Chapter 22

Despite his eccentricities, Baron Kensington's combat prowess was undeniable. As a sixth-level knight who tamed and rode a seventh-grade magical beast—a griffon—he was arguably the strongest individual in the room. His blend of strength and peculiar charm made him a notable figure, attracting both admiration and ridicule.

"Michael, could you lend me that cat, just for a moment?" Baron Kensington pleaded.

Michael's interactions with the eccentric baron drew attention from the gathered nobles. Seeing the popular baron's interest in Michael, many quietly revised their assessment of the young heir upward.

The nobles attending the banquet were all barons of minor territories or knights overseeing small estates. While their outward demeanor was cordial, each harbored personal ambitions. Some even took the opportunity to promote their daughters to Michael. Uninterested in marriage until he had solidified his position, Michael merely smiled politely.

After failing to hold Nyangnyang, Baron Kensington shifted his focus back to the attendees. "Everyone, gather around! I have a fantastic proposal to share!" he announced.

The lively banquet hall fell silent as all eyes turned to the baron.

"This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!" he began, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. "I recently succeeded in breeding my prized stallion, Rainbow Plus, and the results are extraordinary. Alfred! Bring them in!"

At his command, a servant led in three foals adorned with ribboned manes and tails. However, the foals' appearance was… highly unconventional. Their coats looked as though someone had splattered random colors of paint, creating a chaotic and dizzying pattern. Unlike the iridescent beauty of Rainbow Plus, these foals radiated a jarring and unnatural vibrancy, even in the absence of sunlight.

The nobles recoiled in shock.

"These foals are the result of painstaking efforts!" Baron Kensington declared. "Aren't they stunning? Their unique coloration is their charm point. Just look at their glossy coats! I'm offering these magnificent creatures at a bargain price of 10,000 gold each!"

The nobles avoided eye contact, unwilling to even entertain the offer. The idea of paying 10,000 gold for such peculiar creatures was absurd. Michael shook his head in pity. The baron had completely misjudged his audience. These northern nobles prioritized military strength over luxury and would rather invest in armaments than colorful foals.

Had these been warhorses instead of ornamental curiosities, the reaction might have been different. Even so, finding someone in this gathering with 10,000 gold to spare was unlikely.

Baron Kensington, undeterred, lowered his price. "5,000 gold! Surely someone is interested at that price?"

The nobles suddenly found the ceiling and tapestries extremely fascinating. Some even began counting the figures depicted in the wall hangings.

Grinding his teeth, Baron Kensington made one last attempt. "3,000 gold! That's less than the cost of the breeding process!"

Michael, unable to watch the spectacle any longer, stepped in. "Baron Kensington, we are all knights. We can't take such brightly colored horses into battle. However, why not try selling them in the capital? Wealthy ladies there would surely be interested in such unique creatures."

The other nobles quickly chimed in.

"Exactly! Imagine us rugged men riding those into battle—people would think we've lost our minds!"

"Baron Kensington, surely you don't want to see these beautiful horses carrying the likes of us into the fray?"

Baron Kensington sighed and admitted defeat. While their reasoning was valid, he still felt these northern brutes lacked an appreciation for beauty. Clapping his hands, he instructed his servants to remove the foals. With no prospect of making a sale, his mood soured.

"Fine, let's start the banquet!" he declared.

As the host's words signaled a shift in atmosphere, music filled the hall, and servants busily brought out food. The guests formed groups, chatting and indulging in food and drink. Unlike the capital, there were no strict dining etiquettes here—true to the northern nobles' belief that such formalities were for the weak.

While his father mingled and laughed among the nobles with practiced ease, Michael approached Baron Kensington, who stood alone on a terrace, visibly disheartened.

"Baron Kensington, are you brooding in solitude?" Michael asked with a faint smile.

The baron's face was dark with frustration. He needed gold to fill his empty coffers, but his attempts to sell the foals had failed miserably. Michael, unfazed by the baron's mood, leaned closer and whispered, "Baron, I know a way for you to earn gold. Trust me this once, will you?"

The word "gold" worked its magic, instantly calming Baron Kensington's anger.

The financial state of the domain had collapsed due to breeding experiments.

On top of that, with numerous children to marry off, the Baroness's gaze grew sharper by the day. Just yesterday, the Baron of Kensington had even heard her mutter that perhaps all the animals should be sold off.

In a more peaceful time, he might have been able to borrow small amounts of money from noble or merchant acquaintances, but with a punitive expedition looming, even that option was out of reach.

War begins with money and ends with money.

With fanatics uprising in the neighboring Baron Crowley's domain, he had no choice but to provide campsites and bake bread for the army, all while gritting his teeth.

The situation naturally drew Baron Kensington's attention.

"Is there really a need for us to be so formal? Just call me Uncle Vincent," the Baron said.

"Yes, Uncle Vincent," Michael replied without hesitation.

"Now, Michael, tell me about this plan of yours."

Michael sipped his wine, glanced around to ensure no one was listening, and spoke in a low voice.

"There's a way to extract as much wealth as possible during the punitive expedition. The scale of this rebellion is no small matter. Not only has the wealth of Baron Crowley's estate been seized, but the assets of merchants and high-ranking officials in the region are likely in the hands of the fanatics. If we eliminate them, all that wealth will become ours."

Baron Kensington's mood sank. Wasn't that obvious?

"Ah, Michael, you're still young. No matter how much loot there is, it'll never reach our hands. Count Charles will take the lion's share, leaving us with little more than scraps."