"The Duke had been hiding a serious illness for fear of causing worry. Last night the suffering became too great and he could no longer hold on—he passed away."
"Ha—what a pathetic thing. Even a Duke of England can't escape the pestilence."
...
The next day—
News of the Duke's death reached a detachment of soldiers. They rushed to inspect his office but found everything in perfect order, with no sign of foul play.
Only a single will lay on the table.
It was plainly written in his hand.
The soldiers were baffled, but they could only report what they'd found.
So the following day, Laurent's ceremony to assume the dukedom began.
The will had ordered it; no one dared to question the late Duke's final commands.
"I will carry out the late Duke's wishes."
Laurent stood on the dais, his voice steady with grief and resolve.
"We must honor the Duke's will, and bring victory to us!"
Some soldiers in the crowd were surprised; a few felt genuine sorrow; most simply didn't care.
They had no lofty titles—when the rulers change, it's not their concern. Better to learn the new lord quickly so they don't offend him later.
No one noticed the faint curl at Laurent's mouth when the ceremony ended.
But the real problems were only beginning.
The higher ranks had to be informed; at the very least they needed notification, or they wouldn't even know the Duke had been replaced.
Laurent could consider himself lucky: this dukedom was a wartime posting, so the major noble powers were far away. The Duke's family would be sent away from the front; news traveled slowly.
Next came practical matters.
Forcing the English to withdraw their troops alone would achieve nothing. Though he now held absolute authority by a single word, he still had to manage those beneath him.
If he simply disbanded soldiers, they'd starve and the higher-ups would demand explanations.
Laurent rubbed his temple, thinking back to what he'd learned in history class: why had England and France ended their conflict, and where had England chosen to develop afterward?
Wasn't it maritime development?
Build ships and control the seas.
That wouldn't be impossible. He remembered the Black Death sweeping through this period, and the war pushing things toward centralization.
So proposing overseas trade to his superiors might ease the situation; if they agreed, it could solve many problems.
But he worried the king might be an idiot.
There was one more pressing matter.
The late Duke hadn't been careless; he'd left a contingency.
Someone had already started spreading information.
That morning Laurent learned a small unit had departed immediately upon hearing of the Duke's death.
Laurent knew what that meant; it was already too late to catch them—besides, he didn't even know where they'd gone.
Nearly ninety-nine percent of Europe worshipped God. If the rumor that he was a demon spread, it would cause immense trouble.
But for now that could wait. Reputation mattered little to Laurent. He'd seen through such things long ago: if they called him a demon, so be it—he would simply use power to reorganize. If he couldn't survive in England, then so be it. The priority was stabilizing those beneath him and preparing for the future. Their institutions were too entrenched, and their thinkers not sharp enough to devise better plans.
And finally… those feathered ones were the worst.
Ever since he'd killed the fourth one, Laurent had felt it.
The whole sky—the world itself—seemed to hold a malice aimed directly at him.
That naked, single-minded hostility.
Had he truly enraged them all?
Laurent sneered and flipped a middle finger at the sky.
"Come down and smite me, then. If you've got the guts, send Heaven's punishment!"
Of course the sky gave no answer—Laurent was just trash-talking. Heaven was the realm of the dead where those feathered ones dwelt; they could not descend at will.
Miracles like Saint Michael manifesting were rare exceptions. Still, his hatred for those feathered ones didn't abate.
They never should have guided Jeanne onto this path.
There were many Norse myths—besides angels, other legendary remnants existed.
Alas, he couldn't remember them clearly.
Also… nobles lived in luxury.
Having inherited the Duke's seat, Laurent moved into the manor. He hadn't spent much time there before.
His soldiers answered only to him.
Some of the Duke's retinue remained loyal to the King and had only been assisting here. Once inside the castle, Laurent made no pretense: he tasted a bottle of red wine, then summoned a servant and began issuing orders one by one.
Jeanne had been fighting for barely two years. No matter how vigorous overseas trade might become, it wouldn't flourish overnight—building fleets alone would take months. He had to start immediately.
Next, he needed to assess the front: how many troops had been under the Duke, and where were they stationed.
If there was conflict with France, they could be recalled.
If history's course were abandoned and Jeanne kept fighting, who knew the final outcome.
She fought to reclaim French lands. Laurent needed to learn which places were already occupied.
He swirled his wine and, oddly, felt no buzz—the drink seemed to be absorbed as energy.
Once everything was reclaimed, that foolish girl would no longer crave war; she'd live peacefully with him.
Yes—a fine plan.
With that resolve, Laurent ordered the records brought to him.
Eradicating that girl's patriotism would be enough.
If she still refused, he'd drag her along by force—spanking her all the way if necessary!
...
Three days later, news of the Duke's death had reached higher ranks—accompanied by another dispatch to the prince:
"Évigi is a traitor. Restrict his authority and his troops."