Has The Lord’s Career Chart Been Filled Today? – Chapter 146
Damn Ken.
McKenna frowned, cursing inwardly.
Even as he thought this, he knew very well that his loyal butler, who had followed him for so many years, must have already sensed his wavering resolve.
Yes.
Why not?
The Count, past forty, thoughtfully stroked his bearded chin. After a long while, he let out a soft, amused chuckle and spoke in that aristocratic tone—slightly drawn out, smooth as silk—saying, “You certainly know how to find trouble for me.”
Whether in the eyes of the nobility or the people of his territory, Count McKenna was by no means a positive figure, nor was he a benevolent lord.
Reckless behavior, eccentric tastes, and indulgence in pleasure… these were common vices among most nobles and not particularly outrageous.
What the aristocracy criticized him for most was not his obsession with frail, pretty boys or his penchant for tormenting them to death, but his fickle and unreliable political allegiances.
They never pledged loyalty to any prince in advance, yet they always managed to present the most thoughtful “congratulatory gifts” when a new king ascended the throne.
But it was undeniable that generations of the McKenna lineage had relied on this shrewd opportunism and a carefully measured ambition—not to advance further but to firmly hold onto their territory—to securely occupy this large southern city of the kingdom for so many years.
He was no exception.
It was just that the new king’s act of murdering his father and brothers was too extreme. Even old-school nobles like Count McKenna, who enjoyed currying favor with the victor, couldn’t help but feel some apprehension.
“Our diligent King Cameron is still troubled by affairs in the capital,” McKenna remarked sarcastically. “But I dare say, every morning when he wakes up in that lavish bed, he must be hoping for a swift horse from the border and a letter announcing the joyous news of the Angel Duke’s unfortunate demise.”
Even he, far from the capital, knew that there was a group of steadfast ministers in the capital—unwilling to serve the new king but indispensable to the kingdom for at least a few years—stubbornly resisting Cameron.
Some were exceptionally stubborn, clinging to an outdated sense of pride and unafraid of retribution; others had previously followed the other princes whom Cameron had murdered.
The sword was not all-powerful. No matter how little Cameron cared for his reputation, he couldn’t possibly slaughter all his brothers’ former followers—at least not within the next few years.
As long as Duke Oliver remained alive, he would inevitably serve as a banner that those nobles would never abandon.
Though Cameron had ascended the coveted throne, whether he could sit securely on it while his hands still dripped with noble blood remained unknown to anyone.
Of course, McKenna, whose primary principle was self-preservation, had no intention of directly harming the Duke.
Even if Cameron went mad and ordered him to behead the Duke as a show of loyalty, the cunning old Count would only pretend to act while secretly sending word to the Duke.
But he was more than willing to “bully” His Grace a little, just to make sure the Duke didn’t naively believe that occupying Albury meant he could truly possess it.
Ken seemed not to hear the half-serious complaint in his master’s words, replying politely: “Please forgive your faithful servant. I merely wished to suggest… this summer might be particularly suitable for an unconventional hunting expedition.”
“Enough.”
McKenna’s face shed its usual frivolity, revealing a trace of the gloom buried deep in his bones. He said deliberately: “Since it’s decided, we should begin preparations properly from now on. Relying solely on my falcons and hunting dogs won’t be enough to match Fosse’s mad dog guarding his master.”
To intimidate that delicate and beautiful young Duke in Albury, simply “bringing the hunting party” as Ken suggested would never suffice.
Both Fosse and Noel were former captains of the Royal Knights – especially the former, whose fearsome reputation forged in real battles was so formidable that even Cameron wouldn’t dare confront him directly.
Yet this hellhound-like existence had willingly submitted to the old king’s almost jestful arrangement, faithfully sheathing his claws to peacefully accompany Duke Oliver.
“I’m growing increasingly curious… increasingly eager to witness the young Duke’s beauty with my own eyes.”
McKenna remarked with amusement: “To think even that hellhound has become so utterly bewitched.”
—
Coincidentally, Oliver – who was having people test the distillation equipment made exactly to his specifications by former alchemists among the slaves – was also thinking of McKenna.
His first experimental batch was whiskey, which used the simplest ingredients but involved extremely intricate production steps.
This time Oliver didn’t personally handle the work – brewing was a craft he intended to teach other artisans, not something he planned to do entirely himself. Instead, he directed several brewers recommended by former wine merchants.
The first step in making whiskey was producing ale using beer brewing methods.
The malted barley contained enzymes that could saccharify starch. After thoroughly grinding the malt, it was boiled over high heat. The key to subtle differences between whiskeys also lay in malt processing: if one wanted to make bourbon, some roasted corn would be added during this process to intensify the flavor.
After boiling, they reduced to simmering heat, maintaining temperature without continuous boiling for about three hours, eventually obtaining a large pot of saccharified[mfn]saccharification – literally “to make into sugar,” the conversion, by enzymes, of starches into sugars and dextrins during the mashing process.[/mfn] wort[mfn]wort – an aqueous solution of extract made from grain, intended for fermentation by yeast into beer. [/mfn].
With His Grace the Duke watching so attentively, even though the process somewhat resembled beer making, the brewers felt tremendous pressure, their hands trembling uncontrollably.
This wouldn’t do.
To ease their tension, Oliver had to step back and instead chat with Fosse about McKenna.
Fortunately, this was just the wort saccharification waiting period, not yet the most complex distillation stage, so everyone could relax slightly.
“What I can understand is that because we captured Albury so quickly, McKenna didn’t have time to react,” Oliver voiced his long-standing doubt: “But will our subsequent high-profile development of this city provoke his attack? Or perhaps attract Cameron’s attention?”
Fosse bowed respectfully before leaning in slightly and replying in a low voice, “This is inevitable, Your Highness.”
“Although there are risks, we cannot halt progress, can we?”
Oliver smiled. “I don’t think it’s my imagination—Fosse, you seem to hold Count McKenna in contempt.”
Indeed, as soon as he spoke these words, he noticed a rare and distinct look of disgust and disdain flash across the butler’s stern expression.
“Yes, Your Highness,” Fosse said succinctly. “McKenna and his family have always been filthy and cunning, irredeemably lowly opportunists.”
For a knight who revered loyalty and believed in courage, McKenna was nothing but a venomous snake lurking in the swamp, utterly detestable.
“He will definitely come to Albury,” Fosse stated with certainty. “But given his self-proclaimed caution—which is truly cowardly and despicable—the day he actually sends his troops will likely be late summer.”
Oliver blinked, his first thought being, “If I’m not mistaken, this neighbor probably wants to seize the opportunity to harvest my wheat as military provisions.”
With the primitive state of transportation, carrying large quantities of provisions and supplies was highly impractical.
Unlike the area around Gregor City, which was rich in forest resources, the vicinity of Albury was mostly overgrown with weeds, dotted with small hills or flatlands.
After the incident with the bandits attacking the city, Oliver had immersed himself in learning about warfare.
It turned out to be far more straightforward and brutal than he had imagined.
Unlike the dynasties he was more familiar with, conflicts between cities here involved little in the way of cunning schemes. They were essentially contests of wealth (determined by the number and quality of mercenaries), provisions (seeing whether the castle’s defenses and stockpiles would collapse first, reinforcements would arrive, or the attackers’ supplies would run out), technological prowess (weapons, key machinery, and the quality of the castle), and displays of martial skill among high-ranking knights.
In the eyes of the nobility, victory had to be achieved with elegance and honor, a glorious feat worthy of being immortalized by painters.
If one resorted to schemes—those underhanded tactics they deemed unworthy—the outcome would likely resemble that of the new King Cameron. Though he achieved his goal, he left behind a stain that earned him the contempt and disdain of the old-guard nobles, making the task of cleaning up the aftermath incredibly troublesome.
“I believe that is indeed the case, Your Highness.”
Fosse looked at his young master with approval and pride. “We still have plenty of time to prepare. In fact, we have been preparing all along.”
Hearing this, Oliver couldn’t help but smile as he gazed at his butler, whose back was as straight as ever, perfectly embodying the nobility’s restraint and the knight’s valor. “It seems my dear butler has fully embraced my methods.”
Oliver was referring to his practice of training both slaves and commoners together, selecting the most physically capable and talented among them, incorporating them into the guard as “trial soldiers,” and using promotion opportunities as rewards while reinforcing their faith to ensure loyalty, all to bolster military strength.
In essence, it was equivalent to having a group of “mercenaries” who could farm during peacetime and take up arms when war broke out.
The methods of employment differed.
“Your decisions are always wise.”
Fosse said without hesitation, “Although most of them remain inferior… there are always a few fortunate ones blessed by the great Cat God who can be of some use to Your Highness.”
He hadn’t truly set aside the dignity and arrogance of nobility and knights—it was just that among the things he would absolutely never do in his lifetime was showing off when it came to matters crucial to His Highness’s safety.
After the bandit group’s attack, even though it pained him deeply, he had clearly realized his own limitations.
Compared to witnessing the terrifying scene of the young lord having to personally take up his sword and face danger to protect his incompetent servant again…
He would rather rigorously train those who might prove useful and were indeed very loyal.
What Fosse failed to notice was that when he mentioned “Cat God,” the golden-haired youth quietly staying by Oliver’s side glanced at him imperceptibly.
Just one glance.
The golden-haired deity shifted his gaze disinterestedly and continued to focus on… the large pot where the malt juice was being brewed.
If… he were to drink it once more.
The golden-haired deity pondered thoughtfully.
…Would he find the answer in what Deyth had said?
