Reborn as a Leader: King's Debauchery, SSS-Yandere Harem and Evolution-Chapter 41 - Vandreat Aristocracy (2)

But soon this silence would break, and he had a plan, which prompted him to mention it.

"Don’t ponder on the past, my queen, as soon enough, the four major families will march their armies of more than 50,000 soldiers towards the royal capital."

"Wh-what!?" The queen had anticipated this, but upon realizing the number, which far surpassed theirs, even she, who had confidence in her ability to deal with the strongest forces of this kingdom, began to grasp the severity of the situation—fleeing was the only option available to them.

"Fleeing will not solve anything; after all, this is my land," Akhil, given his memories as legendary, clearly knew what might become of this land after the great demonic war, as he would be bestowed this same land to rule, with everyone becoming undead and a member of a kingdom that was a necrocracy.

"Then?" It was Arimana who seemed to barge in. Definitely lacking adequate options, she herself wanted to secure the safety of her queen. Given these circumstances and her queen’s demeanor, it was apparent that she would not leave the kingdom, which prompted her to seek alternatives to escape with her queen to at least protect her and return to the Empire.

"Bait—it’s simple. We will give them bait; let’s start by circulating the news of me killing the High Priest," Akhil declared, knowing exactly what he needed to do. Considering this world was not modern, where traveling a large distance with an army usually took two or three days, he first needed to send the message around the kingdom for better results.

’So, he did kill the High Priest,’ Astarra, who had initially expected it, now realized that there was no way through this situation, as he had confirmed the High Priest’s death. But she wanted to trust his plans and further added, "How are we going to deal with such a large army?"

"What?" Akhil raised an eyebrow, giving a confused look. With a smile, he shook his head and added, "It’s them who will be dealing with each other, not us—I will explain it later, but first, spread the news of the High Priest’s death."

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The Kingdom of Vandreat had always been a land of power and wealth due to its location on the seacoast, surrounded by several kingdoms and even an empire, which provided an additional layer of protection against the demon army.

However, behind its geographical advantage, where it existed like at the edge of a cliff while the whole of humanity is being pushed by demons, corruption starts to take root from within it too.

The nobles, fattened by greed, had long turned their backs on the struggling people, squeezing every coin they could through heavy taxes and shady deals.

Presently, King Lysendric’s rule is weak; his voice is drowned by the whispers of the Queen and the noblemen who sit in their lavish mansions.

At the top of this rotten order stood House Margrave, lords of the fertile west.

Their lands in Durnholde were rich, the fields stretching as far as the eye could see.

Lord Edmund Margrave ruled here, a man as cold as steel and twice as sharp.

With an army of nearly 20,000 soldiers and mercenaries bought with blood-stained gold, he was perhaps the most powerful noble in the kingdom.

His wealth came from taxing trade routes and farming, but more so from the bribes he quietly accepted and the merchants he crushed underfoot.

To the north, among the frozen peaks, stood House Greymoor.

The iron mines there made them rich beyond measure.

Lady Selene Greymoor, a widow with a heart of ice, controlled it all.

Her soldiers, 15,000 strong, wore the best armor forged from their own steel.

She was feared, not because of her army’s size, but because of her cunning mind.

Then there was House Valtor in the marshy lands of Mireholt.

Duke Harren Valtor was a quiet man, not one to waste words.

His force of 12,000 soldiers wasn’t the biggest, but his real weapons were shadows—spies, assassins, and poisoners who moved unseen.

His wealth came from smuggling and black markets, slipping past the laws he helped write.

To the east, House Ravencourt ruled the port city of Ashhaven.

Lord Alric Ravencourt was young, arrogant, and dangerously rich.

His family’s ships brought goods from across the seas, filling their vaults with gold.

Though his standing army was only 10,000, his coffers were deep enough to buy loyalty and hire entire mercenary bands overnight.

These families had one thing in common—they despised the current king, who wanted to care for the poor.

King Lysanderic Vandreat was a ruler in name only, his power eaten away by the same nobles who now sharpened their knives.

Even his own mother, the Queen Dowager, scorned him for his so-called "impure" bloodline, leading her to vote against his decisions and indirectly helping the very aristocrats who drained the kingdom dry.

But then came the news that froze the blood in every noble’s veins.

The king had executed the High Priest.

The first to hear it was Lord Edmund Margrave.

The letter arrived in the middle of a feast, and as he read it, the room fell silent.

"The High Priest... dead? By the king’s hand?" he muttered, barely believing the words.

The hall, once loud with laughter and music, now echoed with silence.

"This is no small matter," one of his advisors dared to say.

"The Church will not forgive this."

Edmund’s eyes narrowed.

"And if the king can strike the Church, he may think he can strike us too."

He rose sharply, his chair scraping the stone floor.

"Ready the men. Send word to the mercenaries. We ride for the capital."

In the freezing halls of House Greymoor, Lady Selene stared at the letter in her hands, her knuckles white.

"That fool boy," she whispered. "He’s doomed us all."

Her son, armored and ready, awaited her word.

"Gather every man who can hold a sword," she ordered. "We cannot let this stand."

In the dark chambers of Mireholt, Duke Harren Valtor read the news slowly, a thin smile creeping across his face.

"So, the king has claws after all," he murmured. "But this... this is dangerous."

He leaned back into the shadows.

"Send for the captains. And double the spies in the palace. We must tread carefully."

In the bustling streets of Ashhaven, Lord Alric Ravencourt slammed his fist on the oak table.

"Madness! He’s inviting war!"

A nervous servant shifted.

"Shall we prepare the ships, my lord?"

"No," Alric snapped. "Prepare the men. And send gold to every mercenary captain within a week’s ride. If the king wants blood, we’ll drown him in it."

One after another, the noble houses began to stir.

Soldiers were called to arms, banners unfurled, and mercenaries were paid in full.

The roads leading to the capital filled with the stomping of boots and the rattling of armor.

They cloaked their rebellion in righteous fury.

"A king who kills a priest cannot be trusted!" they cried.

"He defies the gods themselves!"

But deep down, they weren’t driven by faith.

They were driven by fear.

If the king could kill the High Priest, the most sacred man in the land, then no one was safe—not even them.

And so, the armies of the nobles marched, their swords gleaming in the cold sun, their hearts heavy with dread.

Of course, it would likely take several days for such a large army to reach the capital city due to the geographical structure of the kingdom.