To the North Duchy (3)
“Whoa. But damn, she really is pretty.”
A subordinate on night watch duty said that as he sat down by the campfire. Valerius nodded.
Honestly, her looks were top-tier. Of course, his taste ran toward delicate Eastern beauties, so it didn't hit him that hard.
“Don't even glance her way. Just looking at her costs a fortune.”
“I know my place, sir. Heh.”
The Black Lion Guerrilla members, trained in 21st-century assassin etiquette, never reached beyond their station.
“But isn't she a duke's daughter? Is it okay to treat her like that? What about retaliation or something?”
His subordinate's concern was valid. But Valerius hadn't poked at her nerves for no reason.
“Didn't I tell you I can read faces?”
“...Yeah? And you're scary accurate about it.”
You learn it dealing with fresh recruits in a modern army. Some faces just scream, 'Oh shit, we're fucked.'
Based on that experience, he'd sniffed out a few in the south, and now everyone believed in his “face-reading” superstition.
Of course, that wasn't why he'd done it this time. He knew exactly what kind of personality Isolde Serpia had from the original story.
A hardcore safety-first type and pureblood noble supremacist. Cold, composed, hated variables. She favored steady, reliable nobles and despised uneducated commoners who picked fights like “you die, I die.”
“Look at her—she screams ice-cold precision. The type who hates anyone thinking, 'If I touch this, we're all dead!'”
“Huh. Yeah, that tracks.”
“Exactly. This way, she won't bother us. She can't touch Rozanica or us anyway.”
His subordinate tilted his head at Valerius's words. Everyone knew the boss hated nobles, but if they were settling in the north properly, wouldn't it be better to get along with the duke's family? Mercenary work up here would be easier that way.
“But wouldn't it be good to stay on good terms with the duke's house?”
“Sure. But not the kids.”
Valerius had no intention of picking a fight with the duke's house itself. The son was a lunatic obsessed with women, abandoning his homeland to half-settle in the capital. The daughter was a bitch executed for her vicious tantrum after losing one fiancée.
That was Valerius's current assessment of the duke's brats.
'I'd rather take a shit-dog to the battlefield.'
At least the dog would be fun to pet. The duke's kids? They were like a jungler and support swooping in during a winning laning phase for the kill—then bot lane explodes, the enemy top who stole it gets items, and suddenly the side lanes are sealed in a do-or-die crisis.
“We deal only with the grand duke. Anyone below him is pointless. Got it?”
“Ah, gotcha.”
Raven said nothing more; the boss's baseless noble-hate was old news.
Time passed uneventfully. Both sides avoiding each other meant Valerius and Isolde never crossed paths. He'd run into the duke's house eventually, but not her.
Rozanica would become the Black Lion Mercenaries' true base, and Valerius planned to make it an impregnable fortress. To do that, he'd need the North Duke on his side—and given the man's personality, meeting the young master or lady wouldn't help.
Lost in such plans, they arrived in Rozanica before he knew it.
“Ah, finally—a chance to wash up.”
The trade city towered with massive smelters. Unlike other northern cities, it stayed somewhat warm, and Valerius felt a swell of pride.
“Whoa, it's changed a lot, boss.”
“All thanks to us, right?”
“True enough.”
The Black Lion Guerrilla had plenty of backers. Ma Tower elder Grant, various southern nobles—including Rozanica's own lord, from Valerius's hometown.
“C-Captain. Y-You've worked hard.”
“Ah, merchant lord. You too.”
The man had feared Valerius ever since that talk. No big deal—they wouldn't see much of each other anyway.
“Handle the payments and send everything to the Seria Orphanage.”
“O-Of course.”
“Good, good.”
Valerius clapped the merchant's shoulder and led his mercenaries to the orphanage, ignoring the fierce stares trailing them.
Rozanica's citizens, recognizing Valerius, poured out in droves.
“Valri, you punk! Glad you're alive!”
“Uncle Bardil? What the hell—you're still kicking?”
“Mouth like a rag mop, same as ever! Haha!”
The junk shop owner who'd buy monster hides from the street kids.
“Valri! Long time.”
“Oh, Auntie Weed. You look the same as ten years ago.”
“Hee-hee. Sweet talker.”
The daily goods seller who'd share unsold veggies with beggars.
“Valri!”
“Valri!”
“Kiddo—when'd you get so big?”
People Valerius had known from running wild all over Rozanica as a kid greeted them warmly.
“Bilke? Holy shit, you survived!”
“Amelda!”
Others who'd followed him into the army and south got the same welcome. Northerners were rough and scary, but fiercely protective of their own. It was a culture born of surviving this barren, frozen land.
They couldn't not cheer for locals who'd made Rozanica proud—especially carrying the honor of the Black Lion Guerrilla, a name for the history books.
Amid the massive welcome, the Black Lion Mercenaries reached the orphanage.
“Been a while.”
The old memories were gone. With all the funding he'd pulled in, they'd rebuilt ages ago.
Seeing the sudden armored arrivals, the kids playing in the yard paled and bolted inside.
“Heh, guess I'll catch a broom to the head after all this time.”
Valerius chuckled at Raven's words. He'd taken plenty of whacks from that fierce broom as a kid. Living so recklessly, Mother Seria would tear up despite her frail heart and grab it anyway.
“Thinking back on it...”
Raven trailed off, lost in memory. Even kids could feel it—her fear of hitting them, hurting like it was her own pain, tears streaming as she did what she had to.
“That's what raised us right.”
“Damn straight.”
Every Rozanica street rat was Mother Seria's child. Even Valerius, steeped in modern sensibilities, admired her character. She was the one anchoring his selfish ass to this godforsaken empire.
“Huff... huff! Who... who are you? Outsiders can't just barge into...”
She was supposed to be in her fifties, but still spry and beautiful. Wrinkles, sure, but her golden blonde hair and blue eyes suited her perfectly. Broom gripped upside-down like a weapon.
Rushing up, panting, Seria gaped at the leader's face.
“N-No way... Valri? Little Valri? For real?”
“Yes, Mother. Raven's here too.”
“Raven! Oh, my boys!”
Finally recognizing them, Seria toddled over and hugged Valerius tight. The armored men crowded in for hugs.
“Aigoo, my babies. So glad you're safe. So glad!”
It was like shipping her sons off to war overseas for over a decade—tears were inevitable.
They soaked in the heartfelt reunion.
“Raven, take three and sweep the back alleys. Handle any idiots causing trouble while we were gone.”
“On it.”
“Alpha and Beta, help the rest settle in. Get 'em clothes first—desert weaklings'll freeze.”
“Yes, sir!”
Assigning tasks, Valerius unpacked, shed his armor, and wandered the orphanage grounds.
Twenty years back, it was a rickety old monastery. Now it rivaled a noble's mansion.
'Full-on boarding school level.'
Priests back then were proper intellectuals. Seria had taught all the kids, including young Valerius, to read—worried they'd get scammed otherwise. Knowing her drive, he'd poured money into remodeling it.
Importing mandatory education systems and architecture from his past life had turned it into a proper boarding school.
Lots of users too: street kids, beggars, orphans naturally; working couples too busy for kids; parents sending them to learn from her famed guidance.
Currently 30 residents, but over 90 kids learning there daily.
Observing it all, night fell.
“How's it feel?”
“That's what I wanna ask you, Mother. Thoughts on achieving your dream?”
“Hee-hee.”
Heading to Seria's bedroom under the moonlight, Valerius tucked her in like a parent reading a bedtime story, then sat.
“I figured my smart boy had his reasons.”
“Don't worry—it's for our safety.”
“...I see. You've worked hard.”
Her brows furrowed. She'd watched him struggle since childhood.
“More importantly, who's the big guy?”
“Desert nomads. Heavily discriminated against.”
“I see.”
“While we're here, teach 'em letters, culture. Mind if I ask?”
“Of course—we have to. For my son's request.”
“Thank you.”
Kissing her forehead, Valerius stroked her hair, then stood.
“Welcome home, son.”
“Thrilled to be back, Mother.”
Leaving her warm voice behind, Valerius stepped out.
For that one voice alone, he'd endured much—and would endure more.