HTLCCBFT Chapter 233

Has The Lord’s Career Chart Been Filled Today? – Chapter 233

Faced with this sudden, uninvited guest, everyone remained motionless, unable to react for a long time.

Whether it was the capital’s commoners who were close enough to gaze directly at the golden-haired lord, or the guards who could just make out the elegant lines of his profile, they had no time to regain their senses after being captivated by his divine golden aura before sinking once more into a mesmerized silence.

Only General Modelle, who stood completely with his back to Oliver, managed to shake off his shock and fear at the other’s bizarre appearance and shouted out orders: “Damn it, what are you fools still standing around for?! That’s a demon! Quick, shoot the demon!!”

Even without knowing who the owner of that beautiful golden-haired figure was, from his sudden appearance and the clear act of saving the Grand High Priest who had just spoken recklessly, Modelle could easily deduce he was an enemy, not a friend—unless he was a fool.

Yet, despite his command, the usually obedient soldiers exchanged hesitant glances, none willing to draw their bows again and take aim.

This wasn’t just out of reluctance to harm such breathtaking beauty—it was also because the utterly incomprehensible manner of his appearance had thoroughly terrified them.

“No, you cannot do this, sir.”

The guard closest to Modelle couldn’t help but speak up.

His pupils trembled slightly with fear, clearly reflecting that figure, and his voice was as dazed as if he were in a dream: “That is a God!”

As seasoned soldiers, they feared neither pain nor death and could display bravery and fearlessness against the fiercest of enemies.

Out of their innate obedience to orders, they could harden their hearts, abandon their conscience, and, under the royal decree, wield their weapons against unarmed civilians of their own nation.

But forcing them to offend a deity was something they simply could not do, even if they weren’t particularly devout themselves.

—That was the absolute suppression of ordinary humans by the supreme divine race.

The fat on Modelle’s face quivered with rage, but before he could issue another command to the disobedient soldiers, his instinctively raised gaze stole his breath away in an instant.

The golden hair, undoubtedly symbolizing noble and pure lineage, was slightly curled and fell smoothly over slender shoulders, shimmering with a glistening golden light under the bright sun. His delicate skin was as flawless as fresh snow, and his gem-like eyes, shifting with a radiant glow, were the exact azure blue of the sky. But what truly made one’s heart pound like a drum was that breathtaking beauty—the same beauty that had driven all the bards in the capital to madness, and haunted Arte, the most talented painter in the capital, who abandoned all fame and status to pursue his muse. Even the most perfect divine statue, embodying the highest fantasies of devout believers about their deity, would pale in comparison.

“God.”

Modelle’s lips trembled uncontrollably, his teeth chattering.

He was no mere soldier living outside the second wall, but a great noble in the army, a viscount holding the high position of general. He had been fortunate enough to attend many court banquets hosted by the old King, and in those opulent, gold-flowing occasions, he, like many of his peers…Nobles of similar rank held wine glasses, engaging in pretentious conversations while covertly and greedily gazing upon that beauty—so divine it seemed as if a deity had descended to the mortal realm, a splendor that otherwise could never belong to this world…

“Modelle.”

The Angel Duke, usually gentle and smiling, now wore an icy expression.

He had turned around at some point, the hem of his snow-white robe rippling like gently disturbed lake water, a sight as pleasing to the eye as his elegant posture.

His ice-blue eyes fixed intently on Modelle’s deathly pale face, then his eyelids lowered slightly as he drew out the massive water-blue great sword that had not been seen for a long time.

While everyone held their breath, watching him in disbelief, he casually stroked the cold, broad blade and issued his final warning in a tone that sounded calm but carried faint disgust: “Will you lay down your arms and surrender, or will you persist in opposing me and cruelly point your weapons at the innocent subjects under your despicable and shameful King… no, the innocent people persecuted by the usurper Cameron?”

“Duke Oliver von Augusta Alexander George Musta.”

After these words, Modelle’s fighting spirit completely vanished.

He had no doubt that this beautiful duke—as if kissed by the supreme creator God—who had already completely captured the old King’s favor, even doting, had now truly gained God’s blessing.

Thus, his choice became obvious: compared to the King who was still waiting for his report in the castle and could only punish him upon his return, this grand duke protected by divine power before him was the formidable being who could kill him in the blink of an eye.

Trembling, he dropped his long sword and almost eagerly knelt down, pleading: “Merciful Duke, your foolish servant begs for your forgiveness—it was all by the King’s command—”

The army sent to suppress the so-called “rioters” had never been highly motivated to begin with. After witnessing their commander Modelle kneeling and begging for mercy from another noble, all the soldiers, after a brief moment of confusion, tentatively laid down their weapons as well.

One moment they were facing ferocious soldiers and the horrifying scene of their most beloved Grand High Priest falling to an arrow, the next a savior suddenly appeared…

As the soldiers instantly turned into docile sheep, bowing in submission to the dazzlingly beautiful God, the common people trembled with fear, completely unsure how to react.

They only knew one thing: if they wanted to stay alive, they must not leave this unfamiliar God who was willing to protect them.

Oliver paid no attention to Modelle, who had immediately switched sides and was loudly making excuses while begging for forgiveness, nor did he look at the elite soldiers who moments before had been able to follow absurd commands without blinking, completely forgetting the virtues and integrity of knighthood.

Though Modelle was trying to escape blame, his words weren’t entirely without merit—the most detestable wasn’t the hunting dogs sent to tear at the vulnerable necks of the prey, but the King who had inhumanely decided to slaughter his own subjects.

He took a deep breath and quietly looked at the bewildered commoners. Just as he was about to explain something, his peripheral gaze caught the pointed roof of a barn not far away, and a thought stirred in his mind.

When facing the commoners who had completely regarded him as their only savior and worshipped him as a deity, he nodded slightly and spoke concisely, “Follow me.”

As soon as the words fell, he took the lead and descended the steps.

As expected, the moment they saw him intentionally leaving, everyone tensed up.

They didn’t dare to speak to one another but followed him down without hesitation—their uniformly bowed heads and silent demeanor resembled a peculiar pilgrimage procession.

The only exception was Edir Pride.

From the very beginning, she had been staring intently at the radiant deity, her heart filled with confusion.

Was this really her former fiancé?

She had never believed that the one who wrote those captivating words was Duke Oliver himself, preferring to think it was an exceptionally talented elder, like Fosse, who was utterly loyal to the Duke and willingly offered all the glory to him.

But after witnessing the demeanor of this “Duke Oliver,” she hesitated.

It was only at this moment that she firmly believed this was the “Duke Oliver” who had written those profound and moving words, yet he was absolutely not the one she had known before.

The former Duke of the kingdom was as beautiful and pure as an angel, possessing an innocent beauty that seemed untouched by the filth of the royal capital.

Compared to the Duke Oliver whose beauty alone had once driven her to lose her senses and even consider eloping with him, the one before her was undoubtedly more dazzling and closer to perfection.

However, this transformed angel was no longer someone she dared to approach.

She shook her head, quietly tugged at her cloak to cover most of her face.

Oliver didn’t go far, nor did he realize that his former fiancée was silently observing him from the crowd.

He openly led the people through the soldiers who had made way for them, arriving at the high wall nearest to the barn he had just seen.

Under the anxious gazes of the people, he nonchalantly tossed the [cat god’s sword], which he had been using for defense, onto the true deity who had transformed into a golden mist to avoid showing his face and could now conveniently wrap himself entirely around his little companion.

Then, he took out the familiar pickaxe.

After glancing around, Oliver curved the corners of his lips, revealing the first and faintest trace of a smile. “Watch closely,” he commanded succinctly.

Strike?

The commoners stared blankly, completely failing to comprehend.

“The first strike, I will make it for you.”

In their confusion, they watched as this god, who shone like a gem, actually swung the unremarkable pickaxe himself the next moment, striking it against the thick city wall!

The moment the pickaxe hit the wall, everyone was dumbfounded.

After the “clang” of the pickaxe tip striking, only a small, insignificant piece fell from the wall, which in the minds of the royal capital’s people was considered indestructible… but… they weren’t sure if it was just their imagination, yet they could vaguely sense the ground beneath their feet seemed to tremble slightly as well.

He paused, then said: “The second strike was one that Abino was willing to risk his life to deliver for you.”

Thinking of the white-haired, red-eyed Grand High Priest who remained unshaken even knowing deadly arrows were aimed at his back, resolutely marching toward death – Oliver, who could fully guess the intention behind that action, couldn’t help but tighten his grip on the pickaxe.

Abino wanted to use his own life to awaken the slumbering people, to rouse the chrysalises frozen numb in the ice and snow.

Struggling didn’t guarantee survival – but without struggle, death was certain.

Oliver immediately thought of Jack.

When Jack – that male slave whose face he couldn’t even remember – resolutely used his own chest to suppress the raging flames, Oliver hadn’t been present.

Yet the image of the other enduring unimaginable agony while smelling his own flesh and blood burning, desperately hoping this sacrifice might prove useful, was deeply engraved in his mind.

Why had Jack been able to go that far?

He knew perfectly well, yet had always avoided thinking too deeply about it.

Those willing to sacrifice for higher ideals or personal convictions were indeed admirably great: but he would rather the people under his rule live ordinary, stable lives.

When the pickaxe struck for the second time, more rubble fell, and the tremors in the wall and nearby ground became more pronounced.

Modelle clenched his jaw tightly.

Wave after wave of strong premonition assaulted him, yet he still couldn’t believe what might… no, what was about to happen.

As he swung for the third strike, Oliver paused again.

Ever since his 【mining】 skill reached level 10, he’d become “lazy” and hadn’t touched the pickaxe.

Reaching the peak of his professional skill meant his effectiveness with the pickaxe had greatly increased: what used to take nearly ten strikes now required only three to easily create a large hole in the wall.

His right hand holding the pickaxe relaxed and dropped, while his left hand pointed toward the barn’s spire visible even from the wall’s base: “Look – that’s the grain you worked so hard to grow, but after the wheat stalks fall, it becomes property you no longer have any right to touch, belonging only to the ‘privileged’.”

“Even when you suffer terrible misfortune, when you need help most, the doors to it won’t open for you.”

“The noble inner city doesn’t allow commoners to enter barefoot, supposedly fearing the filth on their soles might dirty the beautiful stone floors, which might then dirty the nobles’ soft boot soles.” Oliver spoke deliberately: “Yet gold coins touched by far more ‘filthy’ fingers can enter the King’s treasury unimpeded.”

“You think you’re protected, that you’ve become part of the royal capital… but in truth, you’re just feeding a pack of greedy jackals. Jackals that drink your blood, eat your flesh, then point at your bones and curse your ‘dirty souls’.”

At this point, Oliver slowly drew a breath, calming his unconsciously quickened heartbeat.

He turned back around and said in a low voice, “I ask you—if you no longer fear death, why should you fear reclaiming what is rightfully yours?”

The moment his words fell, the pickaxe struck heavily against the crumbling wall!

“Boom——!!!!”

Dust billowed and rubble flew.

Amidst the exclamations of countless people, the stone wall that had stood for centuries collapsed with a thunderous crash!!!

Just as Oliver naturally began collecting the broken stones, the crowd that had been standing numbly behind him finally reacted.

“Take back our food!!!”

A hoarse yet powerful roar suddenly erupted from behind.

Like a massive rock thrown into a calm pond—white spray bursting forth with a loud crash as deeper waters surged upward, ripples rapidly spreading outward—

More and more voices joined the same roar, until finally, like streams converging, they merged into a rushing river.

“Take back our food!!!”

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