Chapter 522 The Third-Level Meeting: Even More Baffling Than the Colin Family
The Kingdom of Ryan, far from the summer palace of Roland City.
The elegantly dressed guests were leaving the side hall in high spirits, still excited about the cooperation they had just achieved at the banquet.
Some people moved to the lounge to continue their conversation.
Although it is still far from the height of summer, the magnificent hall has already gained a touch of tranquility amidst the hustle and bustle.
This is the summer retreat of the Devalu family, and also the location of the Kingdom of Ryan's Third Level Conference. The banquet that just concluded was a feast held after the first day's agenda.
It must be said that although His Majesty's treasury is already stretched thin, he has not lost any of the dignity he should have.
However, not everyone was satisfied with the dinner.
Newcastle loosened his tie, which was making him a little breathless, and sneaked to the kitchen door like a thieving mouse.
As a member of the third rank, he was like a transparent glass bottle at that dinner party where he was showing off his power.
The nobles were engaged in lively discussions, the priests were feigning seriousness, and no one paid any attention to this money-grubbing merchant, let alone whether his plate was empty.
All right.
Newcastle had to admit that it wasn't really the King's servant's fault; it was simply because he had never attended such a banquet before, much less disturbed the King's estate.
As expected, an accident occurred. He got lost in the magnificent summer palace and was only led to the banquet hall by a servant when the banquet was almost over.
The banquet was now over, and his stomach began to rumble in protest. His gaze fell on a food cart parked at the kitchen entrance.
There sat a roasted pigeon, golden and crispy, with solidified honey still clinging to its skin. It looked as if it had only been politely scratched with a knife and had hardly been touched.
Just as he was staring at the pigeon and swallowing hard, a chubby figure blocked the light.
He was an elderly man wearing a white apron, with graying temples, a kind smile on his face, and a neatly trimmed beard.
As the head chef of Theodore, his family has lived here for over three hundred years.
Seeing the old man looking at him, Newcastle felt a little embarrassed and coughed lightly to explain.
"I was just browsing."
"You're welcome, sir."
The old man noticed that he wasn't full, so he picked up a silver knife and deftly shaved off the fattest part of the pigeon.
He moved with great dexterity, arranging the food on a pristine white porcelain plate and handing it to Newcastle.
"The meat is not as tender as when it is fresh out of the oven, but it has a unique and mellow flavor... If you don't mind, please enjoy it."
Nobles have their honor, and servants have theirs; he would never allow any guest to leave on an empty stomach.
"Thanks!"
Newcastle paused for a moment, then gratefully took the plate, and without even looking for cutlery, grabbed the pigeon leg with his bare hands.
The old man watched Mr. Newcastle wolfing down his food with a smile, showing no disgust at his unseemly eating habits.
As Lord Wickton said, His Majesty's chefs are simply superb. Especially this roast pigeon; Newcastle can swear to St. Sis that it is the most delicious pigeon he has ever eaten.
Newcastle said this while wolfing down his food.
"...You're such a kind person, Chef. I thought you'd kick me out like a thief stealing food."
"How could that be?" The chef, having quickly set out another plate, wiped his hands and said with an elegant smile, "You must be a newly knighted?"
Newcastle, with the meat still in his mouth, asked indistinctly.
Why do you say that?
“This is based on my experience, sir.”
The head chef turned his gaze toward the banquet hall and continued in a casual tone.
"The hereditary nobles are busy exchanging benefits, and food is just decoration to them. The priests who strictly adhere to the precepts regard waste as an enemy, and in order to show their piety, they will not touch their forks in public. Only a knight who truly understands the taste of life like you would care about whether the pigeon is roasted well tonight."
As expected of the royal chef, he not only has culinary skills but also cultural knowledge, and he even composed a rhyming limerick on the spot.
Newcastle couldn't help but laugh out loud after hearing this, and almost choked.
The chef handed me a glass of water, followed by a napkin.
"Please slow down, sir, no one is going to take it from you."
"Cough! Thank you, thank you..."
Newcastle wiped his mouth after swallowing his food, and at the same time cleaned his greasy fingers so as not to look too embarrassed.
Looking at the smiling chef, he cleared his throat and revealed the answer.
"...You've misjudged me, Chef. I'm just like you, a genuine commoner. I'm here entirely thanks to His Majesty's grace."
As he said this, his self-deprecating tone couldn't help but carry a hint of smugness.
"But your judgment isn't entirely wrong. Maybe in a few days, I'll actually be able to become a knight."
The head chef raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"Oh? Congratulations, that's a great honor."
"Thanks."
Newcastle smiled slightly, appreciating the chef's praise, but didn't take this "remarkable honor" to heart.
Baron Wickton did mention it, but it was clearly just bait on the hook to tease him... He wasn't oblivious to that.
Besides, the knighthood of Ryan didn't hold much appeal for him.
Back in the Duchy of Campbell, he had no sense of identity as a Campbellian. He thought it was a title made up by nobles to fool the textile workers in the textile factories and the soldiers lining up to die.
However, when he arrived in the Kingdom of Ryan, he saw the Ryan nobles with arrogance written all over their faces, and the willful and frivolous citizens of Roland City...
He had never been so proud to be a Campbell, nor had he ever missed his homeland so much.
Thunder City is still the best.
The water there is nourishing.
On this unknown night, an obscure fire extinguisher company manager unexpectedly resonated with a legendary hero.
Although they missed each other for completely different things.
"Looks like the important agenda is yet to come," the chef said casually as he poured him another glass of lemonade to rinse his mouth. "I heard today's the first day?"
"Yes."
"I'm curious, what did you all talk about?"
"Who knows?"
"Hmm?" The head chef looked at him in surprise, then smiled knowingly and said, "It seems I was being presumptuous."
"No, please don't misunderstand, it's not something private, I just really don't remember."
Newcastle shrugged nonchalantly.
"I only remember that Baron Wickton looked at me twice, and I raised my hand twice. As for what they talked about... perhaps Saint Sis knows."
"Then... what about tomorrow?" The head chef stared at him blankly, surprised. "You're a Level 3 councilor, you should at least say something for the citizens of Roland City, right?"
Newcastle took the warm lemonade and drank a sip, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and elegantly wiped the grease from the corner of his mouth, like a true aristocrat.
"Say something? Ah... let me think."
Looking at the chef's strange expression, he said in a mocking tone.
"What do you think of the twelve ways to roast pigeon? Speaking of which, I have to ask you for advice, since you are an expert in this field."
Chef Ryan, who had served the royal family for generations, was stunned for a long time before he finally understood the humor of the Campbell man in front of him and burst into a hearty laugh.
"Ha ha……"
He then turned around and took out a plate of delicate and delicious pastries from the food cart, gently placing it in front of the Newcastle MP.
"In any case, it is my honor as a chef to have my skills appreciated by you."
"Enjoy your meal, future gentleman."
...
The following day, at the suggestion of his servant, Newcastle changed into a well-tailored tailcoat and headed to the amphitheater at the Summer Palace.
In previous years, this amphitheater was a place for the royal family to relax, and its spacious stage had witnessed countless tales of knights and princesses' joys and sorrows.
But now, this place has been converted into a temporary meeting place by Baron Wickton. For the fate of the kingdom and the family, countless spectators sitting below the stage have taken to the stage.
The only spectator seemed to be Mr. Newcastle, who was sitting in the very corner.
At this moment, he was listlessly resting his chin on his hand, like an audience member who had bought the wrong ticket, waiting for the noisy start of a new day.
Right in front of him on his left was the seat of the first rank... Bishops and high-ranking priests in white robes occupied the box with the best view.
Although their number was small, they were the most solemn of all the attendees, their white robes gleaming with a holy light in the sunlight.
To his right was a vibrant and colorful ocean.
The citizens of the second class sat there, including the nobleman himself, the renowned knight, and the nobleman's steward.
They talked and laughed loudly, the clatter of sword sheaths echoing throughout, as if this were not a parliamentary hall, but a salon of high society.
Actually, they weren't wrong. This wasn't the council chamber, but rather His Majesty Theodore's summer palace, a theater for the king to relax when he came to escape the summer heat.
Newcastle looked away and counted the scraps sitting next to him.
One, two, three... there are six in total, including myself.
As members of parliament who are third-class citizens, their seats are like trash swept to the side of the wall, placed alongside props temporarily moved from a theater.
Sitting to his left was a beer merchant who was said to be quite successful, controlling 30% of the business in the entire city of Roland.
However, this big shot in the eyes of ordinary people is not so great here, as docile as a golden retriever.
The most distinguished among these six chairs was probably the stonemasons' guild leader in the corner to his right. Incidentally, the two had previously engaged in a business rivalry.
Newcastle remembers it was really dangerous. Unlike his fellow countryman who was new to the area, the Stonemasons Guild directly used the city defense force.
Fortunately, the young men of the Royal Guard had more influence, and they subdued the other side's leader with just a glance, thus preserving the peace of the citizens of Roland City that night.
Unlike the treacherous schemes in Thunder City, the business battles in Roland City are always so simple and unpretentious.
However, this chairman was a respectable person. Although he had suffered a great loss in the fire extinguisher business, he did not show any hostility when he saw him. Instead, he took the initiative to hold his hand and greet him with a smile, as if the previous bloodshed had never happened.
He doesn't resemble a Golden Retriever; he's more like a smart Border Collie.
Newcastle was wondering what breed he was when he saw a proud "Lay's Bulldog".
That guy was an oddball, sitting in the corner to his left.
Newcastle remembered that the gentleman's name seemed to be Ferguson, a scholar from some church school, who was said to be quite famous in the academic circles of the Kingdom of Lane.
At this moment, the short, stocky "Siberian Husky" had his arms tightly crossed over his chest, staring intently at the noisy nobles with a gloomy expression, looking stern and hostile.
A strange smile crept onto Newcastle's lips as he recalled the scholar's speech at yesterday's "warm-up session"—
"In our kingdom, commoners make up more than ninety percent of the population, yet I see only six chairs! Gentlemen! Six chairs, and one of those six is even a Campbell! Commoners make up only 3% of the seats!"
“Baron Wickton, you don’t need to pretend to care about us, and you certainly don’t need to go through the motions of inviting me here to humiliate me!”
There was a moment of deathly silence, which was then drowned out by the laughter of the nobles. Even the most serious priest couldn't help but curl the corners of his mouth into a smile.
What an interesting commoner.
Mr. Wickton was embarrassed by those words, his face turning ashen. It was only thanks to the guild master of the stonemasons' guild that the meeting was able to continue.
Although Professor Ferguson gave Newcastle a piece of his mind, Newcastle was not angry. On the contrary, he appreciated the straightforward old gentleman.
He had to retract his stereotypes about the Ryan people; this ancient kingdom also had true gentlemen, and not everyone was like a goblin.
The spacious theater gradually filled up, and the actors in their finest attire were already in place. The performance, titled "The Three-Level Conference," was about to begin.
Newcastle looked around, thinking about the task Baron Wickton had given him, and couldn't help but silently pray to Saint Sis.
Saint Sith above, the king's eagle on his shoulder actually thought he could use a few pigeons to peck out the eyes of a flock of birds of prey?
This is no longer naivety—
It's like a dream.
Unless, the king has another plan.
...
Just as the noon bells rang, the heavy gavel slammed down on the speaker's seat, announcing the official start of the meeting that would decide the fate of the Kingdom of Ryan.
Economic Secretary Baron Wickton strode heavily onto the podium.
Facing the gazes fixed on him, he spoke in a passionate and impassioned voice, without a prepared speech.
"Honorable gentlemen, holy priests, I do not wish to disturb your sweet dreams, but please look upon the land beneath our feet. The kingdom's treasury is empty, and the king's people are weeping under its heavy burden!"
"They have to pay land rent, tithes, salt tax, head tax... and they have to struggle to survive. Our citizens are not well-off either; for every piece of dry, hard bread they eat, they have to give one-fifth to our kingdom! Not only that, they have paid with their blood and sweat, and even their lives!"
Whispers filled the seats in the amphitheater.
The priests fell into deep thought, while the nobles' expressions shifted between light and shadow, gradually losing the ease they had shown at the beginning of the meeting.
They heard that the king was convening the three-tiered council and assumed that His Majesty wanted to ask the citizens for money, so they all gathered here to see if they could get a share.
But how...
The Economy Minister's remarks sounded a bit off.
However, they did not react, after all, any dinner needs to be set before it begins, and they intended to give the Baron Wickton a chance to hear him finish speaking before making a decision.
However, their silence seemed to be interpreted as weakness.
Baron Wickton not only did not stop his impassioned speech, but also forcibly linked the survival of the kingdom with the fate of those many families.
They even resorted to sharp moral weapons!
"Look at the citizens of Roland City! They survived the great fire of winter, but now they have lost everything! And now, our kingdom is in peril. Only if you, esteemed gentlemen, stand together can we overcome this crisis!"
"For the sake of Saint Sith, I implore you to shoulder the ancient duty, and I implore you to stand with our kingdom!"
These words were spoken with tears streaming down his face.
Although Baron Wickton showed no sympathy for the commoners of Roland for a single second, and even the great fire in winter was a treacherous scheme he himself had orchestrated, it did not stop him from using those peasants, whom he looked down upon from the bottom of his heart, to force the nobles to make concessions in order to achieve his own goals.
He believed that the nobles of Ryan still had some sense of shame. After all, even the king's chef had a sense of shame, so how could these noble figures not cherish their reputation?
If that doesn't work, he has a second plan—to shift the blame eastward.
As long as the nobles of Lane believe that their kingdom is at a crossroads of destiny, and that the emaciated sheep have no wool left to shear.
At least he could win over these nobles for his emperor and rob those fat and weak priests, thus spreading the burden of their obligations.
However--
Baron Wickton was overestimating things. Even the plans of the gods often have unexpected twists and turns, let alone those of a mere mortal.
Perhaps he had been in a position of power for too long, overestimating the moral bottom line of the Ryan nobles and underestimating the scoundrels of these feudal lords.
Surrender and lose half?
ridiculous!
Only the weak yield, while the true strong will devour all the meat in their mouths!
"obligation?"
A mocking laugh suddenly interrupted Wickton's speech, and the powerful Earl, sitting on the right side of the conference table, slammed his hand on the table and stood up.
His imposing figure blocked the light from the kerosene lamp, casting a somber shadow that stretched beyond the edge of the long table, his eyes fixed intently on the stage.
He was the Duke of Eiffel's most trusted vassal, and he didn't even give the king a second glance, let alone a baron who rose to power through flattery.
"When our ancestors shed their blood on this land, you didn't even know which tree you were on, yet you dare to talk to me about obligations?"
Baron Wickton's eyes widened as he stared intently at the earl, about to retort, but was rudely interrupted by the latter.
"We forged this land with our blood and protected this kingdom with our swords! Our duty has never wavered! A dog wagging its tail dares not speak of duty to me!"
He drew his sword from his waist and slammed it heavily on the table with a loud bang.
The powerful voice didn't frighten the seasoned Wickerton, but it did terrify the "allies" he had invited.
"This is the tax we paid!" The Duke of Eiffel's vassal narrowed his eyes, his face filled with a murderous aura. "I've left it here; do you dare to take it?"
The noisy theater suddenly turned from joy to sorrow, the style shifting so quickly that even the priests sitting on the left were caught off guard.
They were actually prepared for the king to play himself, and in the end, all they had to do was pay some money. But this count...
It doesn't seem like it was acted, does it?
Newcastle's face stiffened, his hand involuntarily gripped the handrail, his body leaned slightly forward, and his eyes unconsciously drifted towards the doorway.
Saint Sith above...
He thought Baron Wickton had a backup plan?
how……
It doesn't seem like it exists.
The Earl's resounding response ignited a powder keg, and a chorus of boos rose and fell behind him, instantly drowning out Wickton's argument.
"Well said!"
"The Philip family despises you! To weigh our decadent money against our ancestral honor is an insult to our honor!"
"Get out! You lackey of the king!"
Your family will be disgraced by your betrayal today!
The once solemn and dignified parliament hall instantly transformed into a noisy marketplace, and these well-dressed nobles showed absolutely no trace of the demeanor expected of royalty.
They jeered loudly, denouncing the royal family for breaking their promise and attempting to destroy the sacred covenant of "exempting nobles from taxes" that had lasted for centuries, forcing them to pay the king like beggars in the marketplace.
What does he take the nobility for?!
Newcastle stared dumbfounded at the noisy nobles, momentarily forgetting to run away, and... he felt that he didn't need to run anymore.
These nobles were sensible; they completely ignored the six citizens sitting in the corner and focused all their firepower on the "instigator."
The roar behind him gave the count boundless courage. He looked contemptuously at Wickton on the stage and delivered the final blow.
“Mr. Wickton, the nobles of Lane will not fill the kingdom’s hole for you. Instead of extorting your Majesty’s loyal subjects here, consider persuading your Majesty to sell the title of Dusk Province to a powerful gentleman. I believe there will be many willing to pay a high price for a duke’s title.”
Having said that, the count gave the latter no chance to argue, snorted coldly, and turned and left.
This move triggered a chain reaction, with a large number of nobles following the count, also leaving in anger and dissatisfaction.
Meanwhile, the priests on the other side remained unmoved, watching the farce that ended in discord with amusement on their faces.
To be honest, they didn't expect the nobles and the king to start arguing; they thought they were the ones getting the short end of the stick at this meeting.
If it were in exchange for increased papal power, they could lend the king another sum of money, since they had plenty of secular gold coins.
However, in retrospect, they may have overestimated His Majesty. That seemingly strong old man actually had one foot in the coffin.
Perhaps this was Saint Sith's punishment for the Devalo family; by placing that clown-like fellow in the position of bishop, he had ultimately angered the gods.
They've been putting up with Theodore for a long time.
In less than five minutes, the once bustling conference hall was more than half empty.
The lights in the amphitheater remained on, but they only illuminated Baron Wickton's embarrassed and ashen face as he stood on the stage, unsure how to end the situation.
He was also helpless.
Logically, those nobles should have been wary of the Lionheart Knights, but today they were behaving unusually tough.
Perhaps because the "Radiant Knights" have been stationed at the front for too long, these treacherous villains actually think that His Majesty can no longer wield a sword, and dare to slam the sword on the table in provocation!
In fact, besides feeling helpless, Baron Wickton also felt a bit confused.
Logically speaking, His Majesty would not allow himself to fight alone, given the value of the gold coins; this is also his greatest source of confidence as a baron.
However, what he couldn't understand was why, even though he was already standing on the front lines, ready to fight to the death, he hadn't seen a single trace of His Majesty's reinforcements.
This is really wrong...
In the corner, Professor Ferguson, who had been silent, let out a cold laugh, seemingly the only audience member in the entire amphitheater who had guessed the ending.
He even guessed the ending that was never staged. From ancient times to the present, stage plays have always been paid for by the audience. There is no reason for the actors on stage to pay for them.
He didn't care about money; it was just an external thing.
He only lamented the fate of Roland.
The souls who died in the winter fire did not truly close their eyes; every blood debt will be settled with interest on the day of reckoning.
His disdainful sneer eventually turned into a long sigh. He glanced silently at the only Campbell present, then left without a word.
Go ahead and do whatever you want!
Newcastle watched Mr. Ferguson's departing figure, then glanced at the four terrified "shills" beside him, feeling both amused and exasperated.
"By Saint Sith..."
Newcastle made the sign of the cross on his chest.
He actually sold the fire extinguisher to a group of fire demons who were pouring oil on themselves.
No kidding, he was actually quite impressed with himself.
(End of this chapter)
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