A plain old rock musician, here waiting for a noble title?
Charles mused to himself, then reached out—not for a handshake, but a clawshake. "An honor to meet you too, Mr. McCartney."
The half-orc woman also shook claw with the Owlin. After exchanging introductions, Charles struck up the conversation: "You mentioned slander earlier—are there actually people out there trying to smear musicians like yourself?"
The Owlin shook his head. "Wouldn't call myself a musician, really, but… Yes. If we don't pay tribute, the Cassalanter family's paparazzi make our lives hell."
"They claim all of us in entertainment—making art but not 'real products'—earn too much, make laborers restless, even keep dockworkers from doing real work. Hah, as if any of them know what dock work is actually like!"
Bronzer nodded in deep agreement. "When I first came to Liberl Port, I worked on the docks too. If I hadn't seen with my own eyes how dock laborers get treated, I might have swallowed their lies myself!"
Charles's expression grew contemplative. "House Cassalanter, huh… Actually, I've been trashed in the papers too, but never knew who was behind it. Mr. McCartney, mind introducing me to what kind of family they are?"
McCartney's eyes lit up—ready to talk—but Bronzer jumped in, "They spread plenty of fake dirt about me too. Let me tell you, they've done all sorts of crap!"
Charles smiled and nodded. "I'd love to hear it! Well, it's getting late—why don't we have dinner together?"
The two immediately brightened. "We'd be delighted, Mr. Charles!"
The three of them headed to the castle hostel's dining hall, ordered some steaks and a bottle of red wine. Once the mood was festive, McCartney poured his heart out to Charles: ten years ago, theater, music, and dance troupes had a tough time, sure, but there was still room to survive and even thrive.
But ever since the Cassalanter family rose to power, those greedy bastards squeezed every last copper out of independent performance troupes. If you didn't sell out, they'd smear you till you couldn't find work; pretty soon, only troupes under their thumb could survive.
The worst part? The Cassalanter matron knew nothing about the arts. She'd scoop up any ballet company with enough pretty girls, just to feed the dark appetites of nobility—leaving many of those girls with trauma and mental breakdowns.
Charles ached at the stories, and Bronzer assured him none of these were exaggerations—she'd seen it happen herself.
For a while, Charles felt bitter and helpless; he wanted to do something, but there was nowhere to start. He just filed the injustice away in his heart.
After dinner, more people found Charles and came over to introduce themselves. Charles welcomed them all; one can never have too many friends.
Before he knew it, it was late at night. The tired group headed back to their rooms to rest. Charles did the same, falling asleep full of anticipation for the next day.
The Next Morning.
The ennoblement ceremony took place at Mithral District's Hall of Honor. The building was a massive two-story palace, with the center hollowed out so you could see the grand domed ceiling above.
The ceremony platform was on the east end of the first floor. Facing it, the audience seats were split into two tiers: on the upper level, invited nobles; below, notable socialites without noble titles yet.
Not that this caused imbalance—those socialites were well aware they'd be upstairs themselves sooner or later.
Early in the morning, the upper gallery was packed with well-dressed hereditary nobles—mostly middle-aged men and women in their forties and fifties, flanked by daughters in their teens and twenties decked out in finery.
For the city's old-blood nobles, the ennoblement ceremony was the perfect occasion to scout for promising sons-in-law. Any man young enough to earn a title was, without doubt, among the city's elite.
The Amcastra family was no exception. Grant Amcastra, Minister of Transport for Liberl Port, distinguished with gold hair, bright blue eyes, and a noble bearing—even if age was starting to show—arrived with his daughter Anno.
But today, they weren't shopping for a son-in-law—they'd come to watch their future one.
Sitting in their reserved seats, Grant looked composed, while Anno's cheeks were flushed with excitement.
"Dad," she whispered, "what kind of title do you think Charles will get, with all he's done?"
Grant pondered for a moment—hard to say. In his lifetime, he'd never seen a young man who'd slain an Abyssal Lord. And he had no idea how Laeral Silverhand would feel about such youthful talent: would she encourage him, or give him only guarded recognition?
He couldn't be sure. After a pause, he offered, "His achievements are major, no doubt. But still, before all this, he was just a commoner."
"To preserve the dignity of the nobility, Her Excellency likely won't grant him a very high title right away. But it won't be too low, either—defeating an Abyssal Lord is no small thing."
Weighing it out, he concluded, "If it were up to me, I'd say a barony. Maybe an estate carved out of a stretch of streets in his home district, South Harbor. That'd be a fitting honor."
Anno's face fell. "That low?"
Her family had once been ducal, only losing their rank after the Emperor clipped their privileges, though Grant himself was still a marquis with a substantial northern holding. Of course, he rarely visited—these days, running a feudal farm couldn't beat the profits that came from city influence and big corporate deals.
"It's a good rank, Anno," Grant reassured her. "Granting him a viscountcy, even for life, would rile up the whole noble class. Her Excellency is divine blood herself—she won't risk that kind of backlash."
Anno pouted, still dissatisfied. She remembered the Stone of Grohl she'd delivered for Charles, praying Vajra's words held some sway and a higher title would be granted—hopefully viscount at least…
Just then, Grant straightened, squinting at the stage below. "Hold on—isn't Laeral Silverhand running the show this year?"
Anno blinked, leaning in for a better look. Her eyes widened. "Madam Vajra?!"
Below the Hall of Honor, in the waiting chamber at the side, Charles overheard a flurry of rumors ripple through the candidates. He peeked out, eyes going broad with astonishment.
There was Vajra, leaning on Blackstaff at the ritual platform, with a white stone stool in front of her.
So this year, the ceremony wasn't being led by Laeral Silverhand, but by Blackstaff herself?
Seeing Vajra's serious face, with just a hint of nervousness, Charles nearly laughed aloud.
Ha! It really is like a game event—give the Stone of Grohl to Vajra, and her relationship with Laeral Silverhand improves dramatically. Both become highly favorable toward the player.
For his own future growth and plans, this was a fantastic investment. For a mere few million gold, he'd earned the goodwill of a demigod and a legendary mage with an artifact—this deal was a steal no matter how you looked at it.
He smiled to himself. Even if, at the moment, he didn't have close to a million gold total, he could picture himself, a legendary archmage, one day moving mountains and fortunes with a wave of his hand.
Once Vajra took her place, the ritual began. Staff came by and politely asked everyone waiting to please return to their seats. Reluctantly, the honorees curbed their curiosity and sat, waiting for the ceremony's roll call.
The hour struck—ritual time. The orchestra stationed along the walls began to play, the music grand yet not overwhelming, filling the splendid hall.
"Cabinet Secretary—Arnold Abinson!"
On a small dais on the second floor, a majordomo in a black tailcoat intoned the first name on the day's honors list. "For dedicated service in his post, His Majesty grants you the Guard badge."
Charles watched as the familiar, burly middle-aged man with the square jaw rose from his seat and strode proudly to the east-side platform.
Unfamiliar with the ritual, Charles looked on curiously. Arnold knelt by the stool, bowing his head in respect.
A waiter in a red suit approached with a tray holding the badge to be awarded. Vajra, solemnly, took it and pinned it on Arnold in person, saying a few words too distant for Charles to hear.
Finally, she lifted Blackstaff and tapped Arnold lightly on the shoulder—the emblematic gesture symbolizing the weight of the world and the responsibilities, not just honor, that came with noble rank.
Arnold turned and departed, led away by a different attendant.
One by one, the majordomo read out the list. Honorees took the stage, performed the same ritual. Charles now had a grasp of the process—yet still didn't know what rank he'd get, the details of title and estate.
The game offered no clue—after all, at level nine players couldn't trigger the big events with Abyssal Lords; by the time they could, nobody cared about these titles anymore.
So what would he get? Viscount? Baron? Or would Arnold prove right, and he'd only get a high knight's badge—without a fief?
Just then, the majordomo's clear voice rang out again from above.
"From the Church of the Goddess of Life, Priest Nigel Charles! For defeating the Abyssal Lord of Montport and saving a million citizens of Liberl Port from mortal peril, His Majesty is greatly impressed, and hereby bestows…"
He seemed startled himself, pausing for a deep breath before continuing: "a countship title!"
~~~
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