Raising the Northern Grand Duchy as a Max-Level All-Master

“Should we pool our money and bribe the mayor and captain of the guard?”

“Bribe them to do what?”

“Shut down Jack’s Inn. Find some excuse, like poison or drugs in Arad Salt.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone in Haven’s ate that stew and turned out fine. People even say it’s made them healthier.”

“Exactly. Haven’s already addicted to Arad Salt. If we stop them, the public’s wrath will turn on us.”

The group was at an impasse. No one could think of a way to counter the allure of Arad Salt.

“Polly, got any ideas?”

“Yeah, Polly, you used to serve at the High Keep, didn’t you?”

“You know the Grand Duke and the knights, don’t you?”

All eyes turned to Polly, the most influential figure in the room.

“Hmm…” Polly, a middle-aged man with a commanding presence, furrowed his brows in thought.

“Any connections with the High Keep? A knight from Renslet could overrule the mayor, no?”

Desperate suggestions filled the air.

“No dishonorable actions,” Polly declared firmly, shaking his head.

Polly had once served as a soldier at High Keep, the grand fortress of the Northern Grand Duchy.

Among the few soldiers who were literate, he had been assigned as a steward, responsible for the knights’ meals.

This role gave him close ties to the high-ranking knights and even the Grand Duke.

These connections were the reason Polly now owned one of Haven’s finest inns, a significant achievement for someone of his humble origins.

It was all thanks to the goodwill of the Grand Duke and the knights he had once served.

‘And the Grand Duke often travels the duchy in disguise with the knights,’ Polly thought.

The schemes being discussed by the other innkeepers and restaurateurs—the sabotage, the underhanded tricks—were dishonorable.

Getting caught attempting such things would be the end for all involved.

“Polly, if you keep clinging to your honor, we’ll all starve!”

“Does honor fill your belly? You need to eat before you can afford to think about honor!”

The others, frustrated by Polly’s steadfastness, berated him.

“Ugh…” Polly sighed heavily, crossing his arms as he pondered a way to protect his honor while also finding a solution.
“Why on earth is someone like Arad, with his culinary skills and secret recipes, wasting away in this backwater village?”

“Exactly! There are bigger, wealthier cities in the North. Why is he muddying his hands here?”

“He could serve as a chef in the Empire or even at High Keep. Why is he slumming it in Haven?”

The complaints from the gathered innkeepers ignited a spark in Polly’s mind.

“Wait…!” Polly exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with realization.

“High Keep! Let’s send him to High Keep!”

Without another word, Polly grabbed a pen and began writing a letter.

The Grand Duke, known for their love of culinary delights as well as their frequent patrols, would surely be interested.

This was an opportunity too perfect to ignore.

—

At High Keep

High Keep, the grand and majestic fortress of the Northern Grand Duchy, stood tall in the icy winds of the far north.

Often referred to simply as “The High Keep,” it served as the Grand Duke’s residence and the heart of the duchy.

That night, a banquet was held in honor of the Grand Duke’s birthday.

“Hahaha! Eat and drink to your heart’s content!”

“A toast to His Grace, the Grand Duke!”

“To celebrate the Grand Duke’s birthday!”

“Renslet! Rune Renslet!”

“Renslet! Rune Renslet!”

The Grand Duke, their councilors, and high-ranking knights raised their glasses in celebration.

True to the North’s resourceful and pragmatic spirit, the banquet was simple despite its significance.

Unlike the elaborate multi-course feasts of the Empire and other kingdoms, the banquet at High Keep resembled a buffet: everything was served at once, and guests helped themselves.

“This stew tastes bland. The meat smells gamey, and there’s not enough spice,” grumbled an old knight, his sharp criticism breaking the jovial atmosphere.

In any other setting, such remarks during the Grand Duke’s birthday banquet would have been considered gravely disrespectful.

But this was no ordinary knight—it was “Balzac the Frostblade”, the North’s only Sword Master and one of the continent’s most respected figures.

Even the Grand Duke regarded Balzac’s words with the utmost seriousness.

“The Empire has raised spice prices again,” said a nearby councilor, responding to Balzac’s complaint.

“Why?” Balzac asked, his brow furrowing at the mention of the Empire.

“They claim they lack sufficient supplies for their own use.”

“And the real reason?”

“The Empire sent another marriage proposal. They’re willing to lift trade restrictions on spices and other goods if Your Grace accepts their terms.”

“Those bastards… Proposing marriage after pulling such stunts behind our backs?! Their audacity knows no bounds!”

Balzac’s hand clenched around a metal spoon, which crumpled like paper in his grip.

“Can’t we retaliate? Restrict the sale of premium magic stones from the North?”

“Magic stones are mined not only in the North but also within the Empire. However, spices and essential goods… we rely entirely on their imports.”

The councilor trailed off, and Balzac clicked his tongue in frustration.

This was the Empire’s usual tactic—tightening its grip on the North and shaking it for amusement.

Balzac’s gaze drifted to the young woman seated at the head of the table.

Her snow-white skin, silver hair, and piercing blue eyes marked her as “Arina Rune Renslet”, the Grand Duchess of the North.

Having come of age last year, Arina had inherited her father’s title after his untimely death two years ago.

She sat silently, carving pieces of meat on her plate, her movements lethargic and her expression drained.

For someone who had once ridden freely through the snowy plains, wielding her sword with unmatched skill, the responsibilities of the Grand Duchess were suffocating.

The Empire’s ever-more blatant political maneuvers only added to the weight on her shoulders.

Seeing his young lord in such a state pained Balzac, who regarded her as a granddaughter.

‘Soon, I must take Her Grace hunting. Let her roam the magic zones and clear her mind. Even the youngest Sword Master will fall ill if she stays like this,’ Balzac resolved, chewing on his stew with mild irritation.

Meanwhile, Arina was oblivious to Balzac’s sympathetic gaze.

Her focus remained on the food before her, though every bite only deepened her melancholy.

‘This is so bland…’

The minimal use of spices, a concession to their skyrocketing cost, made the food nearly unbearable for Arina’s palate, long accustomed to seasoned dishes.

‘This is all my fault.’

The Grand Duchess blamed herself for the situation.

With 70% of the duchy’s budget allocated to military expenditures, even she couldn’t indulge in spices freely.

While this banquet was an expense they could hardly afford, it was unavoidable.

It was the first grand event held since her father’s passing and doubled as a celebration of her own birthday.

‘Everyone must be so disappointed,’ Arina thought, deeply ashamed.

She felt she had let down the knights and retainers who had hoped for a feast worthy of their loyalty.

‘If only I could create spices by swinging my sword, I’d do it all day…’

For the first time, Arina felt utterly powerless.

Even as an unacknowledged Sword Master, she could do nothing in the face of such economic hardship.

The letter from her former subordinate in Haven arrived three days after her birthday.