Chapter 112: The Great Banquet (4)
"...?"
Vikir's mouth dropped open slightly in disbelief.
Hugo, the patriarch of the family and organizer of the Great Banquet, had been watching his siblings argue with an amused expression on his face.
The Boston Terrier and the Great Dane continued to argue.
Both dogs are normally more likely to bite than bark, but in Hugo's presence, they seem to be restrained.
Vikir studied Hugo's expression.
'...Why is he smiling like that? No way.'
It didn't take him long to co to a conclusion.
Every day in Baskerville, there are fierce battles.
Patriarch. Below him, under the umbrella of the Seventh Count, there are countless lines, each with its own independent factions.
Beyond the shadows, assassinations, framings, duels, rgers, acquisitions, and deals are made in a bloody ga of nerves and politics.
It's not uncommon for one faction to keep another in check, and Hugo, the pinnacle of the Ironblade family, is no exception.
It's his job to keep an eye on his half-brothers and sisters who are rising in power within the family, as well as those from outside the family.
Ironically, the brother he should be closest to is the most feared enemy within the Baskervilles.
Hugo's greatest enemy, then, was the Seventh Count.
A fight between a Boston Terrier and a Great Dane would eventually lead to a split in the Count's ranks, which in turn would lead to more power for the Patriarch.
So Hugo probably wouldn't condemn this kind of power struggle among the counts.
In fact, he would likely encourage it.
"A cunning man, indeed."
Vikir clicked his tongue.
Suddenly, Hugo's eyes shifted to Vikir.
When Vikir lowered his gaze to his plate, Hugo spoke in a low voice.
"It's good to see my son being recognized."
What the hell is that supposed to an?
Vikir looks up and sees Hugo's face, still wearing an extrely faint smile.
It's an extrely faint smile.
As Vikir stood there dumbfounded, Butler Barrymore sneaked up behind him and whispered in his ear.
"It is said that all seven of the Counts wished to attend the great banquet, all to see you, though the other five were too far away to co."
"... Is that so?"
"The patriarch seems to be in a good mood, seeing his usually high-minded and dutiful siblings so restless. I wonder whose child you are."
Vikir turned his head again.
...So that smile wasn't just him taking pleasure in seeing his siblings' division?
That he was actually happy to see his son recognized?
"It can't be."
Vikir shook his head.
Not Hugo, who had no blood or tears.
Vikir shook his head and tried to focus on the al.
Soon, the al began to enter its main course.
One main dish after another.
It didn't take long before the table was set with an enormous feast.
"Thank God it's not haggis anymore."
Vikir felt a little better knowing that he wouldn't have to eat the tasteless, filling haggis anymore.
anwhile.
"I see our Count Dane is trying to eat things raw again. Nature cannot be fooled."
"How many glasses of wine have you had already? I think you're very drunk. Go to bed."
The Boston Terrier and Great Dane were still fighting.
By now, they realized that growling at each other was a losing proposition.
And from then on, they both tried to get one more word out of Vikir.
"Yeah. Vikir, you've spent the last two years living in the depths of the Black Mountains with your enemies, so tell
about your experiences. This uncle is very curious. How many barbarians have you slain, and how many beasts have you torn apart? Ah! My blood boils just thinking about it! The blood of a pit bull, I an, in my day, when I was eight years old, and had just been dropped by the enemy into the depths of the Black Mountains to take my practical examination, and had just competed with my brother Patriach in a hunt; but my nephew has done more than that, and I am very proud of him!"
"My brave and clever nephew, this uncle will not ask you such frivolous things. Of course, I am very curious to know how my dear nephew spent his ti in the treacherous depht, but that is for you to read in your report later. But this uncle wants to ask you sothing else first. I know it's awkward coming ho after two years, so if you need anything, just say so. This uncle will get you anything...."
Even the servants hiccupped in surprise at the normally reticent pair showing such a vulnerable side.
Vikir smiled weakly.
The Boston Terrier was openly curious about Vikir's life in the depths, and so was the Great Dane, though he pretended not to be.
But Hugo cut him off.
"Just let him eat, don't be too polite."
He put his arm around Vikir.
The two counts grunted and stepped back while Vikir was still adjusting to this strange favor.
"Still, as a true uncle, I am curious to see how my nephew has grown over the past two years...."
"That's right. I can't help but wonder how much my nephew, who was so amazing two years ago, has accomplished in the anti, so I rode my horse all those miles...."
The two counts still couldn't let go of their regrets. Hugo's brow furrowed slightly.
"So. Are you saying you're going to torture my son right here at the table?"
"Well, not that."
"...ck."
Even the Seventh Count doesn't cower in the face of Hugo's montum.
The Boston Terrier and Great Dane look away, unable to find the main event.
Then.
A voice saves them both.
"Proof of accomplishnt is not difficult."
It was Vikir.
Vikir's words brought color to the faces of the Boston Terrier and the Great Dane.
Hugo sounded unusually concerned.
"Hmm. Still, my son, it would be tiring to talk about such things over a al when you need to go out on the stage to prove your accomplishnts, and you've co a long way."
"It's okay, father, and...."
Vikir set his fork down on the table.
Then he spoke.
"I can show you my skills anyti, anywhere. Life is all about practice, isn't it?"
At that, the faces of Hugo, the Boston Terrier, and the Great Dane brightened with satisfaction.
"Brother. You sure did a good job raising your son."
"That's right, and if I had a son like that, I'd really wish for nothing."
"Hmph. Enough of that. What's this...."
Hugo turns away, tugging at his mustache.
Butler Barrymore watched him with an amused expression.
"By the way, how do you prove your skills?"
The Boston Terrier asks.
The Great Dane stares at Vikir inquisitively, too.
Vikir doesn't answer.
He simply raised his hand and placed it still on the table.
"...."
There was a slight pause.
Then, after a long mont of silence, Vikir's mouth opened.
"I think Uncle Dane's steak is slightly undercooked."
At the sa ti, Vikir turned his head to look at the Boston Terrier.
"Uncle Terrier has too much wine in his glass."
With that, the Boston Terrier and the Great Dane looked at each other's steaks and wine.
Then.
Sothing amazing happened.
Tsk, tsk, tsk...
Vikir's hand twitched, and the utensils on the table rattled slightly.
The Boston Terrier and the Great Dane imdiately took their hands off the table.
The mana from Vikir's body was flowing onto the table.
And then.
A strange phenonon occurred before the two counts' eyes.
chiiiiig...
The Great Dane's steak began to sizzle and cook.
Nothing changed around them, but only one side of the steak was being cooked by the intense heat.
The blood dried and steam rose.
The steak had gone from rare to well-done.
"...Hurr."
The Great Dane picked up his fork.
The fork was right next to the plate of steak, but it wasn't hot at all.
He dug in, and the at was firm, with just the slightest hint of charring.
anwhile.
"Kahahahaha!"
The Boston terrier was also laughing, looking at the glass of wine in front of him.
Bubbling, bubbling, bubbling...
The wine in the silver goblet boils purple.
In the blink of an eye, the wine turned to vapor and disappeared, sending a sweet sll throughout the banquet hall.
The bubbling wine reached the waist of the goblet and stopped boiling.
Exactly half of it had vaporized and disappeared.
Just by placing his palm on the table, he cooked at and brewed wine.
He could touch things and channel mana into them, causing them to explode exactly where he wanted them to.
What would happen if that was applied to swordsmanship?
You would be able to channel mana into your sword and produce an aura of the desired strength and viscosity at the desired point.
And that's what the world calls it.
"Graduator."
Before Swordmaster. The most mature stage a great swordsman can reach. They symbolize the power of the Empire.
Vikir was an interdiate Graduator, a level that even the geniuses of Baskerville could only reach around the age of thirty-five.
A seventeen year old Interdiate Graduator. The youngest ever.
It was enough to shatter all official records of the Baskervilles up to this point.
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