Chapter 115

“Don’t tell me you’re talking about the marriage alliance that once existed between Calyx and Grimaldi?”

As far as Lucian knew, that was the only time royal blood had ever been mixed into Calyx.
But Norbek let out a derisive snort at Lucian’s words.

“I have no intention of claiming legitimacy over something like that. What I’m talking about is a far more fundamental right.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Do you not even know where your own roots come from?”

Norbek lifted his chin and looked down at Lucian as if appraising him.

It seemed he had made up his mind to beat around the bush and deliberately provoke him.
At the petty taunt, Lucian let out a soft scoff and said,

“I’ll give you ten seconds.”

“What?”

“If you have something to say, say it here. Otherwise, I’m leaving.”

Norbek stared at Lucian with a dumbfounded expression.
This was a matter concerning nothing less than the founding ancestor of the family.
Any normal noble would have flown into a rage and demanded an immediate explanation, if only out of concern over questions of legitimacy.

“…Are you truly a noble? You don’t even know where your own house began, and you haven’t made the slightest effort to find out!”

“If you’ve got nothing to say, then stop. The execution is soon, so you’d better clean your neck.”

Having said that, Lucian turned his back.
At the sight, Norbek hurriedly clung to the bars.
Judging by Lucian’s unhesitating stride, if he let him go like this, the man really would ask nothing at all until the blade fell.

“I’m talking about what happened before Grimaldi became a royal house!”
“Hm.”

As if his curiosity had been piqued, Lucian’s steps came to a halt.
He turned back toward the cell and jerked his chin, signaling him to continue.
Trembling with humiliation, Norbek slowly began to unearth the secrets of the past.

“Before our ancestors settled in Asagrim, back when we lived as barbarians, there were thirty-five tribes on a frozen tundra far to the north of this land. Grimaldi and Calyx were among them.”

According to Norbek, life on the tundra was brutal.
Food was always scarce, stealing another tribe’s provisions was commonplace, and even after doing so, people still starved to death.
The cold grew harsher with every passing year, to the point where fur garments that had once been reliable would become useless by the next winter as a matter of course.

“All the tribes realized it. If things continued like this, we would die of cold and hunger. But even knowing that, none of us dared attempt to migrate elsewhere.”
“Was there some powerful enemy?”

“No. It was because the cold had grown so severe that traveling long distances had become impossible.”

The rate at which the tundra’s cold intensified was uncanny.
Regions that could be traversed without issue just a dozen or so years earlier had become death traps—anyone attempting the journey again would freeze solid before getting far.
If even strong adult men faced such a fate, women and children stood no chance.
While everyone hesitated, unable to summon the courage to act, one tribal chief gathered the remaining thirty-four tribes and spoke.

“If things go on like this, we’ll all die. I’ll lead my tribe and go ahead—those who wish to migrate with us, gather all your food and follow.”

It wasn’t pure goodwill, but a bargain: in exchange for taking the risk, they would share the food the others lacked.
Most of the tundra tribes scoffed at the proposal, but eight tribes chose to follow him.
Thus began the great, life-or-death migration of nine tribes.

“As expected, the tundra’s cold was merciless. In the first month, half of the nine tribes died. In the next month, half of those remaining died as well. Among them was the chieftain who had first proposed the migration.”

As he lay dying, he passed the position of representative of the nine tribes to a friend.
The friend mourned him, yet took his place and led the nine tribes onward.
Soon their food ran out, and even the survivors were collapsing from exhaustion—
and then they realized the cold was no longer as severe as before.

“The nine tribes succeeded in migrating. They settled on land where plants and animals grew and food could be found. But people already lived there, and they regarded the tribes from beyond the tundra as outsiders.”

No matter how livable it was compared to the tundra, it was still harsh land.
With food and resources scarce, the newcomers were inevitably shunned.
The nine tribes felt the need for unity and decided to choose a king over all nine.

“There were two candidates: the son of the chieftain who had first led them, and the friend who later took on the role of representative. Fortunately, the friend yielded the throne to the chieftain’s son, and a major conflict was avoided.”

The problem came after the throne had been handed over.
The tribespeople did not obey their new king’s commands.
Whatever orders he gave, they half-heartedly complied at best, sometimes openly ignoring him.
Yet whenever the friend who had yielded the throne appeared, they moved diligently as if nothing had happened.

“Only then did the king realize what was really going on. Yielding the throne hadn’t been an act of goodwill—it was a mere formality. The balance had already tipped, and it was an insult telling him not to be greedy and to hand it over with his own hands.”

The king lamented the cruel reality, but there was nothing he could do.
If things continued, he would be nothing more than a puppet king—and in the worst case, he even risked assassination.

In the end, the first king of the nine tribes handed the crown over to his father’s friend with his own hands.

“After that comes the predictable founding myth. The leader of the nine tribes conquered and unified the natives, established a kingdom, and became its king—the founding ancestor of the Northern royal house.”
“An interesting story.”

If Norbek’s tale was true, then the Grimaldi royal family was not native to the North as the history books claimed.
They were outsiders—descendants of barbarian tribes from beyond the tundra—and the records had been neatly rewritten to hide that fact.
To some, it might sound like an insult to the family, but to Lucian it was nothing more than an old man’s fireside tale.

“All right, I’ve heard your story. But I don’t see how anything you’ve just said has to do with your claim of royal blood.”
“Because I am descended from that first king.”

“What?”

“The one who first led the nine tribes and spearheaded the great migration across the tundra—that man is the founding ancestor of Calyx.”
“…Ha.”

A hollow laugh slipped from Lucian’s lips.
So if you traced things all the way back to their tribal days, the cowardly chieftain’s friend—the one who schemed—was Lucian’s Grimaldi ancestor.
Norbek’s ancestor had been chosen as the first king, only for his descendants to lose the throne through intrigue.
Lucian mulled over what to say for a moment, then voiced his honest impression.

“Are you out of your mind? You’re going to claim legitimacy to the throne over something that happened back when you were barbarian tribes, before the Northern Kingdom even existed? Has your brain rotted away in your old age?”

It was a crude insult, bordering on vulgar, but nothing else came to mind.
After all, Lucian had never once imagined that Norbek’s ambition was the throne itself.
He had assumed the man was aiming to be the foremost great house of the North, the representative of the lords—but king?
As Lucian stared in disbelief, Norbek’s clenched-teeth voice rang out.

“And what about you? The Northern royal house is a kingdom that fell a thousand years ago. Yet you go on prattling about the glory of the North, gnawing away at people’s minds with it. If a ghost from a thousand years ago can still run amok, why shouldn’t I be able to make a claim like this?”

Lucian was left speechless.
Not because Norbek’s claim was convincing, but because he finally understood the man’s state of mind.

An old man who had always lived with the delusion, tucked away in some corner of his heart, that he himself might have been king.
Had the world been utterly peaceful, or plunged into utter chaos, it would have remained a delusion until his dying day.
In times of stable rule, even stirring conflict was a crime; in times of chaos, merely surviving was burden enough.

But whether by a twist of fate or a cruel joke of destiny, Lucian’s existence had ushered in an in-between era.
A time peaceful enough that survival was no longer all-consuming, yet chaotic enough that even if conflict arose, no one could truly be held to account.
To the old man before him, this very ambiguity must have looked like a final opportunity granted in the twilight of his life.

Lucian quietly looked at Norbek.
Had true chaos arrived as fated, the man would have realized his own folly and remained a clan lord who guarded his house in silence.
Instead, all that stood before him now was a pitiful old man who still believed his delusion to be an ambition within reach.

Lucian let out a deep sigh and turned his back on Norbek, who did not avert his gaze.

“What a pathetic human.”

At the heartfelt lament, Norbek’s eyes shook violently.
A moment later, shouts rang out as the iron bars rattled.

“You bastard! You—! You dare…!”

Ignoring the cries echoing behind him, Lucian walked out of the prison.
After all, telling an old man who had lost everything that his lifelong dream was nothing more than a delusion was, in its own way, an act of cruelty.

A few days later, Norbek’s public execution was carried out as scheduled.
Norbek awaited the death that would soon come without the slightest fear.
With everything already over, what use was there in clinging to life?
Still, even at this point, one thing weighed on his mind.

How will others react to my death?

Would they rejoice and cheer, hurling curses? Or would they grieve, lamenting his loss with regret?
He was curious about the raw, unfiltered reactions of the common folk, untainted by political interests.
In a sense, those reactions were no different from a yardstick by which a ruler was measured.

Whichever it is, I will not show an ugly face before death.

Having steeled himself, Norbek came forward at the appointed hour, chest held high.
His manner suggested he had nothing to be ashamed of, but there was no one moved by it.
The crowd merely watched with indifferent expressions, waiting for it to be over.

“He scraped and scraped from everywhere, and this is how he ends up.”
“Good riddance for us. They say the taxes are going down. Maybe we can finally stand up straight and live.”
“Tsk, tsk. I always said he was too greedy in his old age—looks like I was right.”
“Should we call it pitiful, or just the natural outcome?”

Most of those murmuring as they watched the execution were people of Calyx.
To them, Norbek, their former lord, was not a bad ruler—but it would be hard to call him a good one either.
He had fulfilled his duties as lord, yet imposed heavy taxes and even enforced conscription.
So while they did not cheer at his death, neither did they mourn him with tears of sorrow.

“Heh.”

A deflated sound slipped from Norbek’s mouth at the murmuring of the common folk.
At the same time, the back he had held straight sagged once more, and the light drained from his eyes.
His expression looked like that of someone whose last hope had vanished—or someone awakening from a long dream.

“Pathetic human… a pathetic human.”
“What are you doing? Don’t stop—keep moving.”

As Norbek mulled over the words Lucian had left him the day before, a soldier prodded him from behind.
As if in a daze, Norbek walked toward the execution platform, once again glancing around.
There was still no joy or sorrow in the gazes fixed upon him.
There were only people calmly accepting reality, thinking nothing more than that the owner had changed.

Hah… perhaps it would have been better if I had remained asleep in my dream until the very end.

Kneeling before the executioner with the axe, Norbek lowered his neck.
The raised axe of the executioner reflected the light in a dizzying shimmer.
Watching that glittering light spill downward, Norbek murmured,

“Reality is cruel…”

Schlak.

With a swing of the axe that no one heard the muttering before, the execution was carried out.
Even as Norbek’s head fell away with a clean cut, there was no dramatic reaction.
Thus, without hearing either cheers or lamentations, the old dreamer departed from the world.