Chapter 26
Chapter 26
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 26
Chapter Title: The Blood-Soaked Land
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“Seriously, what kind of father does this?”
A complaint escaped Carlyle's lips.
Of all places, what was he thinking, sending me to the deadliest of battlefields...?
“They say a lion pushes its cub off a cliff, Young Master.”
“Do I look like a lion to you?”
“It’s just an analogy.”
“This isn't a cliff; it's the fiery pits of hell.”
The Kuberin region, where Carlyle was headed, was a place where battles never ceased for even a single day. Dozens, even hundreds, of soldiers were wounded or killed there daily.
It wasn't called the Blood-Soaked Land for nothing.
“What father would want to send his son to his death? He only wishes for you to grow stronger, Young Master.”
“A little more of this 'growing stronger' and I'll be dead.”
“What can be done? It is the fate of a northerner.”
“This whole 'northerner' thing.”
Carlyle pouted, but he wasn't entirely oblivious to why Maranello had said that.
‘Right, my only crime was being born a northerner.’
The lives of northerners were harsh beyond measure.
Decaron's lands were vast and fertile, but the northerners couldn't enjoy these blessings due to the prolonged war.
The food from the fertile soil became rations for soldiers, resources were forged into weapons like spears and shields, and the people, with their resilient spirit, became soldiers only to fall on the battlefield.
As a result, northerners were forced to live in constant poverty, and their average lifespan was extremely short.
That was why the population was so small compared to the vast and fertile territory.
“Alright, let's say I accept that, for argument's sake. But what crime did the soldiers under my command commit?”
It was tradition for a Sigmund to serve in the military as an officer immediately after their commissioning ceremony.
Having successfully completed the ceremony and obtained the Succession Sword, Carlyle too had become an officer and would be expected to command troops.
However, Carlyle had no military knowledge to speak of.
Of course, he had received lessons in military science from a young age, but the body's original owner, the real Carlyle, had neglected his studies and failed to accumulate any real knowledge.
As a result, it was no exaggeration to say that the current Carlyle, who had inherited those memories, also lacked military knowledge.
Though, having played the game *Overlord* for so long that his name was at the very top of the ranking page, he couldn't say he was a complete blank slate.
“That is not something you need to worry about just yet.”
“Hm?”
“You know, don't you? That the proof remains.”
“Ah.”
The 'proof' Maranello mentioned referred to the trial given to a Sigmund who had just completed their commissioning ceremony.
Only after overcoming this trial, known as the Noble Proof, would one earn the right to command soldiers as an officer. So, just as Maranello said, there was no need to worry about his lack of military knowledge for now.
“Still, you have some time. You should focus on building your military knowledge in the meantime, Young Master.”
“I'll have to.”
Carlyle despised studying, but this time he had no choice.
It was a matter of survival.
In his past life, he had to study to survive in society; the studying he had to do now was to avoid dying.
Not only his own life but the lives of the soldiers under his command were at stake, so no matter how much he hated studying, he had to do it.
Carlyle felt it was terribly unfair, but there was nothing he could do.
‘My crime was possessing a Sigmund of all people.’
Now that he was a Sigmund, enjoying pleasure without responsibility was no easy task.
***
Only one month remained before he had to leave for the Blood-Soaked Land of Kuberin.
Thanks to that, Carlyle received instruction from Maranello, covering everything from basic military knowledge to practical skills useful in real combat situations.
Maranello, once known as the Grim Reaper of the North, was a legendary figure—no, a legend himself—and knew countless techniques useful in battle.
Of course, the time was so short that most of the training only scratched the surface, but it was still a hundred, a thousand times better than learning nothing at all.
“How is the boy doing?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Maranello replied to Grand Duke Guntram's question.
“He is doing his best, in his own way.”
“It seems he doesn't want to die either.”
The Grand Duke's gaze turned cold.
“However, Your Grace.”
Maranello began cautiously.
“I believe it would be wise to reconsider sending the Young Master Carlyle to the Blood-Soaked Land.”
“That will not happen.”
Grand Duke Guntram shook his head firmly.
“But you know better than anyone how dangerous the Blood-Soaked Land is.”
“That is precisely why I am sending him. If I sent him somewhere comfortable, how would he act? He would just revert to his old ways.”
“But…”
“Of course, it will be perilous. He might even die at the hands of those barbarians. But what can be done? That is the fate one must bear when born a Sigmund.”
The lord of Decaron possessed a character befitting his title, the Iron-Blooded Adjudicator.
There were no exceptions before his ironclad beliefs and will.
Not even for his own flesh and blood...
“I must send him, my children, to the Blood-Soaked Land. Of course, the blame, the scorn, and the guilt for that decision will be mine alone to bear. That is the duty, and the karma, that the head of the Sigmund family must carry.”
The Grand Duke's will was firm, so Maranello could not bring up the matter again.
‘Since it has come to this, I can only hope the Young Master does well.’
With that thought, Maranello pushed Carlyle relentlessly for the remaining time.
The only saving grace was that Carlyle had become incomparably stronger than before.
Ever since waking up from the brink of death, Carlyle was no longer the scoundrel he used to be.
Moreover, after his nightly walks and training at the abandoned castle ruins, he had become better than most low-ranking knights.
It was to the point that Maranello even suspected Carlyle had been hiding his strength all along, deliberately acting the part of a scoundrel.
Despite all this, Maranello could not be satisfied.
Because he knew all too well just how dangerous the northern barbarians and the Blood-Soaked Land were...
*Thwack!*
“Agh!”
Carlyle cried out and stumbled back.
“Isn't this a bit much? Ugh.”
Carlyle grimaced, rubbing the spot on his shoulder where Maranello's feather duster had just struck.
‘What kind of feather duster hurts this much!’
Maranello never used a wooden or real sword.
He only ever wielded a feather duster, but its destructive power surpassed that of a typical blunt weapon.
He was certain that if Maranello swung that duster with intent, it could dent steel and shatter boulders with ease.
He even began to suspect that the feather duster might be a legendary sword in disguise, much like Grimungandr.
“Are you trying to beat me to death with a feather duster? Ugh.”
“Heh heh.”
Maranello gave a rather cold smile.
“The barbarians' axes will hurt much more, Young Master.”
“I know, I know. Ugh. But you're pushing me too hard.”
“If you were to fall in battle, Young Master, this old man would not be able to sleep at night from the guilt. I would likely live the rest of my life in regret, wishing I had trained you more rigorously.”
“You don't have to do that, so can't you go a little easier on me?”
Carlyle said firmly.
“If I die, I die. It's not a big deal. Don't feel guilty if I fall in battle.”
“As if that is something I can control.”
Maranello once again swung the feather duster at Carlyle.
“Ugh!”
Carlyle hastily threw himself aside.
If that feather duster had struck the top of his head, his skull might have shattered.
***
The rumor that Carlyle was being sent to the Blood-Soaked Land spread throughout Decaron in the blink of an eye.
“As expected of His Grace the Grand Duke. He makes no exceptions, not even for his own son.”
“Didn't you see at the trial? His Grace not only sentenced that scoundrel Carlyle to death but was also about to cut off his arm.”
“Even a scoundrel can't escape the Sigmund family's ways. That's right, that's how it is.”
The people of Decaron fully supported Grand Duke Guntram's decision and looked up to him for it.
Thanks to this, public sentiment improved, and the young men eligible for conscription willingly headed to the recruitment offices, as northerners had always done.
When even their lord sent his own children to the battlefield, it was unthinkable for the common folk to evade conscription.
After all, Selena, the eldest daughter of the Sigmund family, had already been serving as a knight for four years, accumulating distinguished military achievements...
“That scoundrel will probably die in his first battle or run away.”
“It might actually be better for His Grace if he dies at the hands of those barbarian bastards.”
The people of Decaron supported their lord's decision, but they were extremely skeptical about Carlyle.
“Hah! *Ptui!* I hope he goes and gets himself killed by those barbarians!”
“Finally, we'll get to see that bastard die!”
Those who ground their teeth at the mention of Carlyle's name wished for nothing more than his death at the hands of the barbarians.
Given the atrocities he had committed, it was only natural that so many people cursed him.
Regardless, Carlyle paid no mind to public opinion, too busy getting beaten by Maranello's feather duster.
He never cared what others said anyway, so he didn't even know what rumors were circulating...
Time passed, and the day of Carlyle's departure for the Blood-Soaked Land arrived.
Carlyle rose before dawn to prepare for his journey.
It was no easy task to gather everything from his basic gear to the various supplies he would load onto his saddle.
Of course, Maranello was by his side, helping him pack and easing the burden, but it was still a hectic process.
“I think it's too tight.”
“Uniforms are often like that, Young Master.”
“Do I have to wear it?”
“You are an officer of the Decaron army, Young Master. You must wear the uniform, if only for the sake of decorum.”
As he spoke, Maranello pinned the rectangular insignia of a second lieutenant onto Carlyle's uniform collar.
“Some officer.”
Carlyle scoffed.
“I won't have a single subordinate until I pass the Noble Proof anyway.”
“Nevertheless, you must.”
“Ugh. Loosen it a bit.”
As Carlyle wrestled with his uniform with Maranello's help, Evangeline approached and spoke.
“Um, Young Master.”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“I, I was hoping you would accept this.”
Evangeline shyly held out a bracelet.
The bracelet was so old and crude that it was hardly in a state to be given as a gift.
It even looked like it could be mistaken for an insult.
“What is this piece of junk?”
Carlyle asked bluntly.
Already agitated from struggling with the uniform, he had spoken harshly without thinking.
“It was my grandmother's…”
“What did you say?”
“It was passed down to me by my late grandmother.”
…Oh, crap.
Carlyle's face went pale.
“Sorry.”
Carlyle apologized hastily.