"Anyone with even a shred of sense knows that there is no future in these snowfields."
A few days earlier, Ainar had explained why the chieftains would have no choice but to submit to Lucian.
"As time goes on, the population keeps shrinking. A chieftain leading a tribe can't possibly be unaware of that."
It was such a despairing truth that no one spoke it aloud, but every tribe was destined for extinction in these snowfields.
Even if they struggled desperately to survive, the prevailing opinion among the warriors was that they wouldn't last more than two hundred years.
And now, in a situation like this, Lucian announced that he could stop the blizzards and lead all the tribes to a land of salvation?
"They'll all lose their minds and come running to swear loyalty willingly. First, they have to escape the snowfields. The problem is how the chieftains will be treated after the oaths are sworn."
The chieftains would, nine times out of ten, want to retain their control and autonomy over their own tribes, offering only a hollow form of loyalty.
But what Lucian wanted was to strip the chieftains of all their authority and rule all five tribes directly.
Unless he killed them with his own hands as he had Ivar, fierce resistance was all but guaranteed.
"The fortunate thing is that the situation is overwhelmingly in my lord's favor. They'll think that once they cross the snowfields, they won't need to watch your mood anymore, but…"
"Settling beyond the snowfields without my help would be impossible. They don't seem to realize it yet."
The tribes of the snowfields were undeniably powerful.
Every ordinary resident possessed strength on par with a knight, and the warriors could overwhelm knights through sheer physical power alone.
However, before a massive civilization like the Empire, even that strength inevitably becomes insignificant.
Without Lucian going ahead and laying the groundwork, they would end up sustaining themselves through raiding, only to be hunted down in turn.
"Yes. Including myself, no one in these snowfields has any idea what kind of land lies beyond them. It's only a guess, but the wisdom of the snowfields probably won't work over there."
"To put it bluntly, it'll be almost useless. It's a land where the environment, resources, and even the rules are completely different."
"And the one who rules that land is Your Highness."
The one who cut into their conversation was Hugo.
Letting out a deep sigh, Hugo voiced his complaint.
"To be perfectly honest, Your Highness is in a position where you could just tell the five chieftains to kneel. Dealing with frogs in a well is nothing but a nuisance."
As if agreeing with him, the other retainers nodded in unison.
Lucian was the Duke of Grimaldi, Margrave of Asagrim, and the master of the White Palace who held mage immunity privileges.
If Lucian did not vouch for them, the five tribes could be branded public enemies of the North the moment they stepped outside the snowfields.
And yet they had to placate fools who didn't even know that much and interpreted the situation however they pleased.
"Wouldn't it be better to just let them out of the snowfields and allow them to run wild as they like, then give them a bitter lesson? Once they come to their senses, they'll kneel on their own and beg for forgiveness—then…"
"Enough. Do you intend to see blood spilled between the sons of the snowfields and those who live beyond them?"
At Hugo's words, Ainar frowned.
Though he had decided to serve Lucian, he himself had lived his entire life in the snowfields.
Hearing a scheme that would force the sacrifice of entire tribes—not merely subject them to humiliation—was bound to leave a bad taste in his mouth.
"The sons of the snowfields wish to serve our lord as loyal vassals, not become slaves. Do not speak so carelessly just because their origins are different."
"I was just venting because it's frustrating—just venting."
At Ainar's warning, Hugo laughed it off and took a step back.
Even Hugo himself thought that, as jokes went, it had been a bit too extreme.
As the air grew awkward, Lucian tapped the floor lightly with his fingers to break the tension.
"In any case, whether inside the snowfields or outside them, it's impossible for the chieftains to defy me. They just haven't realized that yet."
"That is correct. So all you need to do, my lord, is help them realize it themselves."
Time was on Lucian's side anyway, so there was no need to worry about backlash.
What mattered more was exerting firm control, even if it meant using harsh measures.
Once enough time passed and they grasped reality, they would bend on their own.
And Lucian happened to have a way to firmly rein in the chieftains, even if only for a short time.
"Crush them with overwhelming force. Before the fear of death, anyone will bow."
***
Recalling Ainar's words, Lucian let the corner of his mouth curl upward.
For Lucian, who already disliked taking the long and roundabout route, it was advice he couldn't have liked more.
'And it's effective, too.'
Lucian's gaze swept over the chieftains, and they all flinched at once.
Whatever anger they had shown earlier was nowhere to be seen—they looked like frogs caught in a snake's stare.
Toward the chieftains, who couldn't even bring themselves to open their mouths, Lucian spoke curtly.
"Sit."
"… "
At the commanding tone, the chieftains twisted their faces in resentment, yet still bent at the waist hesitantly.
They had realized that if Lucian so much as willed it, everyone present could be slaughtered in an instant.
Once all the chieftains had taken their seats, Lucian looked toward Broindolf, the one who had stepped forward first earlier.
"You—speak first."
"W-what do you want me to say?"
"I told you earlier to come out one by one and introduce yourselves. Tell me who you are."
"…I am Broindolf, chieftain of the Red Wolf Tribe."
"That's all?"
"What else is there to say?"
Broindolf spoke through clenched teeth, his face pale.
It was a pitiful act of resistance—he would rather die here than surrender even his last shred of pride.
Seeing that, Lucian let out a small chuckle, as if finding his courage admirable.
"Fair enough. And the rest of you?"
"I-I am Otar, chieftain of the Black Hawk Tribe."
"I am Keyal, chieftain of the White Bear Tribe."
Each time Lucian's gaze shifted to someone new, the chieftains hurriedly opened their mouths to introduce themselves.
Once all five chieftains had stated who they were, Lucian nodded.
"Good. Now that introductions are done, let's get to the point. Swear loyalty to me and cross beyond the snowfields together—or stay here and rot away. Choose one."
"Wait—!"
"There will be no negotiations. Do you really think you're in a position to present conditions right now?"
At the irrefutable words, the chieftains' faces darkened all at once.
He possessed the authority to escape this land of death, along with power that was impossible to gauge.
With nothing to lose and nothing to fear, why would he negotiate?
Realizing that the initiative lay completely with the other side, Otar spoke in a heavy voice.
"Very well. I swear my loyalty to you. I came here with that intention in the first place. But there is one thing I wish to ask."
"Go on."
"Where do you intend to lead us, Your Majesty? What will become of the tribes once we leave the snowfields?"
"What do you think? I'll relocate all of you to my territory. You'll live alongside the people who already reside there."
"Territory? People?"
"In other words…"
Seeing Otar's confusion at these unfamiliar concepts, Lucian explained calmly.
As the explanation continued, the curiosity that had made Otar's eyes sparkle gradually faded, turning dull and dark.
When Lucian finished, Otar asked again in a trembling voice.
"W-wait a moment. If what you're saying is true, then you already possess land and people beyond the snowfields?"
"That's right."
"And you intend to have our tribespeople live together with them?"
"I do."
"…Then what becomes of us chieftains?"
The position of chieftain only had meaning so long as the boundaries between the five tribes existed.
If all the tribes were dismantled and merged into one, as Lucian described, there would no longer be any need for chieftains.
Lucian could simply rule everything directly, without distinctions of chieftain or tribe.
"You're not planning to strip us of our status and demote us to mere warriors, are you?"
"Why wouldn't I? That's exactly what I'm planning to do."
"You lunatic…!"
Otar barely managed to suppress the curse that almost burst out.
The display of overwhelming force shown earlier was far too vivid for him to give in to rage.
But the matter was far too serious to simply swallow in fear of that power.
"Are you truly sane, Your Majesty? Under those conditions, who would ever swear loyalty to you?"
"In these snowfields with no future, is clinging to the title of chieftain really more important than going to a land of salvation?"
"To you, it may be a paltry position, Your Majesty—but to us, it is a title passed down from our great ancestors, generation after generation."
Though it couldn't be said outright, the interests of rulers and the ruled sometimes inevitably clash.
From the tribespeople's perspective, it wouldn't matter if the chieftain changed—as long as they could reach the land of salvation.
But some chieftains would rather retain the power of being a chieftain, even if it meant remaining in the snowfields.
After all, the tribes could probably scrape by somehow until those chieftains themselves reached the end of their lives.
"When hunting a beast, one must always leave it an escape route. If you block every path, even a beast will fight to the death."
"Then I suppose I'll have to block the escape route and bring in reinforcements."
"What are you talking about?"
"Didn't you hear what I said earlier? I have territory and people. In other words, I have an army."
At the word army, the chieftains froze all at once.
Why hadn't they thought of that?
The blizzards disappearing didn't only mean an opportunity to cross into a land of salvation—it also meant that peoples from beyond the snowfields could invade this side.
"If you truly don't wish to swear loyalty to me, then leave. I won't lay a hand on you right now. But don't think that this fragile peace will last forever."
He had no intention of leaving those who refused loyalty and chose hostility alone indefinitely.
Realizing they were cornered with no way out, the chieftains shut their eyes tightly.
"To hand over the seat our ancestors passed down to their descendants for hundreds of years—to a foreigner…"
"Damn it. With what face are we supposed to be buried in the same graves as our ancestors?"
After completing their oaths of loyalty, the five chieftains left Lucian's chamber with dark, sullen expressions.
Though it was unavoidable, they had lost both their positions as chieftains and their tribespeople in a single day.
No matter how many ears might be listening nearby, they couldn't ease their hearts without at least voicing a complaint.
"Everyone, calm yourselves. It's not as though there's absolutely no chance of reclaiming our standing."
"What do you mean by that?"
The chieftains, who had been grumbling nonstop, pricked up their ears at the words of Skal, chieftain of the Gray Sable Tribe.
With eyes that still showed signs of life, Skal looked around at the others and spoke.
"Even if the entire tribes fall into the king's hands, he won't know what skills each individual possesses. As you all know, these snowfields aren't run by warriors alone, are they?"
"That's true. Someone has to build houses, and someone has to make ornaments."
"In the end, if he wants to place the right people in the right roles, he'll have to call on those of us who understand these things best. We may lose the title of chieftain, but in the process, might we not gain new positions?"
Understanding dawned in the eyes of the other chieftains as vitality returned to their expressions.
Power was determined less by titles than by actual influence.
If they were put in charge of managing the tribes they once ruled, that power would be little different from when they had been chieftains.
"So let's wait calmly. The world doesn't run on force alone—surely the time will come when the king needs our hands."
"Oho."
Just as the chieftains were voicing admiration at the hopeful future Skal painted,
Otar—who had been listening in silence—let out a dry chuckle and muttered in a cold voice:
"You're dreaming."
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