Reincarnated as the third son of the Duke-Chapter 56 - Shadows of the Crown

"First," William said, raising a finger, "I was not forced into this assignment. I volunteered."

"Second, unlike you, I have a way to solve this mess."

"Third," William smirked, "Father has already approved financial support for the negotiations."

For the first time, Tristan’s composed expression wavered.

The first two points he could brush off.

But the third?

That was not something he could ignore.

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"…Father entrusted you with the negotiations?"

"Indeed," William replied. "And here—" He pulled an envelope from inside his coat. "This is his letter to you."

Tristan snatched the letter, inspecting the seal with sharp eyes before tearing it open.

His expression shifted repeatedly as he read.

It was genuine.

William watched in amusement.

Even after confirming the seal, Tristan had double-checked the handwriting.

His brother had never doubted their father before.

But now?

He was questioning everything.

"…This really is Father’s handwriting," Tristan muttered.

William smirked.

"You still had to check?"

Tristan lowered the letter, studying William with new scrutiny.

"…What exactly happened while I was away?"

William merely shrugged.

"This and that."

A vague, meaningless answer.

He had no obligation to explain himself to Tristan.

His brother stared at him, gauging his words.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Fine. If Father has given you permission, I won’t interfere."

Then, his voice dropped.

"But—"

The temperature seemed to drop.

William recognized it immediately—killing intent.

The type that only a seasoned warrior could exude.

Not posturing.

Not intimidation.

A warning.

"If you let your arrogance endanger the family," Tristan said coldly, "I will not forgive you. Even if Father does, I will ensure you pay the price."

William did not flinch.

If anything, he grinned.

Arrogance?

His eyes gleamed.

"I’m no fool," he said smoothly. "I would never undermine what is already mine."

Tristan froze.

For a moment, his mind went blank.

William hadn’t denied it.

He hadn’t challenged Tristan’s warning.

Instead—he had claimed the heirship as his own.

A silent declaration.

For the first time, Tristan hesitated.

Then, after a long pause, he exhaled.

"…The mercenaries are at the Kingfisher Inn, near the central fountain."

"If you intend to negotiate, that’s where you’ll find them."

William gave a polite nod.

"Appreciated, Elder Brother. I’ll return with good news."

Without another word, he turned his horse and rode toward the mercenaries’ hideout.

His escort—Hugo and the five Black Lions—followed swiftly.

Tristan remained silent.

His expression was unreadable as he watched his younger brother depart.

’How did he change so much?’

A year ago, this same boy would have cowered before me.

Now—he had stared me down without blinking.

That was not normal.

His instincts screamed at him.

This was no temporary burst of confidence.

William had changed.

And if he was telling the truth—if he truly solved this mess—

’I may have gained a new rival.’

As soon as they had gained distance from Tristan, Raymon stepped forward.

His face was tense.

"Third Prince," he said. "We need to talk."

William sighed.

"I’m busy," he said. "Later."

"No. Now."

Raymon’s tone was unusually firm.

William raised an eyebrow.

"Fine. What’s on your mind?"

Raymon exhaled.

"What was that stunt back there?"

William tilted his head.

"Stunt?"

"You rushed into combat without warning!" Raymon snapped. "What were you thinking?"

William smirked.

"That was a perfectly executed maneuver. We caught all six fugitives, didn’t we?"

Raymon’s jaw tightened.

"Results aren’t everything," he growled. "If you were injured—"

"But I wasn’t," William cut in. "So let’s not ruin my good mood with what-ifs."

"William."

Raymon’s voice was sharp.

William ignored him, rubbing his ears.

If a similar situation arose, he’d do the same thing again.

It was better not to promise otherwise.

Instead, he smirked and pointed ahead.

"Let’s drop it for now," he said. "We’re nearly at the inn."

Raymon gritted his teeth.

"Third Prince—"

William leaned closer.

"If the mercenaries see us arguing," he murmured, "they’ll think we’re disorganized."

Raymon’s expression darkened.

He hated to admit it, but—William was right.

To the mercenaries, this would look like weak leadership.

And that would make them even harder to negotiate with.

Raymon let out a slow breath.

"Fine," he relented. "We’ll talk later."

But before pulling back, he muttered—

"If you pull something like that again… I will follow you everywhere."

William blinked.

"…Everywhere?"

"Even to the bathroom," Raymon said flatly. "I’ll watch your back while you wipe."

William visibly shuddered.

"…That’s unsettling."

"Then behave."

With that, Raymon fell back into formation.

William exhaled.

Raymon wasn’t bluffing.

I need to keep him from getting that serious.

The thought made him grimace.

For now, though—he had bigger concerns.

He reached the Kingfisher Inn and pushed the doors open.

And immediately—his expression darkened.

The inside was a disaster.

Spilled drinks, broken tables—men laughing over someone bleeding out in the corner.

A complete mess.

William narrowed his eyes.

"…What a damn circus."

Mercenaries, more often than not, squander their earnings without a second thought. The nature of their profession—one where death could come at any moment—bred an attitude of reckless indulgence. It was no surprise, then, that their way of life was naturally unstructured and debauched.

William, having been a mercenary himself, was well aware of their habits. But even he found himself at a loss for words at the scene before him.

"Disgraceful."

Empty bottles littered the floor, crunching underfoot with every step. Vomit stained the corners of the tavern, the stench of stale alcohol hanging thick in the air. Drunken mercenaries, barely able to sit upright, hurled their cups across the room, shattering them against the walls in fits of laughter.

Perhaps such a sight would be excusable at dawn, after a night of revelry. But for this level of chaos to unfold in the early evening? It was beyond appalling.

"Ugh! Who the hell are you? We rented out this place!"

"Some outsider? Dammit, you’re ruining the mood."

"A brat, and he’s got an escort? Must be rich."

Laughter erupted among the mercenaries as they turned to William, their words slurred and crude. The filth and depravity of their jokes were enough to make Hugo and the Black Lions stiffen with barely restrained anger.

"Third Prince."