How to survive in the Romance Fantasy Game Chapter 672: Frozen North 4

At events like this one, it was inevitable that individuals fueled by avarice and desperation would converge.

In places where desires for power accumulated, the toxic odor of falsehoods, trickery, and subtle scheming always permeated the atmosphere, lingering invisibly but undeniably.

"Folks from the capital truly can't conceal their craving for wealth..." a hushed tone grumbled.

"That's right..."

From a remote spot in the vast hall—right next to the balcony on the second floor—a figure watched the activity down below with a face that revealed nothing.

Aristocrats chuckled behind their covered palms, traders shared grins honed by cunning thoughts, and couples whirled on the dance area like each movement hid a secret bargain.

His hair and gaze, both a dull silver, indicated someone well into his years, but his aura showed no weakness or decline.

His posture remained upright, his bearing firm—much like an ancient battle standard that had endured endless tempests yet stood unyielding.

Instead of seeming like an aristocrat indulging in opulence, he evoked the image of a seasoned commander dressed briefly in formal attire.

Count Roverick Astadil from the North steadily raised the wine goblet he held and drank a careful swallow.

Beside him stood his trusted servant, Klaus, a lanky fellow whose keen gaze continually swept over the throng underneath.

Unlike his master, Klaus displayed open interest; his eyebrows lifted a touch as he observed the display playing out.

As men from the North, both were unfamiliar with the extravagant traditions of the central realm.

For Klaus in particular—who seldom ventured beyond the rugged northern territories, much less entered Lumen Academy—this assembly seemed dreamlike, bordering on overindulgent.

Wealth, melodies, merriment... everything appeared excessively cozy.

Excessively gentle.

Though Roverick had preferred to steer clear of Lumen entirely, events had compelled him to attend.

Private matters—far more urgent than diplomatic niceties or politeness—had rendered his attendance essential.

After a short pause, Klaus whispered once more, keeping his tone low.

"By the way, my lord... are you sure we should just remain here?"

The count shifted his attention to him, his look serene and unwavering.

For an instant, Klaus sensed he was being evaluated like a trooper expecting commands.

"Yes," Roverick answered straightforwardly, offering a quick inclination of his head.

"They'll approach us."

His sight drifted back to the hall beneath, keen and enduring—like a tracker who had picked his position, fully aware the quarry would soon step into sight.

However, on this occasion, he might end up viewed as the target.

In typical scenarios, even if he loathed these assemblies, upholding decorum and forging ties was merely a noble's obligation.

A domain unable to thrive solely on its raw assets and workforce had to depend on partnerships, obligations, and the hidden strands of sway.

Like it or not, currency was the force sustaining the realm—and those who shunned it frequently plummeted ahead of others.

But this evening differed.

For the Count, this trip held no routine purpose.

The motive behind his journey to Lumen Academy was straightforward in intent, though agonizingly intricate to carry out—to encounter the Emperor directly.

As the frontline defender against the beast surges devastating the empire's northern edge, Roverick had lost troops relentlessly, week by week.

Beast attacks in the North weren't novel; they formed a bleak routine his folk had endured for ages.

Still, this instance carried a profound, disturbing shift.

The surges intensified in frequency.

The beasts grew fiercer.

And most alarmingly, they emerged with eerie unity.

No uncertainty lingered in his thoughts.

A dungeon break had taken place.

Addressing such a disaster ought to rank as the empire's top concern.

Unrestrained, it would worsen, spawning beasts that pushed deeper southward month by month.

Yet with the troops at his disposal, Roverick stood no possibility of handling it solo.

His forces were worn out, his provisions stretched thin, and his casualties had surpassed tolerable bounds.

Thus, he had dispatched plea after plea to the heart of power, begging not for extravagance or acclaim—but for additional support.

The Emperor had replied, if only in writing.

The Grand Duke had received orders to "take action."

Nevertheless, apart from sustaining the status quo—guarding the front, postponing the unavoidable—the Grand Duke had achieved scant meaningful progress.

No bold offensive. No dungeon cleansing. No genuine pledge to eliminate the danger at its core.

In essence, no true resolution.

Roverick's hold on his wine goblet firmed just a bit.

If matters persisted thus, the North would shatter before long.

Of course, the count wasn't foolish.

The Grand Duke held fame as the mightiest blade-master across the continent.

Vanquishing S-rank—and even SSS-rank—dungeons posed him no genuine challenge.

Should he desire it, the duke could head northward by himself and obliterate the dungeon break unaided.

Indeed, his simple proximity to the frontiers had already warded off numerous lesser beasts from nearing his lands.

And precisely that rendered the circumstances off-kilter.

During his previous exchange with the Grand Duke, the figure had stated plainly.

He insisted on his posting there to halt the beast surges' expansion and had voiced worry for the North and its inhabitants.

His statements rang true, nearly comforting.

Yet deeds outweighed utterances.

With all that might, with all that command, the Grand Duke had undertaken no bold step.

That fact alone bred doubt.

Roverick now recognized clearly that supporting the North wasn't the Grand Duke's actual task.

The Emperor had positioned him there for a wholly different aim—one unrelated to rescuing northern hamlets or lightening the load on fatigued warriors.

Obviously, Roverick might have challenged the Grand Duke and sought explanations.

But he understood boundaries existed.

Exchanges between the Emperor and the Grand Duke lay beyond a count's reach, regardless of his vital role.

In the empire, it formed an tacit edict—decrees from the sovereign remained confidential between them.

Even so... that didn't leave Roverick utterly without paths.

And as reluctant as he felt to confess it, his final prospect hinged on luck.

This academy.

This event.

Should even a slim chance arise to face the Emperor here, he must grasp it.

"My lord... I realize it's somewhat embarrassing for me to mention, but wouldn't it be wiser to bargain with the aristocrats nearer our lands rather than these central... types?" Klaus grumbled, his eyes darting momentarily to the bustling group below.

"Watch your language, Klaus," Roverick stated evenly, though a keen undertone simmered.

"P-please excuse my impropriety..."

The count drank another deliberate sip of his wine prior to responding.

"Such a path holds value. But do you honestly think those adjacent rulers would aid us from kindness?"

Klaus went quiet.

"In the most favorable case, they'd drain us with outrageous requests—resources, forces, sway, territory—whatever they could seize. And in the direst, they'd deny us flat out, repeating their usual justification." His gaze sharpened. "That the Grand Duke has already been sent to the North."

"...So what options remain to us?" Klaus inquired softly.

"Even if it means our lives," Roverick declared without pause, "the Emperor represents our sole true hope."

Klaus's jaw clenched.

"We lack the funds to engage outside groups, S-rank adventurer guilds, mercenary bands, mage towers—each requires payments we no longer hold."

Klaus held his words back tightly, anger simmering inside.

The count spoke truth.

No matter his reluctance to face it, their treasury stood too depleted to purchase rescue.

Eradicating the dungeon via mercenaries had become mere illusion now.

Hence their presence here.

This assembly.

At minimum, Roverick aimed to build links—any links—that could pave a way ahead, though his core intent was a meeting with the Emperor.

Still, as Klaus surveyed the ocean of feigned grins, contrived chuckles, and sleek phrases hiding ulterior motives, his unease only swelled.

Their manner of speaking.

Their way of grinning.

Their eyes forever gauging value.

He detested it all.

Maybe he was simply a rigid elder—but that failed to lessen the venue's repugnance.

Fortuitously, navigating that throng wasn't his sole avenue.

Through pure coincidence—or maybe destiny—a crucial prospect had arrived the day before, arriving as a lone missive.

A missive stamped with the emblem of imperial lineage.

It alone explained why Count Roverick Astadil had tolerated this venue.

"Count Roverick Astadil."

Upon hearing the crisp, poised voice utter his name, Roverick spun around at once. His weathered eyes expanded, real astonishment crossing his features.

He had encountered endless tales of her allure—claims she mirrored a deity stepped from the skies—but even prepared, he couldn't entirely mask his startle upon beholding her there.

He promptly adjusted his form and inclined in a profound bow.

Klaus, momentarily stunned in admiration, hastily mimicked the gesture.

"I salute the empire's jewel," Roverick declared resolutely. "Your Highness, Princess Snow."

Snow regarded the pair below with a serene, impartial stare, her bearing regal yet natural.

And then Roverick spotted the figure positioned directly after her.

Riley.

The instant his vision landed on him, the count's breathing faltered.

...Formidable.

The notion resounded in his head unbidden.

Unknown to those around, Roverick had harbored a concealed talent all his days—one he had never revealed, not even to his most trusted confidants.

He could evaluate individuals.

Not through figures or ranks, but via intuition—a firm perception of hidden depths.

And as his look grazed Riley, a single notion roared forth.

Dominion.

Nearly total.

It lacked the force of a mighty fighter, nor the crisp aura of an elite lord.

It weighed far more.

It neared godliness.

For the first occasion in ages, the North's Count sensed a shiver trace his back.