier rudeness. You guards work hard. If only everyone still used their noble sigils on their carriages, things would be much simpler."

"Tell me about it. Back in the day, memorizing all those sigils was a nightmare, but now that they’re gone, it’s even worse."

"Nothing to be done about it. Who could’ve predicted the Empire would split in two? The daggers once pointed at the Empire are now aimed back at their original targets. It’ll be rough for a while. Here, take this."

The merchant tossed him a pouch.

It was heavy with silver coins.

"Oh…!"

It wasn’t Ren bills—currently the hottest currency in the market—but still, it was something.

"Damian White is too small-minded. If he’s going to order people around, he should at least pay them properly, don’t you think?"

"Yes, yes! Hahaha!"

Being a City Guard Captain in Bardenheim was a prestigious position—there were only seven in total. The salary was high, and the under-the-table earnings were even higher.

But still, it wasn’t enough.

Bardenheim’s opulence and cost of living were the highest on the continent.

"Well then, good work! Ah, and one more thing—remember my face and keep an eye out for me in the future. I’ll be using this disguise for a while."

"Yes, sir! Absolutely!"

With that, the Feze nobleman disappeared toward the docks.

There, the renowned Rensletian ship was just making port.

But… who was he?

Oslo, now with a bit of breathing room, began to seriously reconsider the identity of the merchant who had just handed him a pouch of silver.

If he spoke of Damian White so casually, he had to be at least royalty.

"Wait… wait… wait…!"

And then, it hit him.

He had seen that man before.

During the United Assembly held in Bardenheim, where only the highest-ranking figures of the alliance had gathered.

"No way—! Why the hell is the Prime Minister of Feze here?!"

Not just any high-ranking official.

The Prime Minister of Feze, the King of Merchants.

If the Empire had Entir Bishop, then the United Kingdom had this man.

Altair Phibes, Prime Minister of Fez and Head of the Phibes Trading Company.

Holy shit. Letting him through was the best decision I’ve made all year.

Oslo, 5th Guard Captain of Bardenheim, let out a long breath of relief, once again praising his own instincts.