Chapter 447 Situation of Thornvale [2]

Without a proper ruler for the past two years, Michael doubted the current quality or discipline of that garrison.

Then there was the steward.

The territory had been under the stewardship of the manor’s chief retainer since the last ruler’s removal. Thornvale was a non-heritage territory, meaning its viscountcy wasn’t tied to bloodlines. Previous lords came, ruled, and left—taking their families and their assets with them. No roots, no permanence.

It made the transition cleaner, but it also left the land vulnerable to internal decay. With each turnover, the common folk grew more detached, the minor lords more independent, and the stewards more... comfortable.

Michael didn’t doubt there would be hidden rot waiting to be uncovered.

There were many reasons he had chosen Thornvale, but few—if any—had to do with the territory itself. It was remote, yes. Dangerous, certainly. But that was precisely why he picked it.

A place like this gave him room.

Room to grow, to hide, to plan... and to build.

Still, he hadn’t expected to feel the weight of it all so quickly. The land, the expectations, the unknown faces waiting beyond the hills—all of it pressed in quietly, like fog settling over his shoulders.

He’d need to pay more attention to the territory than he initially intended.

But first...

He had to Advance.

Two days.

That was all the time left before his college entrance exams. If he failed to reach the next rank before then, he’d miss his shot. He needed to break through—no matter what it took.

Michael tightened his grip on the reins, eyes narrowing toward the rising trail ahead.

Whatever Thornvale had in store for him, it would have to wait.

First, he had to push past his current limits.

Then... he’d deal with everything else.

*

Thornvale Manor – Main Hall

The scent of old wood and cold stone filled the grand hall of Thornvale Manor.

Head Maid Isolde stood by the windowsill, wiping her hands on her apron as she glanced out at the sky. Her greying hair was pinned into a tight bun, and her sharp features twisted into a frown.

She turned toward the steward, who sat languidly in the high-backed chair that once belonged to the viscount. "Shouldn’t we be preparing something for the new lord?"

Steward Helmric gave a dismissive wave, not even bothering to look up from the goblet of wine in his hand. His robes, once a deep maroon of formality, had faded and loosened over the years of wear. He had grown rounder, with a jaded gleam in his eyes that came from two years of unchecked authority.

"Bah. If the boy truly intends to come, he’ll send notice first," Helmric said, swirling the goblet lazily. "These green nobles always want a feast, a parade. They’ll give you time to prepare just so their arrival feels grand."

Isolde’s lips pressed into a line. "But what if he doesn’t?"

Helmric finally looked up, brows rising in amusement. "What? You think the new Viscount will ride in here unannounced? Please, I’ve ruled this manor longer than he’s had hair on his chest. The Duke may have appointed him, but out here, authority takes more than a letter and a seal."

Isolde didn’t reply.

Instead, she turned her gaze back to the window, heart quietly unsettled.

Helmric had grown complacent. Two years of unchecked power had dulled his senses, made him foolish. She remembered the last true lord—stern, quiet, but capable. This new one... she had heard rumors. A young victor from the capital, someone who had bested countless others in the Duke’s competition. Some whispered that he wielded magic, others that he could summon powerful entity, and a few even muttered the name "Grand Tier".

She didn’t know what to believe.

"I’ll have the staff clean the hall anyway," she said quietly. "Just in case."

Helmric rolled his eyes. "Do what you want, woman. But don’t blame me when you waste everyone’s time preparing for a child in armor who likely won’t arrive until next week."

He took another long drink.

Outside, far beyond the manor walls, hooves stirred the soil.

Thornvale’s Southern Outskirts

They halted just short of a distant rise overlooking the main road into Thornvale’s central town.

Michael raised one hand, signaling the group to stop. His expression turned focused, distant—not on the trail ahead, but far beyond it.

Without a word, he closed his eyes and let his senses ripple outward.

First came the animals in the trees, birds flitting overhead, and...

People.

Hundreds of meters away, clustered lazily around a wide, splintered gate were the town’s supposed guards.

Michael’s [Telepathy] laced into his perception, warping sound and memory into clarity.

Laughter. Casual talk. A game of dice. Someone was asleep, slumped on a barrel. Another leaned on his spear like it was too much work to hold upright.

Michael’s eyes snapped open, his brow twitching.

So this... was the state of Thornvale’s "defenses."

He clicked his tongue softly and focused harder, narrowing his attention to the activity within the gate itself.

The town was not large—but it was dense. Cramped buildings leaned against one another, roads muddy and cracked from disrepair. Further in, a few better-dressed individuals strolled arrogantly, watched by ragged commoners too thin and too quiet.

Then came the part that made Michael’s expression tighten.

At the edge of the open marketplace, two guards—not just idle but active—were extorting a commoner.

A small group of townsfolk passed nearby, not even sparing a glance.

Michael pulled back his perception slowly, the edge in his gaze deepening.

He hadn’t expected Thornvale to be a utopia—it was too remote, too wild, and too unstable for that.

But what he saw now wasn’t just decay. It was neglect.

"This place..." he muttered under his breath.

The knight captain, who had silently ridden up beside him, spoke. "Something wrong, my lord?"

Michael didn’t answer directly. His eyes were still locked on the distant walls of the town.

He reached up and ran a hand over Wisdom’s feathers.

Roran spoke up from behind. "Shall we continue, my lord?"