Reincarnated as the third son of the Duke-Chapter 145 - Blood On The Walls

145 Blood On The Walls

A scoffing voice heard…

"Really, father? It’s just a potion. Are you seriously that impressed?"

Torik sneered from where he sat, bound and defeated. His gaze carried the condescension of a nobleman looking down on a backwater fool.

"It’s not even that rare," Torik continued. "Yes, they’re pricey, but a viscount could buy them by the crate. And yet, here you are, acting like—"

Smack.

Torik’s head snapped to the side.

A deep, meaty sound echoed through the air.

Harald had backhanded him so hard that the sound of splitting flesh rang out.

The bound noble let out a strangled gasp.

"Shut your damn mouth," Harald growled. "What the hell do you think you’re yammering on about?"

He flexed his fingers, shaking off the sting of the blow.

"It doesn’t matter if something is common elsewhere. Even the most plentiful drop of water is worth its weight in gold in the desert. And even a simple piece of bread is a feast to a starving man."

Harald sighed, rubbing his temple.

Not that it would do any good—Torik didn’t listen. Never had.

"Bah. Whatever. Too late to fix your ignorance now."

William watched the exchange in silence.

Harald turned to him, exhaling deeply. "Apologies. You shouldn’t have had to see that."

William merely shook his head. "It’s fine. Let’s get you patched up."

Harald took the potion without further protest.

For a man who had just obliterated his own son’s face, he handled the delicate glass bottle with surprising care—not a single drop was wasted as he applied the potion to his wounds.

William nearly laughed.

I expected him to just splash it all over himself, but he’s treating it like a bride’s first perfume.

So potions really are that rare here, huh?

"Hmph." Harald sighed in satisfaction as the potion took effect. "That’s good stuff. I owe you for that one, lad."

William accepted the empty bottle and tucked it away.

"Now then," he said. "What’s your next move?"

Harald stretched, flexing his arms experimentally before grunting in approval.

"My territory isn’t far," he said. "We’ll head there. Can’t promise much of a welcome, though. Not after this whole mess."

William eyed him carefully. "Are you sure that’s wise? There may still be traitors lurking there."

"If there were," Harald said, "they’re probably dead by now."

William raised a brow but chose not to push further.

If a man like Harald could speak with that much confidence, he likely had good reason.

It took half a day to reach Harald’s domain.

For a barony, it wasn’t large.

But its walls—those were another matter.

Thick and reinforced, the stone ramparts looked imposing enough to withstand a full-scale war.

William exhaled, impressed.

"That’s quite a fortress," he murmured. "Built to withstand even a great war."

Harald snorted. "Spare me the flattery, boy. I know damn well this fortress is too much for my station."

William said nothing.

Because, well… Harald wasn’t wrong.

Even wealthy barons wouldn’t normally have the resources to construct something like this. A border lord, maybe. A powerful vassal under a duke, perhaps.

But an ordinary barony?

It was overkill.

Harald rolled his shoulders. "Long story," he muttered. "I’ll explain once we’re inside."

William nodded.

As they approached the gates, something caught their eyes.

Something round.

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Something hanging from the walls.

Torik saw it first.

And his face drained of color.

"What… what the hell!?"

He staggered back.

William narrowed his eyes—and understood why.

The round objects weren’t decorations.

They were heads.

Fresh.

Severed.

The remains of Torik’s co-conspirators.

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Harald scoffed, shaking his head. "Tch. Should’ve guessed."

Torik stared, his lips trembling.

"Y-You… you murdered them!?"

Harald folded his arms. "Murder? Please." He gestured at the macabre display. "They got exactly what traitors deserve."

Torik trembled.

For the first time since his defeat, true despair settled into his eyes.

This had been his final hope.

And it was gone.

William merely observed in silence.

It wasn’t surprising.

This was the north.

And the north had its own laws.

The gates opened.

"Stop right there! Identify yours—wait, Lord Harald!?"

One of the guards gawked, nearly dropping his weapon.

"It’s me," Harald grunted. "I’ve brought prisoners. Open the damn gate."

"Y-Yes, sir!"

The gates rumbled open.

Harald rode in first, William and the others close behind.

And then—

"Lord Harald!?"

A roar of voices erupted as people swarmed forward.

It was chaos.

Dozens of commoners flooded the courtyard, tools in hand—some of them still dripping with blood.

William’s group tensed, hands flying to their weapons.

But Harald lifted a hand, stopping them.

He didn’t even flinch.

"Milord! Are you hurt!?"

"Ha! Do I look like a man about to die?" Harald barked out a laugh. "Quit your yapping—I’m fine!"

"Please, come inside! You must be treated!"

"Bah! I already used some damn fine medicine, so quit fussing over me!"

William watched.

And for once—he was at a loss for words.

There was no deference here.

No formalities.

These weren’t commoners bowing to their lord.

This was something else entirely.

’This… doesn’t feel like a noble and his subjects.’

It felt like… a leader and his people.

A chieftain, not a lord.

William exhaled slowly.

Even in the Empire, no commoner would dare approach their ruler like this.

But here—in the north?

Raymond chuckled.

"Surprised?" he murmured.

William didn’t respond.

Because yes—he was.

Felicia took a deep breath, steadying herself as she struggled to process the scene before her.

"This… what exactly is happening here?" she muttered, disbelief coloring her voice. "Commoners—not knights, not trained soldiers—commoners speaking so freely to their lord?"

Raymond chuckled. "That’s just how it is in the north," he said. "The land here is harsh—merciless cold, constant skirmishes, and monsters lurking in the mountains. Survival isn’t something you can leave in the hands of nobles and knights alone. Everyone picks up a weapon sooner or later."

Felicia’s brow furrowed. "So the entire population is essentially a standing army."

"Exactly. Except, of course, they don’t get paid for it."

The weight of those words settled over the group.

In the Empire, a lord’s absolute power was built upon his ability to protect his people. That was the unspoken contract—safety in exchange for obedience.

But here?

Here, the people paid their own blood price for survival.

Which meant… the lord’s authority over them could only stretch so far.