Stop Hypnotizing Me, Villainous Princess!

Chapter 63: Dividing the Cake

As Mozel spoke, he glanced over his shoulder at one of his subordinates, who promptly left.

Moments later, the crowd parted, their faces reflecting surprise.

A large serving cart was pushed to the front, stopping before the stage.

The cart carried an enormous custom-made cake. The four-tiered confection was intricately decorated in vibrant colors, its appearance utterly enticing.

Judging by its size, it was more than enough to serve a slice to everyone present.

Seeing such a grand gesture, a flicker of darkness crossed Duke Tyrius’s eyes, though he remained silent, directing his gaze at Bishop Mozel.

Understanding the silent cue, Mozel offered another bow. “I heard that your birthday is approaching, Your Grace. Given how busy you must be with military duties, I dared not disturb you directly. So, I thought it fitting to use this charity banquet as an opportunity to present the Divine Order Church’s heartfelt blessings to you.”

His expression was earnest, as if giving Duke Tyrius all the respect he deserved.

Regardless of how powerful Tyrius was, Mozel knew it would be ideal to forge an alliance if possible, even with stronger backing behind himself.

Mozel’s gesture carried two layers of intent.

His leading donation demonstrated to the duke that without his approval, the local nobles wouldn’t fall in line.

And the cake? It was an olive branch from Mozel’s powerful allies, offering Tyrius a choice:

Either walk away empty-handed, or join them and partake in dividing the spoils.

The decision now lay in Duke Tyrius’s hands.

As the duke stayed silent, Mozel felt a spark of delight, assuming he was carefully weighing the implied proposal.

Seizing the moment, Mozel continued, “This cake was custom-made at the largest bakery in Orne City. It’s large enough that everyone here can enjoy a slice.”

“In that case,” he said, picking up a plate and knife handed to him by his subordinate, “allow me the honor of dividing the cake on behalf of everyone. Would that be acceptable?”

He looked at Tyrius with a polite smile. “As the most distinguished figure here, Your Grace, it’s only fitting that the largest and sweetest piece goes to you.”

With that, he moved to slice the cake.

But at that moment, Duke Tyrius, who had been silent all this time, finally spoke.

Gone was the joviality he displayed earlier in the evening. His expression was calm yet carried a stormy authority, like the calm before a tempest.

“You? Dividing the cake?” he said icily. “You’re just a mere parish bishop of the Divine Order Church. Who gave you that right?”

While he was talking about the cake, everyone understood his words reached far beyond dessert.

At this moment, the tension had shifted to the very crux of Tyrius’s mission—and the fundamental conflict between the two sides.

Taxes.

...

“What are they even talking about?” Greya whispered, her confusion evident as she observed the rising tension in the hall.

Lynn scratched at his raven mask. “In simple terms, it’s a clash between imperial authority and local nobility.”

Duke Tyrius was here as Saint Roland VI’s representative to collect taxes.

Yet, even someone of his stature faced obstruction from the entrenched local powers.

If not for the backing of those ancient, influential nobles in the imperial capital, how could they dare to act so boldly?

“I don’t quite understand...” Greya glanced at Lynn. “But Her Highness seems to be hoping you’ll help her. Shouldn’t you do something later?”

“Do something? Help the Divine Order Church divert attention?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. In situations like this, staying out of it is the smartest move,” Lynn chuckled. “Only an idiot would step up and make themselves a target.”

Greya gave him a hesitant look but said nothing more.

...

Hearing Duke Tyrius’s sudden rebuke, Bishop Mozel froze mid-action.

Looking up, he saw the duke’s stern expression, his piercing eyes practically glowing with authority as they bore into him.

Fortunately, Mozel was no stranger to high-stakes situations and managed to maintain his composure outwardly.

“Is there something dissatisfactory, Your Grace? If that’s the case, why don’t you take charge of dividing the cake?”

He extended the knife toward Duke Tyrius, offering a significant concession.

Mozel assumed the duke’s dissatisfaction stemmed from greed, believing Tyrius simply wanted a larger share. Thus, he decided to momentarily placate him by yielding.

But to Mozel’s surprise, Duke Tyrius shook his head again. “I said you don’t have the right to divide the cake. That doesn’t mean I do.”

With those words, he declined Mozel’s gesture once more.

Mozel was momentarily stunned, his expression darkening slightly.

The blunt and unyielding response chilled the room.

Tension rose as one by one, the guests turned their somber gazes toward Duke Tyrius, anticipating his next move.

Breaking the silence, someone from the crowd suddenly asked, “Your Grace, if you say that, then who does have the right? Should we hold an internal election to decide?”

It was meant as a lighthearted joke.

The speaker, a figure of significant standing in Orne City, seemed to be trying to diffuse the growing tension. A ripple of chuckles followed as several nearby guests echoed the jest with faint laughter.

But Duke Tyrius didn’t treat it as a joke.

“An election? That sounds like an interesting idea,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass thoughtfully. “But it comes with two inherent problems.”

“First, it risks ignoring the will of the minority. For instance, not all the guests here might want to partake in dividing the cake, but they might feel pressured to go along with it.”

His sharp gaze swept over the crowd.

Sure enough, a few guests showed faint signs of hesitation.

“Second, who can guarantee that the elected individual, after tasting the cake’s sweetness, won’t grow greedy and take more than their fair share, causing further inequity in the distribution?”

As he spoke, his eyes flitted briefly to Bishop Mozel, as if implying something deeper.

Mozel’s face flushed red, then pale, as anger and embarrassment flickered across his expression.

At that moment, another voice emerged from the crowd.

“What if we appoint someone specifically to oversee the person dividing the cake?”

The speaker was a member of the city council and also a local noble.

“That approach is even more foolish,” Duke Tyrius said with a shake of his head. “You’d all just collude with each other.”

At those words, the councilman’s face turned ashen.

It was painfully clear to everyone present that the corruption within Orne City’s power structure was an open secret.

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