Chapter 702 - 395: Interlude Before the Meeting (3)

The nobles exchanged glances and all showed expressions of admiration.

Someone whispered in awe, "To thrive without joining the Red Tide... the Morkan family surely has confidence."

Feeling flattered, Morkan smiled even more smugly, "When my goods arrive, I will treat you all to the finest Southern tea. The Red Tide... its taste is too coarse."

A few people joined in laughter, and the lounge was filled with a relaxed air of those who believed they had control over the situation.

Until an urgent knock came at the door.

"Who is it? Can’t you see I’m discussing matters?" Morkan frowned, his tone impatient.

The door opened, and it wasn’t a maid who entered but the old steward accompanying the Morkan family.

He was soaking wet, as if drenched by rain and snow, or maybe he had run all the way.

His face was deathly pale, devoid of any color, and he even forgot the most basic courtesies, staggering a few steps to fall at Morkan’s table.

The nobles were startled into sitting upright by the scene.

"Lord Morkan..." the old steward’s voice trembled uncontrollably.

Morkan’s frown deepened, "What’s the matter? Why so panicked, what’s going on?"

The old steward, disregarding others, bent down to whisper in his ear with a trembling voice.

Suddenly, the lounge fell silent, leaving only the faint hum of the wall lights.

Morkan’s expression gradually crumbled before everyone’s eyes...

to astonishment.

to pupils fiercely contracting.

Finally, his whole face turned ashen.

"Crash—"

The porcelain cup in his hand fell to the ground, shattering.

Scalding tea splashed onto his boots, but he didn’t react at all.

Morkan looked as if someone had grabbed him by the throat, struggling to utter a few broken words.

"You mean... all gone... even... him too..."

The voice shattered in his throat, as if the next moment he would collapse to the ground.

......

In the center of the square, a ten-meter-high cold iron statue stood silently.

It was of the former Northern Guardian—Duke Edmund.

The cold iron statue glinted with a cold metallic light under the snow, rugged and heavy.

The duke was clad in battle armor, holding a giant sword, standing as if he could awaken from the iron at any moment and charge into battle.

Most striking was the terrifying scar that extended from the corner of his left eye to his jaw. The raw, rolled skin texture was powerfully carved by the sculptor, without the slightest embellishment.

Isaac gazed up at the statue, his face reddened by the cold wind, yet his eyes felt a subtle warmth.

He raised his hand, wanting to touch the base of his father, but just as his fingertips were about to approach, he was struck by a sense of reverence and silently withdrew.

Louis, standing by his side, quietly watched this scene.

"Brother-in-law..." Isaac’s voice was hoarse, "The craftsmen asked me if I wanted to make my father’s scar shallower, to make him look more dignified. I refused."

Louis nodded, "You did right. That scar is more valuable than any medal."

He looked up at the iron statue, "Ten years ago, during the Blood Battle of Black River, three Barbarian Race tribes allied, claiming ten thousand war axes, turning the Northern Territory’s river red."

The wind and snow howled in the square, yet Louis’s voice was clear.

"When the defensive line was breached, it was your father who led his personal guard into the barbarian tide. He faced three Berserk Battle Kings alone."

Louis pointed to the scar on the statue’s face.

"This was left by one of the Battle Kings before he died. But your father nailed their heads to the city walls of Frost Halberd City. That night, all the barbarians retreated."

Isaac’s breathing was rapid, as if there was fire trapped in his chest.

Louis placed a firm yet steady hand on his shoulder, "Remember, this scar is not pain, it is protection. It is the true honor of the Edmund Clan."

At this moment, the sound of hurried footsteps trodding through the snow approached.

Gareth came before Louis and knelt on one knee, "Lord, Baron Gareth... is kneeling outside the City Lord’s Mansion asking to see you. He’s crying so hard, claiming there’s something major... very urgent."

Isaac snapped back from the hero epic of his memories, but Louis’s expression remained unchanged, only blinking lightly.

Louis did not respond immediately; instead, he first tidied Isaac’s collar disheveled by the wind and patted away a snowflake from his shoulder, all in an unhurried manner.

As if, compared to Gareth’s panic, he cared more about his brother-in-law’s appearance.

After a few seconds, he calmly spoke, "Tell him, my schedule is very full... How about the night after tomorrow at seven? I’ll probably have ten minutes free."