The Kingdom

Chapter 3: Foolishness Is the Greatest Original Sin

"Three hundred gold coins—that is the utmost I can endure. Hudson, you must realize this is no trifle; it nearly equals half a year’s income for our domain," the baroness pleaded earnestly. Yet Hudson merely smiled, his silence dismissing any attempt at negotiation. Had he been his former self, he might have been swayed; though the notion of half a year’s revenue sounds formidable, its figures are often inflated. If their income were truly so meager, the entire baronial household would be scraping by. It is common knowledge that freemen are exceedingly rare these days, for the majority of the subjects remain serfs beholden to the nobility.

With a barony of over ten thousand souls, even a rudimentary grasp of arithmetic informed Hudson that the family's true income far exceeded the publicly declared sum. Underreporting earnings was an unspoken practice among the aristocracy. While the king levied only a trade tax, the church imposed its tithe! As devout believers, none could refuse the church's demand. Thus, any means to understate income was not only prudent but necessary.

The average annual per capita income in the domain was less than one silver coin—barely enough to sustain a meager diet—yet they managed to pay the tithe punctually. Clearly, the Coslo family were among the most devout adherents of the Dawn Lord.

"Three hundred gold coins, plus a fine warhorse and a suit of armor. Hudson, now that you have been knighted, you must be equipped as a true knight," the baroness offered once more. At this, Hudson rolled his eyes. It was nothing more than an attempt to placate him as if he were a child; while knighthood indeed required proper gear, he trusted that his frugal father would provide without fail.

As a traditional noble, Baron Redman prized his honor above all and would never allow a farce in such matters. Though he had many sons and his coffers were lean, Lysur was hardly indispensable. Not only would foregoing the expense save funds, but it also afforded a buffer of several years—if Lysur were to recover, it would not be an insurmountable task. Only the baroness was blinded by sentiment, still laboring on Lysur’s behalf, when in truth, from the day of the incident, he had been effectively abandoned.

Family resources were simply out of the question. Even if Baron Redman, in his paternal fondness, wished to continue investing, no other member of the Coslo clan would consent.

"Four hundred gold coins!" the baroness finally declared. "Hudson, this is all the cash I can muster; any more, and your father will surely discover it." Though she nominally controlled the household’s finances, true authority rested with Baron Redman. The funds at her disposal were but her personal petty treasury—meager indeed.

"The remaining one hundred gold coins can be offset in kind—magical cores, crystals, whatever is at hand. Surely, madam, you would not default over such a trivial sum?" Hudson said with an affected largesse. His infuriating countenance rekindled the baroness’s smoldering ire. Before she could erupt, Hudson continued, "Madam, please secure the funds and summon the baron forthwith; I must first attend to poor Lysur. He has languished here for nearly three days, wounded—if this delay persists, who can say what calamity may befall him?"

With that, he turned and departed without affording the baroness a chance to speak, as if his decision were already irrevocable.

With a sudden stomp, the baroness, her anger momentarily abated by a flash of cold resolve, reminded herself that as a merchant’s daughter who had wed into nobility and secured her position as lady of the house, her prowess in domestic warfare was unparalleled, even if her political acumen left much to be desired. In this conflict, regardless of the cause, she alone would suffer—after all, who could fault her for her son’s misdeeds? Should the outside world come to suspect that the swapping of the Life Essence had been her directive, all would be lost. On the Yastrant Continent, divorce is arduous, yet widowhood is a far simpler fate. Unlike the stable alliances of noble unions, a baroness with scant familial backing could ill afford such upheaval.

...

Wandering through the venerable corridors of the castle until the coins had been duly deposited, Hudson eventually approached the pillar to which Lysur was bound. "Suspended" was clearly a hyperbolic term; though the baron had decreed it, the executing guards were not so rigid-minded. After all, he was the baron’s son—should misfortune befall him and result in a proverbial “boxed lunch,” it would be they who would suffer. The original order to “hang on the pillar” had been artfully softened to “sit beside the pillar,” accompanied by a maid busily shooing away mosquitoes and a plate of fruit set nearby. Were it not for the ropes tethering Lysur to the pillar and his disheveled appearance, few would believe he was undergoing punishment.

Upon noticing Hudson’s approach, the two sentry guards exchanged awkward glances. To care for one young master while offending another was hardly a judicious strategy. Hudson, however, was no pushover; he was under the aegis of his two elder brothers, and the division among the baronial heirs was no secret. With one faction safeguarding the inheritance and the other backed by the lady of the house, it was evident that without Baron Redman’s firm hand, chaos would have reigned.

Choosing sides? Let us not indulge in such absurdities—none of them were fools. For now, one had merely to heed the lady’s countenance, while the future would demand allegiance to the opposing camp. What choice remained?

"Young Master Hudson, you are here!" a guard exclaimed. Hudson merely nodded, dismissing any thought of engaging in petty grievances. In this rigorously stratified realm, survival for the common man was already fraught with peril; striving to appease all was scarcely an option.

"What is the matter? Lysur—my pitiable brother—why are you thus bound?" Hudson inquired, his tone laden with feigned sorrow.

"Why do you still linger? Untie his ropes and lower him at once! I am in agony..." Lysur cried. To an unobservant onlooker, this scene might suggest deep fraternal affection; yet, in truth, these near equals had been at odds since childhood.

"Enough, Hudson! Your feigned concern is unnecessary; had it not been for you, I would not have suffered our father’s retribution! Now, be gone! I do not wish to see you even a moment longer!" Lysur roared.

At this display, Hudson felt not anger but a deep, almost tender compassion. "Poor Lysur, his senses have all but fled, leaving him unable even to recognize his own cherished elder brother. Alas, let him down for now; I shall bear the burden on our father's behalf—for what is the duty of an elder brother if not to shield his kin from suffering?" His words conjured a moving tableau that left the sentries momentarily dumbfounded, forgetting their own tasks.

Before they could recover, Hudson unsheathed his knight’s sword and cleaved through the ropes, a decisive act affirming his sincerity.

At that very moment, a dignified middle-aged man approached—none other than Baron Redman himself. Evidently, the entire episode had unfolded under his watchful gaze. With a severe glance directed at the two guards, he delivered a resounding kick that sent Lysur, who was seated beside the pillar, reeling several meters. Without a pause, he commanded, "Hudson, remain here; the others, take this wretch away at once!" As hesitation lingered among those present, the baroness hastily interjected, "Why do you tarry? Escort Young Master Lysur to tend to his injuries!" Despite her efforts to mask her pain, Hudson could unmistakably sense the baroness’s anguish. That single kick from Baron Redman had hurled Lysur several meters—a blow that, were it delivered to a lesser man, might have proved fatal. Yet, Lysur’s robust nature and training had spared him grievous harm. Clearly, Baron Redman was profoundly disappointed.

For in the realm of the aristocracy, error itself is forgivable—but to remain oblivious to one's errors is the gravest sin of all. In this world, foolishness is indeed the greatest original sin.

After the assembly dispersed, Baron Redman regarded Hudson with a measure of quiet satisfaction tempered by stern admonition, remarking, "You have improved swiftly, though your earlier performance was, alas, overly theatrical."