Chapter 8
Chapter 8
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: The Bastard's Homecoming
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“What’re you peeking at like that? Why? ‘Cause he’s a smooth pretty boy and you wanna get friendly? Be good and maybe he’ll let you have his ass tonight?”
Partek scolded Raban, who had been glancing at Eugene’s back ever since they set out.
“Aw, I was just looking a bit. He’s one of our group now, ain’t he?”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s just for today. And don’t get too interested in knights. A goblin chasing an ogre’s gonna rip its crotch open.”
“Even so, a goblin? And who’s born a knight from the cradle anyway.”
Partek smirked at Raban’s grumbling.
“Born a knight.”
“Huh?”
“No matter how dumb or brutish a knight looks, they start learning the sword at three or four years old.”
“Captain, you think I’m a total idiot, don’t you?”
“It’s true, you punk. If you’re born into a knightly house, nine times outta ten you’re playing with wooden swords as soon as you can toddle. If they see talent, they start proper training at seven or eight. Lessons from their father or uncles.”
“Lessons... you mean swordsmanship?”
“Swordsmanship, spearmanship, horsemanship, dagger work, bare-handed fighting—the works on how to fight.”
“Really? Then they become knights?”
“Nah. Once they’ve learned the basics, they become squires. That’s when the real deal starts.”
“Oh, those little shits following knights around?”
“Yeah. You might laugh, but those twelve-, thirteen-year-olds are tougher than you. They could steam a couple of ragtag mercs like you for dinner.”
“I-I see.”
“Anyway, they spend two or three years as squires—five if they get a nasty-tempered master. They wait hand and foot, get plenty of real combat experience, and then they get a letter of recommendation. That’s when they finally qualify as knights.”
“Huh.”
“But that ain’t the end. What good’s a recommendation? They need to be dubbed a real knight.”
“Dubbed?”
“Hunting monsters, fighting in wars, duels, jousts. They grind away for years building merits until they catch the eye of some titled noble. Then they get dubbed. Alright, here’s a question.”
Partek grinned at Raban, whose face had gone pale.
“Outta the kids who first pick up wooden swords, how many make it that far? Sir Eugene here looks about twenty-two or twenty-three—what stage do you reckon he’s at?”
“......I’ll just stick behind you, Captain. I’ll listen real good.”
“That’s right, you punk. Don’t get any funny ideas.”
“Knights are really something else. No wonder that merchant bastard was so thrilled.”
Raban handed his reins to another mercenary and eyed the dozing merchant Bilmore next to the driver’s seat with beady eyes.
“Of course. Hiring a proper knight costs a fortune. And a mild-mannered one like Sir Eugene is one of the rare ones you can count on one hand. Getting to travel with a knight for free? His mouth’s gotta be splitting ear to ear.”
“We’re lucky too, right?”
“Obviously.”
Partek and the mercenaries chuckled.
Just last night, when he’d suddenly asked to join them, they’d thought this flashy pretty-boy knight had lost his mind. Maybe he had some ulterior motive.
But when he showed the letter from Broadwin Village’s chief Geb to Lord Tiwin, the mercenaries all nodded in agreement.
They were escorting Bilmore and the wagons to Lord Tiwin’s castle anyway. One more person didn’t change much.
And that person was Lord Tiwin’s bastard son, no less—with a full knight as his companion.
“This job feels good. Trusted my gut again, huh?”
The mercenaries nodded one after another at Partek’s words. Partek was the real deal—skilled, lucky, and worth following.
* * *
“Hey, hey, now that bear-looking bastard’s grinning at you. Just knock ‘em all out, steal a horse, and let’s hightail it outta here.”
“Steal a horse and you’re hanged on the spot. Besides, those are draft horses—they can’t run fast.”
“Really? Aren’t all horses the same?”
“Nope. Different uses. Racehorses, carriage horses, warhorses—all separate.”
“Oho! Our lord Eugene knows his stuff, eh?”
“Yeah. I definitely know more about writing than you.”
“Keeek! Shut it!”
Mirian shrieked and perched on Eugene’s shoulder, chattering away.
“Anyway, it’s nice the old kid’s riding in the wagon. We can chat easy like this. Hell, wagons are way better than walking. Why’s he so dead set on walking? Weirdo kid.”
Eugene bit back the thought that stubbornness might run in the Tiwin blood.
“But hey. What’s this Lord Tiwin guy like?”
“Dunno much. Local lord, not long for this world. Heard he was a damn strong knight in his youth.”
The real issue was he might not even get to meet Lord Tiwin.
He’d been mulling it over since last night, but no answers yet. Eugene was still deep in thought.
“The lord’s not long for this world? Then what happens to our old kid? Might turn orphan again the second we get there.”
“Not my problem.”
Bastard son wouldn’t get much respect, and if the mercenaries’ talk about the domain being broke was true, Pellid wouldn’t inherit squat.
Hell, with the house already poor and chaos from that dungeon, he might get drafted as cannon fodder and die like a dog.
‘Still better than me, though. At least he’ll see his dad’s face. Right?’
As Eugene—who didn’t even know his parents’ faces—thought that, something suddenly clicked.
‘I might not meet him, but Pellid has to.’
No parent ignores a kid they didn’t even know they had for sixteen years.
‘How do I use this?’
Eugene’s mind raced.
Regaining his vampire looks wasn’t the end.
He was also reclaiming the sharp, cunning brain worthy of the Night Clan’s top tier.
* * *
After a full day’s travel, Eugene and the mercenaries finally reached Martella Village, home to Lord Tiwin’s castle.
Martella was a bit larger than Brams.
But the lord’s keep in the center wasn’t that big.
Beyond the moat and high walls, there were only three buildings, including the main residence for the lord’s family.
Still, it was a spectacle for a little swamp spirit—Mirian wouldn’t shut up.
“Milord! Sir Eugene! You gotta rise up quick and live in a castle like that! Blood Count Eugene! Dark Count Eugene! Keeek!? Just stick a few ghouls there and it’d be perfect! Line the walls with ghouls!”
“Cut the crap and get inside for now. I’ll uncork you if I need you.”
“Ugh, milord’s got no ambition, no romance.”
Grumbling, Mirian still slipped into the leather pouch as ordered.
With Bilmore of the Feilin Merchant Group—straight outta a big city—leading, the group passed the guarded drawbridge without issue.
As they entered the small castle called Rose Castle, the residents’ eyes turned their way.
Among them, a cluster of well-dressed men and women approached the wagon. High-ups in the castle, by the look.
“You there! Feilin Merchant Group?”
Bilmore clasped his hands and replied to the man who looked about thirty.
“Yes, sir. Bilmore of the Feilin Merchant Group. And to whom do we owe the honor?”
“Kamara Tiwin, heir to Tiwin. Skip the intros—we’re unloading.”
“Y-Yes, sir.”
Partek and the mercenaries started unloading.
It had nothing to do with him, so Eugene reached for the letter in his bosom to introduce Pellid to Kamara Tiwin.
That’s when Kamara’s gaze landed on Eugene.
“What’re you? Why aren’t you helping?”
“Uh, y-yes, sir!”
As Pellid flailed, unsure and glancing around, Eugene grabbed his arm and pulled him forward.
“Pleased to meet you. I am—”
“Big brother Kamara!”
A shrill voice cut Eugene off.
A young man in a gray surcoat over chain mail strode up with two soldiers in tow.
‘Bertel Tiwin.’
Before his regression, the Tiwin knight who—alongside Yung Dirhit—had tormented Eugene in many ways.
Yung Dirhit had killed him for real, but Bertel Tiwin was the leader of the pursuit squad.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“What? Feilin’s cargo arrived, so I’m directing the unload.”
“Why are you doing that, brother?”
“You handle military matters. I handle the rest as heir. Isn’t that obvious? What, you wanna run this too? Next you’ll be playing heir yourself.”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“Then do your own damn job.”
Eugene could tell the mercenaries’ stories were true from the brothers glaring like mortal enemies.
The lord was on death’s door, the domain’s finances a mess.
And now a dungeon pops up—they should be uniting, but the brothers were at each other’s throats.
“So, what’re you?”
Bertel—face sour from Kamara’s jab—turned his glare on Eugene.
Eugene pulled two sheets of parchment from his bosom and offered them not to Bertel, but to Kamara.
“One’s from a mercenary named Timothy. The other’s from Geb, chief of Broadwin.”
“What?”
Kamara flinched, eyes wide with obvious shock.
He snatched the parchment roughly and scanned it in a hurry.
“This...”
“What’s wrong?”
“Read it.”
Kamara shoved the parchment at him, scowling. Bertel’s face hardened as he read.
“Mercenaries wiped out by black wolves? And you... brought the lord—our father’s bastard?”
“That’s right. And this is Lord Tiwin’s bastard son.”
Everyone followed Eugene’s gaze.
“P-Pleased to meet you! I’m Pellid!”
Pellid bowed deeply.
Word spread fast—the lord’s rumored bastard had arrived. Eyes turned to Pellid, murmurs rising.
“Take him away. Wash him up and get him proper clothes.”
“Yes, sir. This way, young master.”
A neatly dressed servant from the castle stepped forward at Bertel’s order.
“Uh, yes!”
Pellid followed, still glancing back at Eugene repeatedly.
Eugene gave a light wave, and only then did the boy relax and walk on.
“Well then, Sir Eugene.”
Bertel addressed Eugene.
“We thank you for your efforts. Unfortunate events happened, but you took over the job and completed it, so we’ll pay tomorrow. You must be worn out—eat well and rest tonight.”
Polite, but it meant leave tomorrow.
“Appreciated. Might I see Lord Tiwin, by chance?”
“The lord’s condition is poor. Can’t do that.”
“No way at all?”
“Impossible.”
Flat refusal.
And the eldest son—with a temper straight out of Yung Dirhit’s playbook—didn’t seem likely to budge.
But then.
“What’s so hard about a quick visit? He’s not blood, sure, but he brought your brother home safe, didn’t he?”
Kamara—the eldest Eugene hadn’t expected much from—suddenly took his side.
(To be continued)