Charles nodded politely, and the officials didn't linger—they soon took their leave. Shutting the gates of the monastery behind them, Charles opened the box, rummaged through the documents inside, and leafed through a few pages, thoughtful.
In the game, since the Upper Chamber had no real authority or effect on gameplay, the lazy devs only wrote two measly sentences as its description—not even a scene asset or visual.
He couldn't help but wonder: what would the real thing look like in this world? No power, sure, but in reality all the old noble networks still existed. Rubbing shoulders, making deals, gathering intelligence—no such circle was ever dead weight.
So, either way, he'd go check it out. After all, it was a gathering spot for the city's formerly-great; it was bound to be worth something.
Resolving this, he penciled the date onto his schedule and went back to studying and training.
Time flew by in a blur, and before he knew it, the seventh arrived.
Charles had the carriage prepped early and, armed with the address from his documents, set off for the Eminents' Palace in the Mithral District—the site of the year's first Upper Chamber assembly.
The palace itself was hewn from pure white marble, crowned with soaring spires. Once upon a time, it had belonged to a prince of the Empire of Sein; after his death defending the port against pirates, it had been transformed into a site for noble gatherings, memorials, and important meetings.
Because it was quite the trek, Charles was among the last arrivals—carriages already packed every available space, and his driver had to hunt to find a spot.
Charles stepped out and headed towards the palace, when suddenly, from a nearby carriage, a young man with a medium build and a thick black mane leapt out.
He looked to be in his late twenties, brimming with energy. He caught sight of Charles, his eyes lighting up as he rushed over, brimming with enthusiasm. "What a coincidence, arriving at the same time! You must be Mr. Nigel Charles, right? I'm Bernard Voulet—descendant of Algilid Voulet—honored to meet you!"
Charles: "…"
Yeah, right. What 'coincidence'? You've been parked here a while, haven't you? You were hiding out, waiting for my carriage to pull up so you could 'accidentally' bump into me. You really think I'm that oblivious?
He grumbled inwardly but played along, shaking the man's hand and smiling brightly. "Pleasure, Mr. Voulet."
"Please, just call me Bernard." The man gripped his hand warmly, and together they headed inside. "Honestly, I thought a hero like you wouldn't bother with these long, tedious assemblies—was almost disappointed I'd miss my chance to meet you. No joke, I'm a huge fan, especially after what you did to the Demon Lords!"
Charles kept his polite smile, not shying away from the man's friendliness. Together, they flashed their IDs at the palace guards and entered the massive tiered council chamber. Most nobles were already seated; several took notice as the two of them entered side by side, some with casual surprise, others with more ambiguous glances.
Charles took no offense, scanning the rows for his name placard. Sure enough, he was seated right next to Bernard.
"Well, what d'you know—neighbors!" Bernard smiled. "Let's stick together."
Wow, you're really pulling out all the stops, Charles thought—but he didn't object. Frankly, in this giant council, he didn't know a soul. Having even one eager contact would be useful.
The clock on the wall chimed, and the room fell quiet. Soon, an elderly man in a red noble robe—embroidered with dazzling golden patterns and leaning on an ornate staff—took the podium. His white hair gleamed, and he spoke in a sharp, formal tone:
"This session has met the two-thirds presence requirement. Our proceedings are legal—the conference may commence." Following the script to the letter, he read on in an accent oddly reminiscent of Arnold. "First on the agenda: the Civil Service Expansion proposal from City Hall's Interior Ministry…"
He launched into a lengthy background, explaining that last year's Abyssal Lord crisis overwhelmed the undersized staff—the city "needed" more government workers, and so on…
Charles listened quietly, when Bernard leaned in and spoke softly in his ear. "You know, the civil service staff is never 'enough.' They're always itching to add more—expand their own turf."
"The Lady of the City has always wanted to cut the numbers, since staffing costs are already too high, but it's a losing battle. The bureaucrats always have ways to drag their feet and push for expansions at every chance."
Charles nodded, asking quietly, "And how should I vote on this?"
He half-expected Bernard to say, "Doesn't matter—we've got no real power anyway," but instead Bernard answered, "Vote no, of course! We support the city's lord, right? We should always back her up, no matter what!"
Charles grinned. "Got it—I'll vote that way."
Bernard's relief was instant—he'd been nervous, but Charles's easy agreement put him at ease.
Thank goodness—this guy isn't hard to work with. If all goes to plan, things should go smoothly…
Bernard was here with an agenda.
His father, together with Ammalia Cassalanter, had once gone to the Mithral Palace to confront Laeral Silverhand about Charles's high-ranking title. But when faced with Laeral's firm stance, Bernard's father, while publicly siding with Cassalanter, privately came to a different conclusion.
If the Open Lord is standing behind Charles, why oppose him? With events already finalized, it'd be smarter to win him over.
With that in mind, he'd studied Charles meticulously and formulated his own strategy for reaching out. As for marrying off a daughter? That ship had sailed; the Amcastra family had beaten everyone to the punch, and Bernard's own girls couldn't possibly rival a badass paladin as a match.
So instead, he sent in his sons—his most sociable sons—hoping to befriend Charles while most nobles were still snubbing him.
You can't buy that kind of emotional currency, and Bernard knew it. He took the mission on with real conviction.
And so far, it was all working out. All he needed now was to keep the momentum going.
He kept his excitement reined in, chatting with Charles during lulls in the council, always steering the conversation toward engaging topics, shifting subjects whenever Charles's interest waned.
The morning slipped by in no time. Everyone filled out their ballots for each proposal—marking their choice and signing their name.
Dedicated staffers came by to collect the ballots, tossing them in a red box. Once they'd gathered every last one, the meeting was officially adjourned, and the nobles began filing out in order.
Charles and Bernard were among them. Just outside, as they started to part ways, Bernard suddenly said, "Mr. Charles, do you have time in the next few days?"
Charles looked over. "Probably. Why, what's up?"
Bernard looked hopeful. "Well, in a week or so, there'll be a get-together for nobles around my age in the Muse District. Cassalanter is hosting—it'll feature tons of artistic troupes, both their own and others from around the city."
"It's a great opportunity to make connections. Want to join us?"
Charles arched a brow. "House Cassalanter? You're close with that family?"
Bernard's expression flickered. "Er, not especially—but, hey, someday we may need each other. We're all hereditary nobles, after all. It'd be a shame to let things get too chilly between us."
Then, lowering his voice, he added, "Anyway, Mr. Charles, please don't worry about this party. Lots of folks like me will be there—Cassalanter wouldn't dare pull any real tricks. That'd put them at odds with everyone."
"But do be careful around them in the future. Their people… aren't thrilled about how high a rank you received."
"If any of them corner you alone, just be careful—not everyone has your best interests at heart."
Right, Charles thought, it's not the title they hate—it's that I wiped out their Xanathar's Guild, their back-room puppeteers. That's the real grudge…
As for my so-called glorious title? Please, just look at what they actually gave me as a fief. If they saw that, they wouldn't be jealous at all.
He smirked inwardly, but nodded to Bernard in thanks. "Thanks for the heads-up. I appreciate it."
After a pause, he asked, "When is the party, exactly?"
Bernard brightened. "You're coming? Awesome. It's in a week. I'll let them know—I promise, it'll be worth your while!"
Charles nodded with a smile, then finally the two parted. As he was leaving, a new idea struck him: the ballet troupe gifted to him by the blue dragon had been scraping by, barely breaking even.
Maybe this was a chance—he could get them an invite to perform, and even if it didn't turn a huge profit, at least they'd finally be able to support themselves.
Resolved, he returned to his carriage. "To the Muse District."
The driver cracked the reins and the carriage bounced off toward another part of the city.
Half an hour later, Charles arrived at the dance troupe's quarters. The conversation with the dancers went smoothly—the ballet troupe's leader had already seen Cassalanter's advertisement but had been hesitant, dreading Cassalanter's notorious reputation.
Over the years, countless talented and independent troupes had been bullied or forced into servitude by that family, some even becoming the playthings of bored nobles.
The leader's apprehension was understandable—she didn't want her girls to be next.
But a single chat with Charles banished the anxiety. What did they have to fear now? Their backer was Lord Charles, the brightest star in Liberl Port. They had nothing to fear from House Cassalanter's threats, not anymore!
And so, after a lively conversation, everyone on the team gave a resounding yes. The leader would go make the formal arrangements, hoping to seize a spot on the city's most glamorous stage—and maybe even earn a reputation that would let them thrive from then on.
The girls were giddy at the future, their admiration for Charles bordering on hero worship. Since being acquired by him, they'd met him all of twice—once to split profits more fairly, once to offer them a real opportunity. How could they not be excited?
Charles, on the other hand, felt a bit overwhelmed. These ordinary girls, noncombatants all, were looking at him like he was their meal ticket—or their next meal. Red-faced, hungry-eyed, and all but drooling, they watched him so intently it sent chills down his spine.
Shouldn't it be the other way around? Me—strong, them—vulnerable?
Either way, he made his encouragements, then made a hasty escape—like a kid fleeing through a jungle full of ravenous beasts—and didn't feel safe till he was back in his hired carriage.
Back to the monastery then, to his own routine—just waiting for the forthcoming party…
...
Mithral District, at a luxurious dining hall, a tall, hawk-nosed man in his late twenties strode inside, radiating a cold, calculating edge.
His name was Amlick Cassalanter, second son of Ammalia Cassalanter—sharp-minded, adept at navigating the circles of influence, with friends among every noble family.
Today, he spied two other well-heeled young nobles at a table by the window—one tall and thin, the other short and pudgy—and headed right over to join them.
He sat, then asked, "Hans, William, I hear you're both skipping my party? What's the story—got something better to do?"
The tall one swallowed his food and shrugged, "Wow, you came out here just for that? Honestly, we're just a bit tired—skipping this one, but next time, for sure."
The chunky noble nodded in agreement, clearly less than enthused. But Amlick wasn't having it. He had his mother's strict orders—there was going to be big business that night, and the more attendees, the better. No way was he letting anyone skip out.
He put on a dissatisfied look. "That puts me in an awkward spot, you know. I've got all kinds of attractions lined up—art troupes, visiting and in-house, girls who worked really hard to make the cut… all for you guys…"
He waggled his brows meaningfully.
Both men looked at each other, light dawning. "Oh… I get it now."
The pudgy one perked up, eyes twinkling with greed. "Wait, you mean your special collection—what's it called, your ballet troupe?"
Amlick wanted to gag, but kept a gracious smile. "The Morning Peacocks, you mean?"
The young man thumped his thigh, belly and cheeks wobbling. "Yeah, that's the one! Are they performing?"
His pale blue eyes glimmered with hunger—a hunger that was anything but culinary.
Inside, Amlick was disgusted beyond words, but for now he played along. "Of course. People like that were born to serve us, right?"
The chubby noble giggled like a pig. "Then I won't hold back! William, you in?"
The tall guy sighed, reluctant. "Fine, I'll go. See you there then."
He'd rather flirt with the male artists—hardly rare among nobles, who, bored out of their minds for decades, always ended up seeking new amusements.
Still, he didn't want to get too isolated from the noble social scene, so he'd just find himself a private suite and keep to himself.
That settled, he agreed.
All set.
Amlick nodded. "Great. See you all there."
Inside, he sneered.
You greedy, lust-crazed idiots… Just wait. When you all make fools of yourselves that night, every god and every angel will want to look away in shame. But Asmodeus, my lord—oh, he'll reward us with power like never before!
~~~
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