The Most Pitiful Thought

In the brutal country of the north, a brilliant war commander named Laoren had turned back the Empire's invasions again and again. The royal house of Runheim, recognizing the weight of those victories, raised him to a count and granted him the title of margrave of the frontier.

And so House Laoren had produced outstanding commanders for generations. To hail from Laoren was, among other nobles, a mark of distinction — something they acknowledged and held in genuine esteem.

But not every child of the bloodline was exceptional. From time to time, one was born who fell far short of the rest.

"You imbecile, Frendal. You're a disgrace to this family."

"Hah. What a low-class waste."

Frendal Laoren.

From childhood, he had possessed no particular talent. Swordsmanship, the art of war, politics — he was deficient in every respect. Perhaps because of that early, relentless comparison to his siblings, he came to accept his own lack of ability.

He was the youngest, after all. If he had put in a modest effort, he could have lived in comfort without bearing any real responsibility for the house.

The problem was that he didn't stop there.

Frendal had always been full of bluster, even as a child. Unable to hold his head high within the family, he turned his gaze outward to prop up his self-worth. At home he was treated like a spoiled child. Outside those walls, he was a young lord of the nobility.

He was always deferred to beyond the estate, and with that deference his viciousness began to show. He threatened people to feed his vanity, browbeat them, and did as he pleased.

"Please — please, my lord, spare me! I have a daughter and a wife! Guh—!"

And then one day, after he beat a man to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠death for groveling at his feet — calling him filthy — Frendal felt a strange pulse of emotion. The sensation of holding even another person's death in the palm of his hand. For Frendal, it was a new kind of accomplishment. A new kind of experience.

"Ha... haha!"

Frendal began to involve himself in increasingly dangerous affairs. Before long he had formed a circle with other spoiled young nobles of his own kind, and they did as they liked. The family had already written him off as if he didn't exist. Frendal ran even more wild.

Then one day, the playground he had been using was destroyed.

Muddy Hand.

They had been useful — the sort who could get their hands on anything, no matter how hard to find. When he heard those bastards had been burned out, Frendal flew into a rage.

"What the hell are you talking about?!"

"Word is there's a culprit who wiped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠out the Muddy Hand, my lord."

Someone had dared to smash the playground he sponsored? His pride would not allow it.

After exhaustive inquiries, he finally identified a monster hunter named Haren. It was absurd. A mere monster hunter had wrecked his playground? Obviously unacceptable.

The problem was, the bastard had gone out on a support mission not long ago and gotten himself killed.

"That son of a bitch!"

Frendal was livid. But there was nothing to be done about a dead man.

Before long, he built a new organization to replace the Muddy Hand. Thinking about it, he should have done this from the start. If a noble — far superior to any commoner — built it himself, the organization would naturally run well. And it needed a refined name, not some lowborn label like Muddy Hand.

Silver Crest Association.

Quiet as moonlight. A name of genuine class, perfectly suited to a noble.

With the backing of Frendal and his circle, the Silver Crest Association grew rapidly. It swallowed every back alley in Laoren and began expanding into outside distribution. It even turned a profit of sorts. Of course, compared to the money and manpower poured in at the start, it was a drop in the ocean — but Frendal was never going to remember a thing like that.

"Hah. Who knew I had such a talent for running an organization."

Frendal marveled at his own capability. His brothers, always going on about estate management, military science, knighthood — they now looked rather dim in Frendal's eyes. In truth, it was his subordinates grinding themselves to dust that kept the thing running. Frendal, however, believed every bit of it was his own ability.

Now he would reinvest the money he had made and expand the market. Frendal grinned, imagining his enterprise growing larger still.

That is, until a report came in today, out of nowhere.

A messenger came running in a panic. Frendal raised an eyebrow at the sight of him.

"What's all this racket?"

Frendal made no effort to hide his irritation. He had been enjoying a pleasant interlude with some women, after all. Being interrupted was naturally infuriating.

"The Silver Crest Association is on fire!"

At his subordinate's frantic cry, Frendal's eyes slowly widened.

"What the hell did you just say?!"

He snatched up his clothes, threw them on, and bolted outside. How much time and effort had he poured into building the Silver Crest Association? He had worked so hard to raise it — and now it was burning. It felt as if his own insides were on fire.

He called for a carriage and raced to the Silver Crest Association. What he found was a building that had already burned to the ground.

Frendal stared at the scene, eyes wide. The situation felt so unreal he could barely take it in.

"L-Lord Frendal, even so, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠revealing yourself so openly like this could cause problems..."

When the subordinate beside him offered a cautious warning, Frendal backhanded him across the face.

"You think that matters right now?!"

For a noble to openly reveal himself as the leader of a back-alley branch was a serious blow to his image. But Frendal, already past the point of reason, heard none of it.

"Instead of running your mouth, find whoever did this! Now!"

At his roar, the slapped subordinate flinched and ran off.

"You lowborn scum here to gawk? Get lost! Or shall I have you all executed?!"

He bellowed at the people who had gathered to watch the fire. That Frendal was a spoiled young lord was already well known — especially in the back alleys, thanks to the Silver Crest Association. People scattered at once, not wanting to give him any excuse.

Meanwhile, Frendal stared at the Silver Crest Association, so furious he thought he might go mad. His playground had burned like this once before. And now it had burned again.

In that moment, he felt a sense of déjà vu.

That's right. Hadn't this happened last time too?

And there had been something left behind then as well. An iron helmet, sitting in front of the gutted building.

It was sitting there again. Right in front of the ruins.

Frendal's eyes slowly widened.

"Ha...ren."

The monster hunter whose name he had heard that day — the one he had ordered captured at all costs.

"Haren! Haren!"

Frendal shouted at the knight standing guard nearby.

"Find that bastard Haren! Right now!"

At his roar, the escort knights glanced at one another.

"Lord Frendal, we are supposed to remain at your side. Someone else will be along shortly to assist with the search."

"You idiots — then just leave one man here! Find him before he gets away! I said find him!"

Unable to withstand Frendal's shouting, one of the escort knights ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠finally left his post to search for Haren, as ordered.

Even then, Frendal's rage wasn't spent. He kicked the burned-out building again and again. And as he stood there, consumed by a fury he couldn't contain—

Thud—

A section of the charred wall collapsed, opening a hole. In that instant, a hand reached through the gap.

Before Frendal could even scream, the hand clamped over his mouth.

It happened in a single breath. Frendal thrashed against the hand pinning his mouth shut. But the grip was iron. It showed no sign of letting go. What kind of strength was this? Frendal couldn't move an inch.

His eyes darted desperately behind him, seeking help from his escort knight. But the knight, apparently fed up with Frendal's earlier behavior, was staring off at the distant hills. Frendal had already driven every onlooker away. No one imagined anyone could still be inside a building that had burned to the ground. And the ruins themselves blocked the line of sight so neatly that there was no way to tell anyone was there.

Frendal's pleading gaze never reached the knight.

Instead, through the hole in the wall, a pair of eyes looked back at him.

Vivid amber eyes.

The killing intent in them was something Frendal had never encountered in his entire life.

"Frendal."

The voice rolled out, low and quiet. Frendal felt his breath beginning to fail.

He wanted to ask what that was supposed to mean. But the man only said what he intended to say — like a reaper who had no interest in listening to a human being.

"You could have changed, if you'd wanted to."

His circumstances, his life — Frendal had been blessed in every way. Even without talent, he could have lived as a noble, wanting for nothing. Frendal had never felt gratitude for that life. He had never made any effort at all.

"But you didn't. And if that's the case, then that must be your fate."

Somewhere deep inside Frendal, something he couldn't name began to gutter out. He didn't know what it was. He only knew that it would be irreversible.

Tears streamed from Frendal's eyes. Before he knew it, the hands that had been struggling came together in front of him, and he begged like a madman. Please, just this once — spare him. Next time he would change. He swore it. He begged, and begged again.

"Did you think a noble could do anything and never die?"

It was true. In Frendal's life, death had always been something he controlled. It had been so sweet, so enjoyable, that he had forgotten. Death was not something he commanded. It applied to everyone.

Warmth flooded down Frendal's legs — an involuntary reflex of sheer terror.

Taking in that ugly sight, the man — Haren — finally snuffed out the flame.

Thud—

Frendal crumpled to the ground.

Belatedly, the escort knight sensed something was wrong and came running.

"L-Lord Frendal?"

And a moment later, the knight understood what had happened.

Frendal was no longer breathing.

The vicious, spoiled young lord was gone. All that remained was a corpse, dead in terror, in the most undignified state imaginable.

It was a wretched death, one whose cause no one would ever determine. A death whose answer would never be found.