Conquest Complete...?
I know a guy who's practically a god of thugs and delinquents. From swindling clients out of their pay to beating up party members, there's no bullshit he hasn't pulled—a truly insane bastard. And when you've spent your days glued to that kind of lowlife 24/7, week after week, year after year, you naturally develop an eye for spotting their kind.
And unfortunately, the moment that Grand Duke stepped down from the military carriage...
"Thug."
Of course, physiognomy is like that—could just be prejudice. Maybe I'm misjudging a perfectly normal guy. He might be a totally different breed from Adamanthon, whose jagged personality had just been smoothed out for the first time in his life a few hours ago.
But...
"I knew the second he got off the carriage. Turns out the Grand Duke of Linden Duchy is a lot rougher around the edges than expected."
"No need for an appraisal skill, huh."
"Pardon?"
"It's nothing important, sisters."
I brushed off the stray thoughts and eyed the Grand Duke suspiciously as he swaggered over like a wren with oversized eyes. Then I spotted the one following behind him and froze in shock.
Esen's eyes narrowed with killing intent.
"Hey, that's that bitch from before, right?"
"Almost didn't recognize her without the armor. Yeah, looks like it."
Her vibe was way different from that thunderous day when she'd been barking at us. With her surprisingly petite build and calm civilian clothes, she'd blend right in with any crowd. But how could I forget that sleazy smirk under her neat bob?
I grimaced, recalling the Bitsurk mess.
"It's Christensen. Thought she'd be rotting in some convent by now, getting her due. Guess not."
"Yeah. Should've just lopped her head off back then."
As Esen ground her teeth, Christensen whispered something in the Grand Duke's ear. He nodded vigorously and turned on his heel—toward the gang being dragged out of the demon lair in chains, now kneeling in the military camp's open ground.
His slinky stride in those tight white pants sauntered past the Tigresses dozing contentedly in their restraints. He even passed Garam, who was glaring at him like What the hell do you think you're doing? A bit quicker this time.
The clicking of his leather shoes—clearly annoying him—finally stopped in front of the biggest guy around: Gunter Baldenhart, bound with dozens of restraints just in case, looking like a hulking mass buried in metal shells. He lifted his head.
The Grand Duke of Lindbor started fawning with an exaggerated voice.
"No way! Isn't this the renowned Parish Chief Gunter Baldenhart himself?!"
Gunter shot Christensen a look demanding an explanation. She whispered something, and he cracked a dry smile.
"Who dares insult a true man of faith like this?! A shepherd to all people— what is this outrage?! The Sun God Mitra gazes down on this horror. Release him at once!"
I could guess the gist. The duke's neck—tattooed with something flashy unfit for his dignity—bore a chunky golden sun necklace that jingled with every chain link.
Popular religion, so no big deal for a national leader to be a follower. But that oversized bling felt deliberate. Like he was emphasizing his faith.
"Looks like he's trying to cozy up to the parish chief."
"Playing it smart."
Morgan snorted.
Makes sense. A Mitra parish can rival a kingdom in population. Not everyone in the pews would gut themselves for the chief, but that formless influence matches a head of state's.
Eager to rack up a debt with such a guy, the Grand Duke of Lindbor started feigning frenzy, grabbing and shaking the local militiamen.
But it's all pointless. We have the keys to Bilena's restraints.
Couldn't leave poor Lorenzo squirming to indulge this clown. We exchanged glances and approached the duke.
But before Nenya, leading the way, could even open her mouth...
"I heard it all, you rotten whore pack! How dare you—"
Less a national leader, more a convicted felon spewing curses. Figures, descendant of some bandit warlord.
I quickly covered my sisters' ears from the back. Then someone gently cupped mine.
When the tirade ended, I turned to see who'd saved me.
"What'd the duke say?"
"Jealous of you not hearing it."
As we giggled, the duke—face red from rage—let out a hollow laugh.
Meanwhile, Nenya responded in a tone like she wanted to wash her long ears with soap.
"So, you're admitting the contract we signed right before conquering the demon lair was coerced, that the promissory note you owe is fraudulent, and demanding we release Parish Chief Baldenhart here?"
"At least one bitch doesn't pretend to plug her ears. Lord's seal? Threatening me with that flimsy bluff? Is the noble title 'Dragon King' just some mutt's name?!"
"If I may, Your Grace, admitting the contract and note are invalid sounds like confessing to unauthorized military action while uncontracted. No guarantee we won't be subject to local law, right?"
I shot my hand up, and the duke's lined-up regular troops started shooting nervous glances.
Scratching his tattooed neck, the Grand Duke suddenly whipped out a dagger and thrust it my way—terrifyingly so.
We were too far for it to matter, and Nidroga was scowling like it was a toothpick, so zero fear.
"Where's this porter bitch get off butting in?"
My line sounds more noble.
Esen snickered and raised her hand too.
"Then can fighters butt in? Kinda ridiculous, Your Grace, but why'd we let that guy who snuck up and attacked mid-conquest go?"
"Got proof? Evidence of your injuries?"
Christensen smirked slyly.
"A parish leader targeting you nobodies? Who'd believe it?"
"Ask my sister and her goons. Witnesses."
"...You think I'd side with you? You idiot?"
Garam, squirming uncomfortably, glared daggers at Esen.
But the other Tigresses peeked out and chimed in.
"Boss, but ambushing us and losing—denying we even fought looks pretty lame, right?"
"Yeah. I got courted and shot down too, but as a warrior, there's a floor to pride. It was a good fight."
"Honestly, we could've killed and dumped 'em—no complaints. We spared 'em; they should be grateful."
"...Are you all idiots, or am I the only one?"
Garam looked ready to smack her skull if she could.
The Tigress Esen had kicked shrugged.
"Contract said 'kill and return silent.' Nothing about shutting up if we fail."
"Keeping client demands is basic, idiot!"
Garam finally screamed.
Christensen's eyes twitched. Probably fed up with the Tigresses spilling so carelessly.
But those blatantly dumb acts weren't from actual idiots. Though how much was Esen's glare versus their conscience—or beastly survival instinct siding with us—I couldn't say.
I glanced at the sunset sky. Nidroga waved me off, holding back a laugh.
"Not yet."
"Mm."
Nodding at Nidroga, Esen drawled lazily at Christensen.
"Well, who'd believe these idiots anyway? Point is, we felt threatened. No guarantee releasing him means no attack. Even Mitra himself descends, no dice."
The duke erupted in curses again.
Esen plugged the ear facing him with a finger, then suddenly grinned at Christensen.
"And you—'later.' Gotcha."
"...Later?"
Sensing something ominous in Esen's smirk, the venom in Christensen's eyes dulled.
The duke just amped up his yelling.
"You filthy bitches!"
"Compose yourself, Your Grace. The people's eyes and ears are open!"
His aide—paling, looking like kin with a far kinder face—tried reining him in.
"Rescuing the parish chief is politically significant, but consider the other side. That sudden mid-to-large demon lair nearly wiped six communes nearby—left longer, dozens more. These people prevented—"
"Communes?"
"...Administrative units, Your Grace. 'Community' might be more familiar from your imperial studies."
"Then don't spout peasant terms in my presence."
"...Your Grace. To the locals, these are heroes. Given the stakes, they resolved your crisis at a very fair price. And if you refuse payment—worst case—they could become a militant force—"
The Lindbor line started as an armed warlord hero. The word grazed family shame; the duke's eyes sharpened.
The aide panicked and pivoted.
"—I mean, no need to antagonize a powerful armed group."
"Teaching me politics, aide? No one threatens Lindbor in Linden Duchy. No one! Rumors of taking help from whores who service soldiers—unbearable, and you dare—"
I chuckled. The aide—more cautious than the duke but sloppy with words—had let slip "refuse payment."
Our party had sharper ears than most, despite his hush.
Refuse payment. Won't pay up.
Dumped the mess on locals to save troops, endangering lives—then, solved, treat us as rogue party for contractless rampage and boot us.
Ironic, given their founder turned warlord over a client's bullshit hurting his feelings.
Sure, they might be pissed. Our rates are steep, and he got stamped unwittingly.
But...
"—In front of devout Barbord Lindbor, forcing a parish chief to kneel for extortion?! No power exceeds the light god Mitra! There's a limit to ignoring law!"
"Dunno about exceeding Mitra, but there's someone much closer and scarier."
Instinctively grimacing at "law," I pointed skyward.
Nenya blinked a few times, sighed, and shook her head.
"Grand Duke, one and only warning: If I were you, I'd kneel now."
"Someone so powerful the duke kneels first? Then why are you smirks all chill?"
"...Why are self-destructors swarming lately?"
Lorenzo blinked blankly at "self-destruct."
The aide's eyes trembled forebodingly.
Baldenhart, expressionless, glared skyward like us—maybe his clairvoyance aptitude kicking in.
I don't know the Grand Duke well. Doesn't scream saint, but Barbord Lindbor might not deserve this mess.
Too late now.
"...What the hell is that?"
The calamity we summoned tore across the horizon.
Lindbor regulars, militia—even Christensen, caught off-guard—stumbled back from its shape.
No outrunning it at full sprint.
Its shadow outpaced any cavalry. Eight massive wings boomed like catapults battering walls with each flap.
Crimson-black horns jagged from nose to neck base like lightning petrified in thunderheads.
That living calamity had a name.
Ragnarocha.
The owner of the seal on the promissory note.