Reincarnated as the third son of the Duke-Chapter 85 - The Weight of Words and War

85 The Weight of Words and War

The nobles closest to them, sensing the tension, swallowed nervously, their bodies rigid with unease.

But neither man spoke.

After a few seconds, Bernhardt was the first to avert his gaze. William followed suit, turning away just as easily.

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Without another word, William moved toward his designated seat—directly to the right of the Supreme Commander’s throne.

At that moment, murmurs spread across the tent.

"Is that boy really the Grand Duke’s representative?"

"But he’s barely sixteen…"

"Shh! Keep your voice down. He might hear you."

The hushed whispers died down quickly, but the weight of the nobles’ stares remained.

Among them, Bernhardt Logran’s scowl deepened, his displeasure clear.

Though technically just a representative, William’s seat was positioned at equal rank to the marquis—a fact that clearly didn’t sit well with the older man.

A battle-hardened veteran, a noble patriarch, now forced to sit on the same level as a sixteen-year-old boy? It was insulting.

But before the atmosphere could become more unbearable—

"The Supreme Commander, His Highness the First Prince, has arrived!"

The herald’s voice rang out through the tent.

The entrance flaps were pulled open, and a young man with platinum-blond hair and emerald-green eyes stepped inside.

His looks alone were flawless—the kind of beauty fit for a hero in a legend.

And yet, the scowl on his face and the unmistakable irritation in his gaze completely undermined his noble image.

Claude Finn Bay Astraia.

The First Prince of the Empire and the Supreme Commander of the coalition army.

William’s eyes, however, bypassed the First Prince entirely.

Instead, his gaze locked onto the man following behind him.

Though taller than Claude, the man kept his back slightly hunched, as if trying to minimize his presence.

Like the First Prince, his hair was platinum-blond, but unlike his older brother’s emerald eyes, his were a piercing glacial blue—cold, distant, and yet somehow exuding a more regal aura than Claude himself.

William’s lips curled slightly.

Cedric Finn Bay Astraia.

The Second Prince of the Empire.

A man once known as the Imperial Family’s Last Hope.

William, along with the other nobles, bowed slightly.

"We are grateful for Your Highness’s generosity."

The First Prince merely waved a hand dismissively. "Enough of that. What I truly wish to hear is your opinions on the rebellion. What should we do with Kreffelt?"

Straight to the point. His question was broad, encompassing both how the rebellion should be subdued and what should be done with Kreffelt afterward.

The first to step forward was none other than Bernhardt Logran.

"The best course of action," the marquis said smoothly, "is to resolve this matter as swiftly as possible. End the conflict quickly, and once victory is secured, show them mercy."

Claude’s expression darkened. "Mercy? You’re suggesting we forgive traitors who dared to rise against the Empire?"

His displeasure was evident in his narrowed eyes and the sharpness of his tone.

But Bernhardt remained calm, nodding firmly.

"Yes. Once the rebellion is crushed, Kreffelt will claim that it was not their intent—that they were merely pawns of radical elements. They will offer scapegoats, those they will brand as the true traitors. We should take those scapegoats, execute them, and then withdraw."

"And why, exactly, should we spare the rest?" Claude’s voice grew colder. "Why forgive those who rebelled against the Empire?"

"Because the Empire’s mercy is just as powerful as its might."

A ridiculous notion.

Claude scowled but tapped his fingers against the table, gesturing for Bernhardt to continue.

The marquis did so without hesitation, as if he had anticipated the reaction.

"Your Highness, the Empire has suffered both external invasions and internal instability in recent years. However, we are still far from weak—weak enough that a mere province like Kreffelt could ever hope to succeed in open rebellion. The rebels themselves are aware of this fact."

"And yet, here they are—rebelling." Claude scoffed. "Are you suggesting they started this uprising despite knowing they would fail?"

"Most likely, they see this not as a real rebellion, but as a test."

Claude’s eyes narrowed.

"A test?"

Bernhardt nodded.

"A test to gauge the Empire’s military response. To see whether we still have the strength to subdue them. To measure how long it takes us to mobilize. To compare our current forces with those of our golden era."

By watching the Empire’s response, the rebels would learn exactly what to expect in the future.

That was the true purpose of this uprising.

"A direct assault would crush them easily, but it would also force Kreffelt’s leaders to justify their actions," Bernhardt continued. "They will claim their king was imprisoned, that the royal family was being controlled by outside influences, that they had no choice but to rebel."

Claude’s frown deepened. "So you suggest we play along with their excuses?"

"Yes. Even if their reasoning is transparent, we must allow it to stand. That is the only way to display true strength."

The First Prince’s expression showed clear skepticism, but Bernhardt pressed on.

"If we retaliate too severely—if we wipe out the rebels completely—then we admit that the rebellion was a true threat. That will only encourage others to follow in Kreffelt’s footsteps.

"However, if we accept their excuse and let them walk free, it shows that we consider them nothing more than a minor nuisance—not even worth punishing. The message will be clear:

’Rebel if you want. It won’t change anything. The Empire remains unshaken.’"

Claude leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin in thought.

It was an interesting argument—one that appealed to his pride.

A strategy that allowed the Empire to boast its strength, to flex its dominance without ever raising a sword more than necessary.

He was just about to agree when–

"That is far too optimistic."

William’s cold voice cut through the rising heat of the discussion, dousing it instantly.

A heavy silence filled the tent.

Everyone turned to stare at William.

A sixteen-year-old, the third prince of a Grand Duchy—not even the heir—daring to contradict Bernhardt Logran?

It wasn’t just a disagreement. It was an insult—a suggestion that the marquis’s judgment was naive, even foolish.

Bernhardt’s eyes gleamed dangerously. His voice was cold.

"Too optimistic?" He spoke slowly, deliberately. "Are you saying that I lack realism? That I’m blinded by wishful thinking?"

His words were calm, but the threat behind them was clear.

If William were still wearing his mask, there might have been some room for maneuvering. But now that identities had been revealed, there was no need for formalities.

William didn’t hesitate.

"If that’s how it sounded, then I apologize," he said smoothly. "However, I cannot ignore the possible consequences of your plan."

Bernhardt’s eyes narrowed. "Possible consequences?"

William’s expression remained composed.

"You suggest that we crush the enemy quickly, then show them mercy to demonstrate our superiority. It’s a fine plan—if it works. But where, I wonder, is the guarantee that it will?"

Bernhardt scoffed. "Are you suggesting that the Imperial army could fail? That our forces—gathered from all across the Empire—might be defeated by a mere provincial rebellion?"

"I am not here to argue morale, Lord Logran." William’s voice remained sharp. "I am asking for practical proof. You have made claims—now back them with evidence."

Bernhardt’s expression hardened.

The audacity of this boy.

A child, barely past his teenage years, questioning his grasp of military reality?

Bernhardt’s fingers curled against the table.

"Fine," he said coldly. "If you want evidence, then allow me to provide it."

He raised three fingers.

"First. We outnumber the rebels overwhelmingly. Kreffelt is the largest province in the East, yes—but even their full army cannot compare to the combined might of the Imperial coalition."

He lowered a finger.

"Second. Our forces are composed entirely of trained professional soldiers—many of them knights. In contrast, Kreffelt’s forces are made up of a mix of conscripts and local militias."

Another finger went down.

"And third. There is no terrain advantage for the rebels. The Empire has spent years mapping out every strategic position in Kreffelt—we know their roads, their fortresses, their supply lines. There are no surprises waiting for us."

He lowered his final finger.

"There," he said, his tone sharp. "Do you require any more proof?"

William shook his head.

"No, Lord Logran," he said calmly. "Your points are all valid."

Bernhardt’s smirk returned.

But William wasn’t finished.

"However," he continued, his voice quiet but firm, "you seem to have made an assumption before making those points."

Bernhardt’s smirk faded slightly.

"…What assumption?"

William’s next words shattered the tension in the tent.

"The Grand Concordat."

Silence.

Expressions shifted.

The Grand Concordat—the unspoken law of war, upheld for centuries. The agreement that prevented wars from spiraling into true disasters.

William met Bernhardt’s gaze directly.

"What," he said softly, "will you do… if the enemy decides not to follow it?"