Chapter 819: Spine of a Nation ( 819 )
While Javier adjusted the cube with his magic crafting, the faint glow of his palms caught more than a few eyes.
A rhythm of boots echoed against the polished floor, measured, sharp, disciplined. Javier froze, his head lifting. A group of royal guards, armored and bearing the crest of the palace, marched toward him with perfect posture.
...Ah, crap.
They halted just before him. The leader stepped forward, fist pressed to his chest in salute, then bowed slightly. His voice was low, firm, but respectful.
"Pardon our rudeness, Young Lord. But we must ask you to refrain from using magic within the council chamber. Such is the rule."
Javier blinked, cube still floating between his glowing palms. He gave an awkward chuckle and quickly dispersed the glow, tucking the cube back into his storage.
"Ah... my mistake. I wasn’t aware of that rule," he said lightly, scratching the back of his head, sheepish grin in place. Then he leaned forward slightly, offering a small bow of his own.
"Forgive me. I truly meant no disrespect."
The guard leader inclined his head once more, expression neutral but satisfied. With a sharp gesture, he and his men turned in unison, boots striking in perfect rhythm as they withdrew to their posts.
Javier let out a soft breath, slumping back in his chair.
I was just fixing it... no harm done.
From behind him, Liana leaned down, her whisper brushing against his ear like silk.
"Young master... you’ll get yourself into trouble if you keep playing like that."
Javier groaned under his breath, rubbing his temple.
"Yeah, yeah... noted."
The speech finally dragged to a close. Duke Kimar lowered his hands, voice trailing into silence, and in an instant the chamber erupted with applause. Nobles clapped hard, some even rising slightly from their seats, faces bright with feigned admiration.
Javier’s eyes half-lidded as he leaned against his palm, watching the display. Only his father remained still, hands folded, gaze unreadable.
Is this a council hall or the opening ceremony of a noble academy?
That speech was as dry as chalk, yet they’re clapping like schoolchildren told to praise the headmaster.
He stifled a snort.
No meaning, no substance. Just strings of words dressed in lace. And worse, none of these idiots even notice the barbs hidden in between.
His gaze flicked briefly toward Duke Kimar.
Every line was twisted, a subtle reminder that without him, this hall is empty. Every phrase a knife pointing down at the rest of them.
And they clap? Pfft. Do these nobles really not see it, or do they enjoy being stepped on?
Javier shifted slightly, suppressing a chuckle under his breath.
Heh... look at them. Like pampered lapdogs wagging their tails for scraps, all eager to please this old man at the head of the table. Heads bobbing, hands clapping, eyes shining with that desperate hunger, hoping one nod, one smile, will buy them favor.
He leaned back, stifling a laugh.
Pathetic. They really think licking boots will carry them higher. Wow... how stupid can they be?
His gaze shifted, catching sight of a certain figure seated not far away.
They don’t even realize... among this entire council, there’s only one man worth tying their strings to. Only one name that truly matters for the years to come. Maybe that’s why Father’s old friend, High Baron Rolland, clings so close. He knows where true weight lies. Unlike the rest, he’s playing the right game.
There’s no way I’ll end up like these pathetic nobles... butt-licking, boot-licking, wagging for scraps. Every rotten habit clings to them like perfume they think makes them noble.
Spare me the sermon about rank.
Higher, lower, who sits where at this table. They’re all shackled by those dusty rules, too blind to see past them. Lower rank doesn’t mean weakness. It only means fewer banners on paper, fewer soldiers you’re "allowed" to march. But wealth? Trade? Arms? Population? Those aren’t bound by titles; they’re bound by how you run your land.
Give a lower baron the right soil, the right craftsmen, and discipline his people with law and order and his coffers will swell larger than some wealthy nobles treasury. Arm a hundred men with steel, train them with purpose, and they’ll crush a thousand half-starved levy with rusty spears.
Titles may limit the number you can parade, but they can’t limit the strength you forge in secret. Nobility clings to rank as if it guarantees power... but real power lies in who can build, who can feed, who can arm, and who can keep loyalty alive when the coin’s spent.
Javier’s lips curled faintly.
Father proved that. Armand is proof of that. And I’d rather follow his shadow than the hollow crowns these fools cling to.
If I didn’t have these special skills, the magic crafting, the magic tech, the puppets, i would still walk the same path he does. Because the foundation of power isn’t shiny toys or grand machines. It’s people. Always people.
First, the land must breathe. Food on the tables, hands with work, and laws that protect rather than strangle. Wealth flows only when bellies are full and backs aren’t bent until they break. That’s where it begins.
Even if our banners could only summon a few hundred soldiers, I’d make every one of them worth ten. Find the best blacksmith in the region, pay him well, give him reason to hammer day and night.
Not just for weapons, but for tools that lift the weight off farmers and craftsmen. With stronger tools, harvests rise. With better harvests, coin flows. With coin, I hire more craftsmen, more traders, and bring in better ore and steel.
Economy isn’t just coin, it’s trust. If the people believe their lord will not steal from them, they’ll give more freely, work harder, and build higher. And when wealth rises, you don’t hoard it in the vaults. You reinvest. Better roads, cleaner wells, stronger walls. That’s how prosperity stops being a dream and becomes routine.
Create institutions. A charter for merchants, a simple, public court for disputes, transparent accounting so embezzlement dries up. Make justice visible, people will choose to live where wrongs can be fixed.
Encourage guilds and apprenticeships so skills spread, not stagnate. Hold seasonal fairs, invite merchants, reward innovation, let coin circulate visibly so prosperity becomes contagious.
Step by step, nothing wasted. Soldiers may be few, but arm them with steel instead of rust, give them training instead of empty titles, and you can topple forces twice or even triple your size. That is how you rise from nothing into something unshakable.
Not by clinging to titles, not by boasting ranks, but by building a foundation so solid even the storms of war cannot sweep it away.
Build a reputation that makes people want to come, safe roads, fair laws, steady markets, honest coin. People are the currency of a nation, bring them in, teach them, give them reason to stay, and your coffers fill for generations.
Yeah, I know. Nothing moves without weight pulling it back. There will always be something, progress is never clean. It drags, it stumbles, it resists.
But as long as there’s a way, you push.
Javier smirked faintly, his eyes still fixed on the nobles clapping.
Anyone can rule by sword or title. Only those who build something others need will last. That’s what I’ll be. Not a boot-licker. Not a sycophant.
Ah~ look at those butt-lickers. At least don’t show it so eagerly. Even butt-licking has technique.
Not like this.
Javier smirked, eyes narrowing at the spectacle.
None of them could become an example worth following. Not a single one stood as someone you could learn from, or admire, or even tolerate.
What a circus. A hall filled with titles, banners, and polished boots... yet not one spine among them.
They clapped because the man in front of them told them to. They smiled because their neighbors smiled. They nodded because they were too afraid to stand out.
Sheep in silks. Wolves in words. And yet, when the storm comes, they’ll scatter just the same.
( End Of Chapter )