Reincarnated as the third son of the Duke

146 The Last True Lord

William observed quietly, absorbing the weight of what he had just learned.

So this was how it was.

Find exclusive stories on My Virtual Library Empire

In the civilized heartlands of the Empire, nobles ruled with an iron fist. But here, in the north, where the world was cruel and survival was a constant battle, there was no room for pretenses.

Here, respect was earned, not inherited.

Harald, still standing in the middle of the gathering crowd, raised his voice.

"The rebellion has been crushed!" he declared. "It was a damn close call, but we made it through, thanks to our esteemed guests."

There were scattered cheers, but something in the crowd shifted—a strange tension.

Harald's brows furrowed.

"What is it?" he demanded. "What's wrong?"

The commoners hesitated, glancing at each other uneasily.

Finally, one of them spoke.

"Milord, the rebels barricaded themselves inside the manor," the man admitted. "We… may have gotten a bit carried away during the siege."

Harald's face darkened.

"Define 'carried away.'"

There was an awkward cough.

"We, uh… might have broken a few things."

Harald groaned. "How bad is it?"

"Most of the bodies are cleared out," another man added helpfully. "But there's… a lot of blood. The smell is still pretty strong."

The older noble sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Great. Just great. Can't exactly host guests in a half-ruined, blood-soaked wreck, now can I?"

William raised a brow. "Then where will we go?"

Harald grinned.

"Somewhere with good alcohol."

"Ha! Now that's what I call a drink!"

Thud.

Harald slammed his massive tankard onto the wooden table, foam sloshing over the sides.

His manners? Completely abandoned.

William's group simply watched in silence.

Harald noticed their expressions and smirked.

"What?" he asked. "Not dignified enough for you?"

William sipped his drink, then nodded. "If I'm being honest? No. Not at all."

The older man grunted, momentarily looking displeased.

But before he could say anything else, William chuckled.

"But that's precisely why I like it."

Harald's expression flickered with surprise.

William leaned back. "Etiquette and nobility have their place. But trying to force formality in a setting like this only makes everyone miserable."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Harald let out a booming laugh.

"Well said, boy!" he bellowed, clapping William on the back. "I like you!"

William smiled, taking in his surroundings.

Unlike a grand banquet hall, they were gathered in the upper floor of a modest tavern, away from the bustling commoners below.

To most nobles, this setting would be unthinkable—crude, dirty, beneath them.

But to William?

It felt oddly familiar.

Comfortable, even.

Harald took another long gulp of his drink before fixing William with a shrewd gaze.

"So, William Hern," he mused. "You came here to reclaim Grimaldi's name and punish Count Calix. Got a plan for that?"

William shook his head. "Not yet," he admitted. "I need to see the situation for myself first. There's no point in crafting a plan without understanding the current landscape."

Harald snorted. "Risky move. But a smart one." He swirled his drink. "The north won't bend to plans crafted in distant cities. You have to know the land, its people, its power struggles. Otherwise, you'll be eaten alive."

William nodded. "That's why I wanted to ask you about my grandfather. I never met him—he died when I was too young."

Harald's expression softened.

"Klaus Grimaldi, huh?"

A distant look crossed his face.

"He was a true son of the north."

William's brow furrowed. "So… he was a warrior?"

"Warrior?" Harald snorted. "Hell no! The man was a twig!"

"...Excuse me?"

William blinked.

That… was not the answer he had expected.

Harald let out a deep chuckle.

"He was thin as a reed. No muscle to speak of. Kept collapsing during training. And don't even get me started on how often he fell sick. The man couldn't handle a single pint of beer before passing out!"

William sat there, stunned.

This was… the legendary Klaus Grimaldi?

Harald chuckled at his reaction.

"But," he added, his tone growing softer, "he never once shirked his duty."

William's expression shifted.

"He trained," Harald continued, "even though his body failed him. He studied, even though it left him exhausted. And no matter how sick he was, his first concern was always for his people."

He exhaled, shaking his head.

"The man couldn't throw a punch to save his life. But if some fool disrespected him, you can bet that everyone else in the room would beat that bastard into the ground for him."

William stared.

The north was a place of survival. Strength was everything.

And yet—

Yet, this fragile, sickly man had been respected.

No. Not just respected but loved.

"If he had ever chosen to unite the north," Harald mused, "half of the lords here would have followed him without question."

William exhaled.

"I doubt I could inspire that kind of loyalty," he admitted.

Harald grinned.

"Of course not," he said bluntly. "You're not Klaus Grimaldi. You weren't born here. You didn't grow up in this land. Even if you try to act like a northern lord, you'll just be a southern prince playing pretend."

William remained silent.

"That doesn't mean you can't win them over," Harald added.

William raised a brow. "How?"

Harald's grin widened.

"Simple," he said.

He flexed his fingers.

"Fight me."

William found himself at a rare loss for words.

He had asked how to build power in the north.

And Harald's answer?

Fight me.

"Apologies," William said carefully. "But… was that a metaphor of some sort? Are you asking me to prove myself through strategy? Wisdom?"

"Metaphor, my ass," Harald snorted. "I mean it literally. Pick up a weapon and fight me—fists or steel, I don't care."

"Ah."

So he hadn't misheard.

Harald was dead serious.

William hesitated, uncertain where to even begin questioning this logic. Sensing his hesitation, the older man took a swig of ale before speaking again.

"It's been centuries since the north fell under the Empire's rule," Harald said, voice even. "And with each passing year, the old ways fade a little more. Nowadays, it's all about pale-faced politicians playing their little games in candlelit chambers."

William remained silent.

"But tradition," Harald continued, tapping his tankard against the table, "is still tradition. There are plenty of us left who remember the old ways. Plenty who still respect a warrior's strength."