Chapter 248: The Unhelpful Ally

Even though Henwell is present, both sides tacitly agree not to come to him for judgment.

That won’t do!

If you don’t ask me to mediate, how am I supposed to find an excuse to get involved?

Henwell lightly taps the table, signaling everyone to quiet down.

Some notice his gesture but pretend not to, continuing their heated arguments.

Behind Henwell stand Freyr and Hankson, the newly promoted Grand Knight captains of the Lord Iron Guards.

Seeing everyone ignore their lord’s hint, they step forward in unison, their boots smashing the stone floor beneath the carpet as they bark:

“Silence! Our lord has something to say!”

Their booming voices echo through the council chamber, making everyone’s eardrums ache.

The chaotic scene instantly falls silent as all eyes turn to Henwell.

Henwell turns his head and says, “What’s going on? You nearly scared me.”

Then he smiles at the crowd: “Sorry about this! My two guards are from a small town and don’t quite understand etiquette. Rest assured, I’ll have them fix the floor and carpet afterward! That was terribly rude.”

Pimir responds coolly, “It was indeed disrespectful, but don’t need to repair the floor and carpet. The Gilbert family members don’t lack for such things.”

”But Lord Henwell, since you interrupted our meeting, do you have something to say about our family’s succession? If so, please stop here; this is an internal matter. If you’re tired and want to leave, please do, the steward will make arrangements.”

Henwell taps the table lightly: “I’m saying you’re the ones being disrespectful! The old count has just been buried, and here you are fighting for power. Honestly, you’re a far cry from the old count. Whoever takes over the Gilbert family now is doomed.”

Pimir flushes with anger, jumping up and pointing at Henwell: “This is our family’s business! Inviting you here is already a sign of respect. You not only fail to appreciate our hospitality but dare to insult us? You have no right to meddle in our affairs!”

Henwell replies calmly, “What if I insist on meddling?”

Pimir waves his hand: “Then don’t blame us for being rude! Guards, escort the lord of Blood Hill out!”

The result is awkward—no guard steps forward.

At this moment, whether Gilbert family members or the royal faction’s noble council representatives, everyone just stares at Pimir like he’s lost his mind.

How did no one realize earlier how foolish he is?!

Who’s sitting right across from you?!

The lord of Blood Hill!

Peace Haven’s uncrowned king!

The kingdom’s youngest Grand Knight!

The godson of the Southwest Grand Duke!

The sworn brother of the West Grand Duke’s heir!

The favored son-in-law of the East Grand Duke!

The sworn elder brother of the kingdom’s young prince!

Commander of several elite, top-tier legions, with countless powerful subordinates rivaling entire nations in wealth.

A battle-hardened warrior with a trail of victories and bloodshed.

A superhuman who dares to arm-wrestle King Amir himself and repeatedly plunges into demon monster hordes in transformation ceremony!

You want to drive this man out by force?!

Even King Amir would think twice before saying that.

From top to bottom, everyone thinks Pimir is just talking nonsense.

But Freyr and Hankson, Henwell’s personal guards, don’t see it that way.

Freyr thumbs the hilt of his sword, half-drawing the blade.

Hankson steps forward: “Point your finger at our lord again, and I’ll chop off your arm!”

Henwell raises a hand and waves gently behind him: “Now, now, what’s with the harsh words? That’s rude! Just go give him a good beating later, no need to chop off arm!”

Freyr and Hankson step back to stand two meters behind Henwell: “Yes, sir! We’ll give him a good beating soon!”

Pimir’s finger trembles with anger, wanting to say more.

But when he meets the cold stares of Henwell’s two guards, he finally pulls back his hand.

Pimir slams his hand on the table: “Henwell! You’re impressive, no doubt! But you’re not the king yet! The Kingdom of Vorry isn’t under your thumb!”

Henwell leans back lazily in his chair: “Whether I’m impressive or not isn’t for you to say. Besides, strictly speaking, you don’t even have the right to talk to me! You hold no noble title, while I’m a knight lord, no matter how junior.”

”Everyone here, except you, is nobility! You’re just a commoner sitting here out of respect for the old count. So, you’d better behave and keep quiet. You have no right to speak up, let alone criticize me.”

”According to kingdom law, you’re nothing. Insulting a noble like this? I could execute you on the spot without any consequences.”

Under eye signals from the royal faction’s noble council representatives, Pimir grits his teeth and sits down, fuming.

Henwell continues: “Regarding the Gilbert family succession, we need to clarify a few key points. First, the heir must be a direct descendant of the Count Evans. No objections?”

Everyone nods, this is a must.

Choosing from Evans’s bloodline avoids messy power struggles among distant branches that could ruin this prime opportunity.

Henwell goes on: “Second, the heir must be accepted by everyone. Any objections?”

Shaking heads, this is exactly the crux of the dispute.

Henwell raises a hand to quiet the room, then asks: “So what are the conditions for being accepted by all?”

Voices rise with opinions—talent, age, influence...

After everyone weighs in, Henwell chuckles softly: “I get it! In summary, the heir must be someone who can lead the Gilbert family to greatness. Any objections?”

Everyone exchanges glances. Though unsure of Henwell’s true intentions, they all agree with that statement.

Henwell sighs: “Ah... looks like choosing an heir isn’t easy.”

Pimir, lounging in his chair, sneers: “I thought you’d have some brilliant insight, Henwell! If it were easy, would we still be arguing this long? Tell us then—besides me, who among my father’s children fits those two conditions?”

Henwell strokes his chin thoughtfully: “If you look carefully, there should be someone.”

Pimir snaps: “Then name that person! Let everyone judge!”

A chill runs through the room, something feels off.

Henwell eyes this fool perfectly baiting him.

Before anyone else can speak, Henwell claps his hands lightly: “Since Pimir asked, I’ll reluctantly suggest someone! Come, let me introduce you—this is Doyle! Doyle Gilbert! He should be the eldest grandson of the late Count Evans!”

Doyle, acting as the meeting recorder nearby, looks up in confusion, startled by all the eyes suddenly fixed on him.