All Jobs and Classes! I Just Wanted One Skill, Not Them All!

Chapter 573

Arslan slowly raised a finger and pointed.

“What the hell is that?”

Ludger didn’t even turn his head. He already knew. The training pool was loud enough to announce itself to the whole town, and Sigrid didn’t believe in inside voices.

“It’s not important right now,” Ludger said, flat as a ledger entry. “I want to hear what happened in the capital.”

Arslan stared at him for a heartbeat, then let out a long, suffering sigh, the kind that started in the soul and crawled out through the lungs.

He’d imagined coming home to peace. A warm meal. Elaine’s sharp eyes watching the room instead of watching him. A night without politics, letters, or some new disaster disguised as “innovation.”

But his son had never disappointed him when it came to having the weirdest ideas. Arslan dragged a hand down his face, then straightened. The road dust was still on his cloak, and the fatigue sat on his shoulders like an extra pack.

“Fine,” he said, voice rough. “We came back with… offers.”

Ludger finally turned. His expression didn’t change, but the air around him did, attention locking in like a crossbow being cranked.

“Offers,” Ludger repeated.

Arslan’s mouth twisted. “For cooperation. Between the Empire and Lionsguard.”

Ludger’s eyes narrowed by a fraction. “You mean bribes.”

Arslan gave a tired, humorless huff. “Some might call it that. Those in power call it making business.”

Ludger crossed his arms, small movement, big statement. He didn’t sit. He didn’t soften. He just waited like a judge waiting for the accused to finish talking.

Arslan met that stare and felt, for the hundredth time, the strange mix of pride and exhaustion that came with raising a child who looked at empires like they were obstacles.

“Alright,” Arslan said, leaning forward slightly. “You want to hear it? Here’s what they offered.”

For a moment, the only sound in the hall was the distant thump of bodies hitting water and the muffled shouting that came with northerners discovering, once again, that lungs weren’t designed for pride.

Then Arslan exhaled through his nose and said, “The Regent offered me a title.”

Ludger’s arms stayed crossed, but his posture tightened like a drawn string.

“A title of nobility,” Arslan continued, voice steady in the way it got when he was repeating something he didn’t like. “Not some honorary ribbon. Real rank. Real papers.”

He paused like he expected the absurdity of it to land on its own.

“Me and then you would jump straight to Viscount,” Arslan finished. “No steps. No years of crawling through the mud. Just… Viscount Arslan Liones.”

That never happened. Not to people like them. Not to a border guild that had spent most of its life being useful enough to tolerate, but inconvenient enough to keep at arm’s length.

Ludger frowned. Viscount. The same as Lucius.

His mind clicked once, sharp and cold, and the pieces slid into place too neatly to be comfortable.

“This isn’t a coincidence,” Ludger said quietly.

Arslan’s eyes hardened. “No.”

He reached into his satchel, pulled out a folded sheet bearing imperial stamps, and set it down on the table like a weapon being presented. He didn’t need to point at the ink. The meaning was already bleeding through the parchment.

“That’s right,” Arslan said. “They’re offering us Lucius’ territory.”

Ludger’s gaze dropped to the paper, then lifted again. His eyes squinted a fraction, like he was trying to see the hand behind the hand.

“Because everyone assumes he’s dead,” Arslan added, confirming what Ludger already knew. “Missing long enough. No confirmed return. No heirs presented. The Regent is ‘settling’ the matter.”

Ludger went very still.

Then he spoke, tone controlled. “That’s… a pretty good move.”

Arslan didn’t interrupt. He let his son talk it through, because Ludger didn’t think out loud to fill the silence. He did it to carve reality into something he could control.

“They’re offering the lands of a former ally,” Ludger said, eyes narrowed. “Not a random patch of useless dirt, not some border swamp meant to drain resources. Lucius’ territory has weight. History. Connections. It’s familiar enough to feel like a recovery instead of a leash.”

His gaze flicked to Arslan. “It raises the odds you accept.”

Arslan’s mouth tightened. “Because you’d rather it be you than someone else.”

“Exactly,” Ludger said. “If we refuse, the Regent still has to assign it somewhere. And he won’t hand it to a neutral party. He’ll hand it to someone loyal. Someone who will use it as a foothold to squeeze us later.”

He tapped the table once, slow.

“So he dangles it in front of us as a choice,” Ludger continued, voice calm, dissecting the tactic like it was an enemy formation. “Take it, and we become nobles under his ‘generosity.’ Refuse it, and we look ungrateful, suspicious… maybe even hostile. Either way, he wins something.”

Ludger’s eyes narrowed further, the squint turning sharper.

“And the best part for him? It’s cheap.”

Arslan raised an eyebrow.

“It costs him ink,” Ludger said. “Not coin. Not troops. Not risk. Lucius is ‘dead,’ so the Regent isn’t stealing from a living man, he’s ‘stabilizing the realm.’ He gets to look lawful while buying our compliance with land that was going to be reassigned anyway.”

He held Arslan’s gaze.

“It’s the kind of offer that’s hard to refuse without consequences.”

Arslan’s silence was the only answer he needed. Ludger stared down at the paper again, at the stamps and the tidy language that made it all sound like a gift.

Viscount. Lucius. Inheritance. His expression didn’t crack, but something in the room felt colder.

Yvar cleared his throat like he was trying to scrape the fatigue out of it.

“There’s another issue,” he said, and the way he phrased it issue, not detail made Arslan’s jaw tighten again.

Ludger didn’t rush him. He just looked at the scholar, waiting.

Yvar tapped the decree with two fingers. “If you accept the title, you don’t just get a name and a crest. You get responsibilities. Lands. Administration.” He paused, letting the next part land cleanly. “The territory they’re offering… it’s in the south.”

Ludger’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Meaning?”

“Meaning your seat shifts,” Yvar said. “Viscount isn’t a border post. Viscount is a regional authority. If you take Lucius’ lands, the Empire will expect you to manage the south, to live there, govern there, attend councils there, send taxes and men from there.”

Arslan’s fingers flexed once, like he wanted to crush the parchment into pulp.

“And that means,” Yvar continued, voice steady, “there will be an entire stretch of imperial-controlled country between Lionfang and the northerners.”

The words hung there for half a heartbeat. Then the implication hit like a hammer. A whole country between the Lionsguard and their strongest, most numerous allies.

Not just distance, separation. Borders. Checkpoints. Inspectors. “Accidents.” The kind of separation that could be tightened with one signature.

Ludger nodded once. Not surprised. Not outraged. Just acknowledging the shape of the trap.

“That’s also a strong move,” Ludger said quietly.

Yvar nodded back, relief and frustration mixed together. “Exactly. It’s packaged as a benefit, but it comes with a drawback big enough to change your entire strategic map.”

Ludger’s gaze drifted to the stone walls, as if he could see the rail lines he’d built stretching outward, and then being redirected, rerouted, repurposed.

Yvar kept going, because this was the kind of argument that sounded reasonable until you looked at the cost.

“Most people would accept it,” he said. “A Viscount title means wealth for the rest of your lives. Official protection. Noble privileges. Trade rights. Land income. It’s… stability.” His mouth twisted slightly. “And for the average noble? The work is mostly paperwork and delegating. Sign documents, host meetings, collect taxes. Hire stewards. Smile at the right dinners.”

He glanced at Ludger, and there was a faint, grim humor in his eyes.

“They’re betting you’ll look at it like everyone else does. A once-in-a-lifetime ladder offered without bloodshed.”

Ludger’s expression didn’t change. But his nod had already said everything. Big benefit. Big drawback. A gift that solved one problem while quietly strangling two others.

And the worst part? It was exactly the kind of “opportunity” that ruined people who thought they could take it and stay themselves.

Ludger’s gaze stayed on the papers for a moment longer, reading the shape of the trap instead of the ink.

Then he looked up at his father.

“What did you say?” he asked.

Arslan let out a slow sigh, the kind that meant he’d already replayed the conversation in his head ten times and hated it more each time.

“They treated me seriously,” Arslan said. “Because Torvares was there. And because I’m the Guildmaster.”

His mouth twisted. “Even though they didn’t know that until the last moment.”

Yvar’s expression tightened like he’d swallowed something bitter, but he didn’t interrupt.

Arslan continued, voice steady, but the annoyance was there under the surface. “They knew the Lionsguard had a Guildmaster. They just assumed it wasn’t real. They assumed you’d put my name at the top for… appearances.”

He shook his head once. “A figurehead. Something to keep the contracts clean while you ran everything in the background.”

Ludger didn’t respond, but his eyes narrowed a fraction.

Arslan leaned a forearm on the table. “Once Torvares sat down and spoke without holding back like he owned the room… they adjusted. They stopped talking like they were dealing with a clever border kid and started talking like they were negotiating with a faction.”

He paused.

“And I told them I needed time.”

Ludger’s eyes didn’t blink. “Time for what?”

“For thinking,” Arslan said, a little sharper than usual. “Because it’s not just taking a title. It’s not just moving a seat. A lot of my friends and allies are in the north.” His jaw clenched. “Changing our operations because of a move like that would be… tiring. Especially at a time like this.”

That was the polite version.

It meant: We’d lose reach, lose trust, lose speed. We’d be boxed in by imperial roads and imperial eyes.

Ludger’s eyebrows twitched at one word.

Torvares.

It was a small reaction, barely anything, but it was Ludger. Small reactions were the loud ones. Arslan caught it immediately.

His gaze sharpened, shifting from the papers to his son’s face.

“…Torvares,” Arslan repeated, slower. Not a question, but close. “That’s what you heard?”

Ludger didn’t look away. Arslan straightened a little, fatigue momentarily replaced by something more alert.

Ludger’s eyes stayed on Arslan.

“What did Torvares say about the offer?” he asked.

Arslan didn’t answer immediately.

For a moment, he went quiet in that way men did when they were choosing between honesty and comfort—when they already knew comfort wouldn’t survive the room.

Then he said it.

“He told me I should accept it.”

The words landed heavy.

Not because Ludger couldn’t imagine Torvares saying it—he could. Torvares always played the long board. He always looked for stable structures. A noble title was a structure.

It was just… hearing it out loud made it real.

Arslan rubbed his knuckles against the table once, like he was sanding down the edge of the memory.

“He didn’t say it like a command,” Arslan added. “More like a calculation. Like he was weighing the offer the same way he weighs a battlefield.”

Ludger said nothing.

So Arslan continued, and his voice shifted into the tone he used when he was explaining a plan to captains, slow, clear, and annoyingly reasonable.

“The merits are obvious,” Arslan said. “Becoming a Viscount isn’t just a fancy name. It’s a foundation. You’d have a large territory, real land, real towns, real income. Not coin you have to bleed for by hauling froststeel or selling bracers one by one.”

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