The Lord Just Wants to Have Fun

“That’s right. How about recruiting him?”

Duke Volzard had heard that this Philip had made a fortune crafting various artifacts and had even defeated a necromancer.

“He also won a territorial war against Viscount Mirabeau, didn’t he? If civil war breaks out, he could be useful to check the Western nobles who’ve sided with Amelia.”

“But, Your Grace, he is an Apostle of the God of Blacksmiths.”

One of his aides opposed the idea, and Volzard scowled.

“So what?”

“He has no noble lineage. Associating with someone like him could tarnish Your Grace’s prestige—”

BANG!

Volzard slammed his fist on the table.

“Do you think this is the time to worry about prestige? If it means I can become king, I’ll ally with the Apostle of the Blacksmith God or even a beggar god’s apostle if I have to!”

Count Hessen nodded in agreement.

“Your Grace is right. The power balance is too close right now. We need every high noble we can get.”

“Haha! That’s why I trust you the most, Hessen.” Volzard chuckled before growing serious again. “Since this young baron seems competent, we’ll need a skilled orator to persuade him.”

“Leave it to me, Your Grace. I know just the man for the job.”

Viscount Musette stepped forward confidently, and the duke’s face lit up with satisfaction.

“I trust anyone you recommend, Musette.”

The exiled noble had become Volzard’s left-hand strategist, thanks to his keen political instincts and his ability to scout exceptional talent.

In fact, Musette had correctly predicted Lothar III’s imminent death and urged Volzard to begin securing support among the high nobles before the king’s passing.

“Oh, and what about the Water Temple? Have we secured their loyalty?”

“Yes, Your Grace. We’ve swayed the High Priest and the upper clergy to our side.”

“Excellent, excellent! Now that the important matters are settled, let’s drink.”

CLAP!

At Count Hessen’s signal, the office doors swung open, and maids entered carrying premium alcohol and lavish delicacies.

Though drinking and indulgence were technically forbidden during the mourning period, no one in the room cared.

“Drink up! Let’s drink!”

“To Duke Volzard’s ascension! Cheers!”

The drunken revelry continued well past midnight and into the early morning.

******

‘Foolish Volzard. You will never become king.’

Viscount Musette, stepping out of the drunken duke’s office, let out a quiet chuckle.

For a fleeting moment, his eyes glowed red, then returned to normal.

Currently, Volzard’s faction was slightly stronger than Karl’s or Amelia’s, but there was no way the duke would ever ascend the throne.

‘That stupid old man is merely our pawn.’

A cold smile curled Musette’s lips as he walked toward his room.

Ssssshhh.

The moment he shut the door behind him, a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness—a man with massive, yak-like horns and an aura of unholy menace.

“My lord.”

Musette knelt on one knee in reverence. The figure—an Archdemon—dismissed the formalities with a lazy wave of his hand.

“Stand. How is the plan progressing?”

“We are controlling the balance of power as intended—ensuring no faction gains a decisive upper hand.”

Of the three factions, Duke Volzard currently had a slight advantage. However, Musette had been subtly sabotaging his faction’s progress behind the scenes.

“Heh… That fool still believes he’s gaining support from the Southern nobles?”

The Archdemon let out a low chuckle.

“Every day, he summons Southern nobles, promising aid and alliances. He desperately seeks their backing.”

But nothing substantial had come from these meetings.

Musette had advised Volzard to act bold yet approachable, to speak casually and confidently—however, the Southern nobles secretly found this behavior disrespectful and offensive.

They were deeply traditional and conservative, placing great importance on etiquette and decorum.

“Everything is proceeding according to plan. The organization, and most importantly, He, will get the chaos and bloodshed they desire.”

Musette’s smirk widened.

The Archdemon let out a satisfied sigh.

“Good. Do not grow complacent. If you fail like you did in Prill Mountain Range, then my assassination of Lothar III will have been for nothing.”

“I will engrave your warning in my heart, my lord.”

Musette bowed deeply.

A mocking smirk lingered on his lips.

The necromancer, once Musette’s rival, had been amassing a monster army by rallying lizardmen deep in the Prill Mountain Range.

But his ambitions had come to a humiliating end when a ragtag force of provincial soldiers unexpectedly crushed him.

This forced the organization to adjust its plans slightly.

‘Hah, what an idiot. All that boasting for nothing.’

What was even more amusing was that the young provincial baron who had slain that buffoon—Philip de Brandel—was now in the royal capital.

And Duke Volzard had just ordered his recruitment.

“There’s one more thing I want to confirm,” the Archdemon said. “Recent reports mention the manifestation of divine power. Is this true?”

“Yes, my lord,” Musette replied. “Our spies confirm it.”

A few days ago, the organization had detected a divine presence in the Arteria Kingdom.

They immediately dispatched agents to investigate, and indeed, there had been a surge of divine energy in that area.

“There’s no way the lazy gods or angels acted directly, so this must be the work of their mortal agents.”

Only the celestial lineage and their chosen representatives—saints, holy warriors, and apostles—could wield divine powers.

To the underground faction that worshiped the Demon God Azra, these individuals were a major threat.

“Who was responsible? Was it the sword saint of Valian? Or perhaps Eldir’s apostle from the West?”

“That’s the problem… It appears to be an unknown figure.”

The report described a novice priestess, dressed in clerical robes, who had summoned a great flood, sweeping away both the villagers and inquisitors who were about to burn her at the stake.

“She disappeared immediately after,” Musette added. “Our agents gathered witness descriptions and created a sketch.”

Musette handed over a parchment scroll.

The Archdemon took one glance at the portrait of a teenage girl and spoke in an icy tone.

“She may be a new apostle or a saintess. Find her. Immediately.”

“Yes, my lord. We will track her down and eliminate her.”

As Musette prepared to leave, the Archdemon gave him a final warning.

“It’s best to eliminate obstacles before they grow troublesome. But excessive ambition is worse than doing nothing.”

If they drew the attention of the celestial realm or its servants, it would create serious problems.

“Our grand plan has been in motion for many years. Do not let it unravel. Move with caution.”

“…Understood, my lord.”

With those words, the Archdemon vanished into the shadows.

******

“Haah… That royal auntie really knows how to negotiate.”

Late at night, Philip flopped onto his bed, exhausted.

Princess Amelia’s envoy had just left after an intense negotiation session.

They had been relentless—even throwing out a proposal that put Philip in a difficult position.

“I heard that the baron is an apostle of Eldir. Her Highness, the Princess, stated that if you join her cause, she will establish forges across the kingdom to spread Eldir’s glory and blessings.”

The first one to react wasn’t Philip.

It wasn’t even Mau.

It was Eldir himself.

[Eldir is deeply moved by Princess Amelia’s offer. He commands his apostle to join her faction immediately.]

‘Ah, come on, Dir-hyung. Don’t get all excited over this.’

[Eldir insists this is a golden opportunity. He asks if you require a divine mission to comply.]

‘No! Don’t fall for this! You’re a god, act like one!’

Philip sighed.

‘How starved for worship do you have to be to get excited over a politician’s empty promises?’

He had lived long enough in modern Korea to know how meaningless campaign promises were.

Politicians would say anything when they needed support. But the moment they won, they would conveniently forget their promises.

Amelia was no different.

She had too many nobles to placate, and there were too many conflicting interests between them.

Could she really keep all of their promises?

‘More likely, once she no longer needs me, she’ll discard me like an old boot.’

Mau asked, confused by Philip’s muttered words.

Philip smirked and explained.

“It’s an ancient saying from Earth. It means, ‘Once the hunting is done, the hounds are cooked.’”

The phrase originated from China’s Han Dynasty, attributed to Han Xin, a brilliant general who was betrayed and executed by Emperor Gaozu once his usefulness had run out.

‘I’d rather keep my distance than end up like him.’

It seemed Eldir had finally calmed down, as no more divine messages came through.

“Lord, are you still awake?”

“What is it?”

Philip asked as Terry, who had knocked, entered the room with a report.

“A messenger from Duke Volzard is here to see you.”

“At this hour?”

“Yes, he insists on meeting you no matter what.”

It hadn’t even been an hour since Princess Amelia’s envoy had left.

Philip had only been in Aras for less than a day, yet both factions had already sent envoys. Just as Midas had predicted, the struggle over the royal succession was intense.

The mere thought of dealing with another persistent envoy who would sit around for hours pressuring him made Philip’s head hurt.

“…Fine. Let him in.”

At his command, the messenger from Duke Volzard was ushered into the room.

The man had short hair, neatly trimmed facial hair, and a tall, muscular frame.

‘A soldier—no, a knight, obviously.’

Something about him reminded Philip of Terry, a similar hardened aura.

Then, the messenger introduced himself.

“I am Viscount Beron.”

“Welcome, I am Baron Philip de Brandel.”

‘First time meeting me, and you’re already speaking informally?’

Philip frowned internally.

Amelia’s envoy, who outranked Beron, had at least been polite.

But this man? His arrogant demeanor was undeniable.

Then, he got straight to the point.

“I’ll be blunt, Baron. If you swear loyalty to Duke Volzard, your family will remain safe. But if you refuse, you will face consequences.”

“…What?”

It wasn’t persuasion—it was a threat.

Philip and his retainers exchanged incredulous looks.

Even Mau, who rarely commented on human affairs, sighed.

[Eldir says that brutes who only understand war are hopeless.]

‘Beron? More like Melon. Another fanatic of Valian, no doubt.’

Like Armand, followers of Valian tended to look down on Eldir and his worshippers.

Clearly, Beron had no respect for Philip as the Apostle of the Blacksmith God.

Terry and the other knights looked ready to draw their weapons, but Philip signaled them to hold back and instead smiled at Beron.

“Is this Duke Volzard’s official stance, or is this merely your personal advice?”

“I am here on His Grace’s orders. Now, what will you decide?”

Beron’s overbearing attitude never wavered.

Philip’s expression hardened.

“I will need a day to discuss this with my retainers.”

“A baron lacks decisiveness, I see.”

“I prefer caution over recklessness. Unlike some.”

“Hmph. Very well. I shall return tomorrow afternoon.”

With that, Viscount Beron left.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Philip’s retainers erupted in outrage.

“What was that?!”

“Duke Volzard must think we’re beneath him! Otherwise, how could he send someone like that?”

“My lord, should I chase after him and put an arrow through his skull?”

Normally, when recruiting a noble, one would offer benefits or incentives—not outright intimidation.

Even if Philip had been considering joining Volzard, this threatening approach would have completely killed that idea.

‘Not that I was ever going to join any faction… but now I know for sure—I want nothing to do with Volzard.’

Philip had already decided to stall until the funeral was over and let this mess sort itself out.

Just then, Helen entered the room.

“My lord, the novice priestess we rescued… she just woke up.”