Chapter 100
Chapter 100
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 100
Chapter Title: Manpower Expansion (3)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Northern Region.
The polar land where blizzards raged year-round.
The men here had a particular fondness for drink.
Alcohol warmed the belly while chilling the skin, dulling the bite of the cold just a little.
And so, today as always, the tavern "Rusty Bronze Falcon"—its icicles frozen solid—was packed with drunken patrons.
The rough voices of northern men brawling with fists, the retching of sots, the weeping and laughter echoing from every corner.
Through that raucous crowd, one man poked his head in.
Squeak—
The man pulled back the rusty bronze door handle and stepped into the cozy tavern without even shaking the snow from his boots.
Melted snow trickled down the lapels of his neat but cheap-looking coat.
"……."
The man sat at the long communal table.
It was barely worthy of the name—a grimy plank nailed tight against the kitchen wall.
"……."
The man rested his elbows on the board without complaint.
Sizzle—sizzle—sizzle—
On the iron griddle before the plank, all manner of things grilled and fried.
Wild boar kidneys, frost wolf eyeballs, snow monkey gallbladders, herring packed with roe, sausages of mysterious offal...
All smothered in some unidentified spicy, pungent sauce, oozing thick grease.
The man spoke.
"One plate of sausage. And a glass of absinthe."
Soon, a filthy plate and glass appeared before him.
A single charred, fishy red sausage link and a deep green liquor.
The man ate and drank in silence.
"Kuh..."
It felt like fire in his gut.
Jules Bern.
He exhaled flames from his throat.
The liquor had gone down cold as ice, so why did it come back out so scorching hot?
Jules crammed the absinthe-soaked sausage into his mouth—its overpowering spices and rancid stench strong enough to make him gag.
'Has it really been three days since I last put anything substantial in my stomach?'
His family was ruined.
Ruined to the point where he'd pawned the heirloom pocket watch for pennies to buy this pathetic booze and grub.
Jules was the last scion of House Bern.
Once a baronial house in the north, but that was ancient history.
Now, scarce anyone even remembered the Bern name.
Let alone the second son of such a pitiable line.
So Jules felt no particular thrill or pride in his noble blood.
No—he despised it.
That hollow title had drawn the ire of neighboring domains in a territorial war.
With House Levarb and House Furosange stirring rebellion, local warlords seized the chance to rise, sparking civil strife across the region.
The fragile Baron Bern, barely clinging to life, was shattered to dust overnight.
Jules recalled the night a week ago.
The night his father, mother, and siblings died one by one.
'But I couldn't do a damn thing. Still can't.'
He was useless.
No sword skill, no magic, nothing.
Just a few papers on introductory administration from his academy days in the capital.
Even those were cut short when the family coffers ran dry, forcing him home in a rush.
'I'm trash. I'll just keep guzzling this rotgut till I'm blind.'
Jules cursed himself and reached for another glass.
Then.
...Thud!
The burly man before him glared.
"Hey, buddy. You got money?"
"……."
Only then did Jules grasp his predicament.
He didn't even have the coin to drink himself blind.
Right then.
"Jules Bern?"
A low voice came from behind.
Startled, Jules tried to stand and toppled backward in his stupor.
He flailed on the floor amid dead rats and vomit.
Then.
"Jules Bern, right? Say no if not. I'm busy."
A one-eyed middle-aged man sighed.
Jules thought.
'Wh-what? Assassin...? Nah.'
Not that an assassin would bother.
Baron Bern held no value worth erasing.
If anything, House Furosange had used and discarded them, but that enemy house had fallen to another just recently.
So the odds of an assassin hunting him were near zero.
"Wh-what do you want?"
The one-eyed man pulled out a letter.
"Guild errand. Delivering this."
"A letter? To me? From who?"
"Beats me. Delivered it clean. No complaints later."
The one-eyed man glanced at Jules's meager spread and clicked his tongue at the barkeep.
"Hey, no more booze for that guy. He'll freeze in a ditch. I'll cover the grub though. Slice up some pork offal plates."
Jules looked so destitute the man tossed coins to the owner and turned away.
"……."
Self-pity over cheap pity faded as Jules eyed the letter in his pocket.
'Who the hell to me? How'd they know I'm here? Damn...'
He opened it.
The long text burned into his retinas: an exorbitant salary and one final line.
—House Meursault desires your service—
The domain of House Meursault, Margrave of the Frontier.
At its heart stood Marie Castle and Cardona Castle, twins.
These massive fortresses, a hard day's gallop apart, were built to defend against barbarians and monsters crossing the Meurso Mountains.
Beyond them stretched the frozen lake where countless lives had flickered out; that battlefield men called Meursault.
The mythic warrior Camus, born of this land, named it after his oath to guard the north forever—thus birthing House Meursault.
...And now, hordes converged on those Meursault fortresses.
Families, guilds, and groups obliterated by the recent civil war.
Heirs, collaterals, servants, soldiers, knights, mercenaries—all ragged sorts lined at the gates.
Varied faces and garb, but all shared one trait: destitution.
And another: each clutched a crumpled letter like a family heirloom.
They told the gate guards.
"Heard you treat wandering knights well, so here I am."
"Looking for work for an administrator out of a job?"
"Employer croaked without paying—unemployed merc. Pay me and I'll go anywhere."
Every letter ended the same.
—House Meursault desires your service—
All signed by the famed "Federback."
Soon, the line funneled inside.
Jules stood nervously at the entry checkpoint.
"Jules Bern. Got a letter from Young Master Federback..."
"Hold on. Who?"
"Jules of House Bern. Young Master Federback of House Meursault sent the letter..."
The soldiers fell silent.
They cross-checked his face against the entry list repeatedly.
Then.
"Lucky bastard. Young Master returned from his secret outing last night."
"Pardon? Oh, uh, good timing...? And why the sudden honorifics...?"
Jules blinked at the shift to respect.
But the soldier continued matter-of-factly.
"Young Master ordered Jules here brought straight to the vice-lord's chambers as a special direct report. Lucky he returned yesterday—you can meet him right away."
"M-me? Why me? We’ve never even met!"
"What would underlings like us know? I'll escort you—treat me well. Name's Hassadin. Don't forget me when you rise."
The brown-skinned native-mixed soldier winked cheekily.
Soon, Jules was led straight to the vice-lord's quarters.
Through inner corridors and sky bridges, they reached a heavy wooden door.
Knock—knock—knock—knock—
The escort knocked four times.
Jules fancied it like rapping on a door to the unknown.
From within, a youthful yet grave voice.
"Enter."
The soldier stepped back without opening it.
Go in yourself.
Jules drew a deep breath and pushed.
With all his might, the door creaked open.
In the room's center stood a boyish youth.
Snow-white hair, blood-red eyes that drew you in.
Federback Meursault, the north's boy hero.
"Jules Bern, I presume."
"Y-yes! That's me!"
Jules used deferential speech to the boy a decade his junior.
Not from status, but primal instinct as a creature.
Meanwhile, he pondered inwardly.
'Why would Meursault's vice-lord summon me?'
No matter how he racked his brain, nothing.
At fifteen, 4th Circle mastery; slaying a dragon solo in uninhabitable polar wastes; crushing two rampant houses in a coup d’état.
A supernova fit for history books—why pick him?
A beggar noble's orphaned second son, no less.
'Have I met him before?'
Impossible.
No one could forget such striking beauty.
'What the hell? Why me...'
But his agonies didn't last.
Federback cut to the chase in his signature icy monotone.
"From now on, you'll assist Rorschach, the Triad Magistrate handling administration, legislation, and judiciary. Assist, my ass—all paperwork's yours. Starting pay: 10,000 gold. Good performance means quarterly renegotiation."
"……!"
Casual as flowing water.
But the figure was so outrageous, no objections formed.
"Wh-what makes you offer me this? Surely a mix-up...?"
"Saw your doctoral thesis at the academy."
"P-pardon? That old thing? Five years back..."
"You studied methodology in Imperial law's Pandects and Institutes system—common principles in general sections, specifics in particulars. Applied for doctorates in policy, organization, and personnel admin simultaneously."
"!"
Jules's eyes bulged.
The thesis he'd forgotten.
Never even submitted—he'd been expelled for unpaid tuition.
Federback cited it precisely.
"Found it intriguing. Unfinished dreams? Chase them here in Meursault territory."
Half a lie, of course.
Pre-regression, in a world racing to doom, Federback first met Jules Bern.
Then, his prodigious admin, legislative, and judicial talents sustained dwindling humanity.
By then, kingdoms, empires, families, tribes, races—all united as one, letting his gifts shine maximally.
'Unique man, that Jules. Thrown into work, he shone instantly—no ramp-up needed. Maybe a born genius, just lacking the stage.'
One more reason for high regard.
'Captured by demons, torn apart alive—he leaked not one scrap harmful to humanity. That stubbornness: a model for all.'
Thus, hearing of Jules, Federback pledged full trust and backing.
"I-I pledge my utmost loyalty!"
Jules dropped to his knees before Federback.
Tears of gratitude streamed down his cheeks.
Where else would embrace a homeless wretch so fully?
From tavern bum to Meursault magistrate proxy overnight.
"When can you start? Week?"
"No—tomorrow... no, now! Hell, yesterday if I could!"
...And days later, Jules mastered the avalanche of admin flooding Meursault Castle.
Freeing Federback from the paperwork monster at last.