Chapter 10
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 10
Chapter Title: Black Wolf Mercenary Group - 3
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Three moons hung in the night sky.
The largest, a red moon.
A medium-sized green moon.
And the smallest, a silver moon.
Leon was sorting through his emotions while gazing at his favorite, the silver moon.
His mother, Sylvia, approached him.
"It's chilly out here. What are you doing?"
"I was thinking things over."
"Thinking? About the kids who died in the war?"
"That's part of it, but I've been thinking about Sian too."
"Because of him?"
"Yes, so... Mom, should I tell Sian my secret too?"
Sylvia responded to Leon's question with a kind smile, pulling him into a tight hug.
"Do whatever you want, Clara."
Clara—that was Leon's real name. He—no, she—was not a man, but a woman.
The reason she had lived disguised as a man was simple.
A household that appeared to have a man, even if fake, looked safer than one with three daughters.
Of course, there were other reasons too, but the main one that made Clara insist on the manly name Leon was the safety it provided.
"Then I won't tell him."
"Why?"
"Because Sian seems to want a man like Dad did."
"..."
Sylvia fell silent at Clara's words.
She had been overjoyed to have daughters like Clara, Chloe, and Clia—girls she wouldn't trade for the world. But her husband, who had wanted a son, hadn't been as pleased with their three girls.
That's why he had pressured Clara to act like a boy.
At first, Sylvia hadn't understood her husband's behavior. Couldn't he have loved the children purely, without conditions?
But now that her husband was gone, she had come to understand his choices to some degree.
The weight of being head of the household was that heavy.
When her husband died and Clara was conscripted by force, Sylvia's first thought had been one of despair.
Could a house full of women really get by?
What would they do when winter came?
If someone tried to assault one of her daughters, what could she do?
One grim thought after another had raced through her mind.
Fortunately, the Village Chief's advice had brought her a son-in-law named Sian. Of course, as a foreigner, he had worried her at first.
What if he came to hate Chloe? What if he turned violent?
But contrary to her fears, Sian turned out to be a good man.
He took responsibility for the weight of leading the household more than anyone, and he loved Chloe with all his heart—enough to make even her own daughter jealous.
And his promise to protect her too had filled Sylvia with comfort and relief.
"Still, Clara."
"Yes, Mom."
"If you change your mind, tell Sian your secret."
"Why?"
"The Sian I know wouldn't be disappointed to learn you're a girl."
Sylvia said this with the hope that her hardest-working daughter—the one who suffered the most because of her—might feel these same emotions someday.
"Got it, Mom."
"Now let's head inside. It's cold."
"I can really feel winter coming. But like Sian said, will the heating be okay?"
"It will. The floor heating he installed last time kept the whole house warm."
"Really?"
"I told you."
The mother and daughter laughed as they entered the house, but when they reached the living room...
"Haaah! Darling! Yes!"
A woman's moan echoed loudly. It was coming from the main bedroom—Chloe's voice.
Realizing this, the two women's faces gradually flushed red.
"Mom, this noise..."
"U-um, Clara, just understand."
"Huh?"
"Sian's a bit too vigorous. That's why they make love like that every night. Forgive them even if it's a little noisy."
"..."
At her mother's words, Clara could say nothing and stood there blankly, forced to listen to the lewd sounds of the couple's passion.
That night, Clara didn't sleep a wink.
...
The next day.
Under the Village Chief's direction, the funeral proceeded.
It was to honor their husbands, sons, and fathers who had died in the war.
However, there were no bodies in the graves—only the belongings they had left behind.
It seemed the Earl hadn't bothered to recover the corpses of properly deceased soldiers during the war.
They had probably been abandoned somewhere. It was truly heartbreaking.
But they couldn't wallow in grief forever.
"The mercenaries might attack?"
I had shared my opinion with Tom and the Village Chief, and he accepted it, gathering the village men for a meeting.
The topic was, of course, preparing for a potential village raid.
My argument went like this.
"The defeated Anitul Earl has to pay reparations to Sahad Duke. A massive sum, too. The Earl already lost a ton of capital in the war—can he even handle paying the mercenaries properly on top of that? I don't think so. And where do you suppose the fury of unpaid mercenaries will turn?"
My point was reasonable.
But after the grueling war, most of the village men wanted rest and didn't pay much attention to my words.
And then the resident shit-stirrer showed up.
"You think mercenaries have nothing better to do than come to a backwater like this? I don't buy it."
The guy was a cripple, leg and all.
"They might come. Or they might not."
"No. They'll come 100%. Yesterday on the way back, I spotted someone tailing the villagers."
"That's just your hunch. Where's the proof?"
"Winter's coming anyway, so most folks don't have much work. The idle ones can form a militia—no problem."
"You think we're as idle as you? Unlike some who skipped the war."
True to form as a professional troll, the cripple ditched logic for incitement.
Dude, you skipped the war too, cripple.
"Garom, shut that mouth!"
Tom exploded, his face turning red as a jujube.
Tom usually stayed out of meetings, but this was serious enough for him to step in fully.
"You didn't go to war either!"
"I-I couldn't help it because of my disability!"
"Shut it! And if you hadn't embezzled so much from the mill, these young folks could've rested easy for a while! Who are you to yap so boldly?!"
"Tom, ease up. You'll give yourself a stroke."
The cripple couldn't even squeak at Tom.
Tom's influence in the village was nothing to sneeze at.
The only blacksmith around—the guy who could live out his days in luxury elsewhere. Getting on Tom's bad side put the cripple's position in jeopardy.
And with the waterwheel I'd helped Tom build, the mill owner's power was pretty much spent.
"So, what do you all think? About forming a militia."
The mood shifted at my question.
With Tom backing me, it swayed some.
Unfortunately, only about half agreed.
Not because of the cripple's antics—they hadn't worked much. His clique had thinned out anyway, no longer a threat.
The real issue was everyone being too busy to form a militia idly.
'War, embezzlement—what a cursed combo. Damn it.'
The war had hit right at harvest time, forcing the women to handle it alone.
They could've finished it given time.
But war taxes plus the mill owner's embezzlement...
Village women, prepping for winter and spring, skipped the mill and ground grain by hand with millstones.
That inefficiency left more households with spare hands than you'd think.
Of course, it wasn't unsolvable.
"This year, I'll lend out the waterwheels for free."
I stuck to the plan and put the waterwheels to use.
Unlike windmills that relied on breeze, waterwheels worked anytime—perfect for quick grinding.
"In exchange, the older folks with free hands should help those still harvesting. And the young ones can form a militia just until winter."
I turned to the Village Chief last. He makes the call, after all.
And he's one of the few who looks kindly on me.
"Let's do as Sian says."
In the end, our course was set.
...
"Sian, you're amazing."
"What is?"
"You already led the village meeting. Planning to be Village Chief?"
"Are you nuts?! Why would I take that headache?"
"Really? The Chief looked at you all pleased."
"Don't jinx me."
"You hate the idea that much?"
"Yeah."
Village Chief? I'd sooner bite my tongue and die.
"So, what now, Sian?"
"Hm?"
"The militia. You're the captain, right?"
"Nah, someone suitable will handle it."
Most militia recruits would be war vets.
Me—a war dodger—bossing them around would just breed resentment.
"Someone with skill and experience from the war."
"Gotta find that guy."
"Already did. Tom recommended a guy named Carlson."
"Then what do we do?"
"What else? Work. Here, saw."
"???"
"We're building a watchtower."
A big one.