Reincarnated as the third son of the Duke

143 Bloodlines and Betrayal

A soldier crumpled to the ground, his chest split open.

It was almost absurd.

Despite the sheer number of enemies, the white-haired old man fought like a monster, cleaving through the ranks with the raw power of his muscle-bound frame.

Hugo let out a low whistle. "Damn. All that talk about warriors wasn't just bluster, huh?"

His opponent, however, was nothing like him.

The nobleman overseeing the fight stood far behind the chaos, dressed in a pristine tailored suit and white gloves, the kind of attire one might expect at a high-society banquet rather than a battlefield.

"That wretched old fool," the noble muttered. "I always knew he was obsessed with his warrior's code, but I never thought he'd be this much of a monster."

The old man sneered, eyes burning with fury.

"You coward, hiding behind your soldiers!" he roared. "Is that what I taught you!? If you want my head, come take it yourself!"

"Still clinging to your outdated ideals?" the noble scoffed. "If I were pretending to care about honor, I might humor you. But to say that in earnest—it's truly pitiful."

The old man tensed.

A moment later, a soldier's spear sliced across his forearm.

Blood splattered onto the dirt.

"I-I hit him!" the soldier stammered, wide-eyed. "I wounded him!"

The excitement barely had time to register before—

Thud.

The old man's axe struck with brutal finality, cleaving the soldier's head clean off.

The corpse remained standing for a second longer, as if it hadn't yet realized it was dead.

William observed the scene with sharp eyes.

The nobleman clicked his tongue in mild annoyance. "Tch. A shame. I was hoping to get my coin's worth out of him."

"You bastard!" The old man moved to bellow another insult—but staggered, swaying slightly where he stood.

William narrowed his eyes.

The wounds covering his body were piling up. The sheer number of them, though small, were beginning to take their toll.

The noble smirked.

"It seems that no matter how strong a warrior may be, age catches up to all of us—Father."

The old man exhaled sharply, his shoulders stiffening.

"One question," he said, his voice quieter now. "Do you truly believe that snake's lies? That he can restore the old glory of the north?"

The noble chuckled, shaking his head.

"What does it matter?" he said. "I don't give a damn about the 'glory of the north.'"

"...What?"

The old warrior's eyes widened, as if he had been struck harder by those words than by any of the weapons on the battlefield.

"What matters," the noble continued, "is that Count Calix intends to reshape the north. And many have already thrown in their lot with him. If things are going to change, wouldn't it be better to stand on the winning side from the start?"

The old man's fists clenched.

Even more than his son's betrayal, this—this complete lack of belief in the north's spirit—this was the true disgrace.

The noble only sneered.

"I've had enough of your sermons, old man. Let's end this, shall we?"

At his signal, three knights rode forward, their warhorses snorting as they readied their lances.

A cold wind swept through the valley.

But before they could charge—

"No," a voice cut through the air. "I don't think so."

The knights froze.

William's voice carried down from the hilltop, stopping them in their tracks.

The noble's head snapped up, his expression darkening at the sudden interruption.

"And who the hell are you?" he demanded.

William tilted his head. "Who the hell are you to be interfering in another family's affairs?"

"...What?"

For a moment, the noble genuinely looked like he had misheard.

"What kind of nonsense—" Stay tuned for updates on My Virtual Library Empire

William smirked. "No, really. Why are you throwing Count Calix's name around? That bastard didn't even have the decency to ask my permission before using Grimaldi's name."

"...What!?"

The noble's composure cracked.

The name Grimaldi alone was enough to send ripples through the battlefield.

"Who… are you?" he demanded, wariness creeping into his voice.

William smiled.

"William Hern," he said, his voice steady. "Third son of Duke Hern—and grandson of the last true lord of House Grimaldi."

Silence.

The noble's face stiffened. Even the knights at his side looked uneasy.

The name Grimaldi carried weight in the north. And if this stranger was telling the truth…

One of the knights hesitantly broke the silence.

"You… are truly of Grimaldi blood?"

William arched a brow. "I've given my name. It's only polite to give yours now, isn't it?"

The noble composed himself, though tension still lingered in his posture.

"My name is Torik Osgor," he declared. "Head of House Osgor."

A snort.

William wasn't the one who reacted.

The old warrior—battered, bleeding, but still standing—laughed.

"Head of House Osgor?" he scoffed. "You insolent wretch. When did I ever pass my title to you?"

Torik's eyes narrowed in warning, but the old man only sneered.

Then, he turned to William, his bloodied face set in grim determination.

"I am Harald Osgor," he said. "True head of House Osgor."

His next words, however, were directed not at Torik.

His gaze bore into William, heavy with scrutiny.

"If you truly carry his blood—if you are truly the grandson of Duke Klaus Grimaldi—"

He took a breath.

"Then why have you come to the north now? I have never seen you before."

William met his gaze, unwavering.

"To take back what was stolen from me," he said simply. "And to punish the thieves who dared claim what was mine."

Harald studied him.

"Do you have the right to interfere in the north's affairs?"

William's lips curled into a sharp smile.

"I am his grandson," he said. "I need no other right."

Harald tensed.

"And if the north refuses to acknowledge you?"

William's smirk widened.

"Then I'll ask every single one of them myself."

A beat of silence.

Then—Harald laughed.

It was a deep, thunderous sound, even as blood still dripped from his wounds.

"Ha! Just like him," he muttered. "You are his grandson, after all."

"Are we done with the questions?"

"We are." Harald spun his axe once before leveling his gaze at Torik. His lips curled into a sneer. "Welcome to the north, heir of Grimaldi. And… if it isn't too much to ask, would you mind lending me a hand? I hate to admit it, but getting stabbed in the back by my own son has left me in a bit of a predicament."