Too Late for Regrets

The northern sky remained a dull ashen gray.

Prana gazed down from the office in the tallest building closest to the walls. Why was the office positioned here? It was Maker's decision. So that in an emergency, she could act first and resolve the issue herself. Prana had respected him for that. Or rather, she used to.

But as their somewhat boring yet peaceful routine dragged on, she began to see his prioritization of lowly commoners over his own gains as pathetic. Even after developing the mines and reaping massive profits, even when he could summon merchant caravans for even greater wealth, Maker thought only of advancing this frontline outpost and safeguarding its people. Gradually, she started looking down on him with pity.

These filthy vagrants. Drifters who had wandered here after failing everywhere else. Animals cloaked in human skin, no different from beasts. Humans who couldn't adapt anywhere and shirked their duties to evade taxes. Yet Maker welcomed them. Sure, he immediately exiled criminals, but living among such dirty rabble... It just didn't suit elites like herself or Maker, who had walked the empire's premier paths, to govern or defend a place like this.

So she made a suggestion to Maker. With his skills, let's develop this frontline further—starting by driving out the vagrants and bringing in new nobles or troops.

In response, Maker gave her a dose of harsh reality. No one wanted to come to this brutal northern wasteland. Even they were here because they were the dregs of the academy or some institution. Know your place and act accordingly. Instead of entertaining such delusions, just do your damn job properly. That rebuke was the turning point. From then on, she decided Maker had to go.

Maker's routine: Up at dawn to patrol the walls, then vanishing somewhere. Back around lunch for meetings, then holing up in his room. Busy with something in the evenings too—but to Prana's eyes, none of it inspired respect. If he half-assed things like that and this barren hellhole still prospered, then she could surely manage it even more efficiently.

What if she drew in the nobles residing in the north? No matter how Maker acted, he'd leave this place in a year. Even the most talented couldn't endure it here. Achievements meant nothing; reporting them to the imperial court was nearly impossible, and some noble in between would just steal the credit. That's why those assigned here often resigned immediately.

Anyway. If she seized what Maker had built? And secured investments from the nobles on top of that? She could bloom the first flower in this wretched north.

The north was harsh, but it had its advantages too. Utilize them well, bring in ice-affinity mages from the magic towers. Blacksmiths and alchemists were needed as well. Process the local ores and unique frost materials, sell them off? Just thinking about it painted a rosy path ahead.

Of course, it needed far more development than now. But she was confident. If an academy washout like Maker could manage it so well, then she—an actual elite—certainly could. So she bided her time.

But Maker lasted longer than expected. Thus, Prana took her plan to the nobles. They hesitated at first, but once she convinced them that the north's growth meant gains for them too... she finally ousted Maker.

Now she was the master of this domain. She would develop it from here on. Her plan was flawless, backed by support. And yet...

"Ah...!"

With a sigh, Prana's mind snapped back to the present. She peered out at the dim twilight despite it being midday. The walls were a utter wreck. Cracked outer barriers. Collapsed defenses everywhere. Hastily reinforced wooden structures dangled precariously.

It was hard to believe this devastation had unfolded in mere days since Maker left. Monster attacks had grown brazenly frequent, as if someone were probing the vacant throne.

Maker's documents and reports had never mentioned such horrors—only the polar opposite. Prana felt like bursting into tears.

Bad news poured in relentlessly. Troops were woefully short. She scraped together mercenaries out of necessity, but they lacked both numbers and quality. Morale was in the gutter. Nightly howls drawing nearer turned soldiers' eyes bloodshot.

The town inside the walls was effectively under martial law. Food was stockpiled, but caravans had stopped coming. Blocked mines meant dwindling funds, and monster sightings made roads perilous. The nobles who promised aid? They were barely holding their own.

The warehouse overseer's reports grew redder by the day.

The mines were worse. Monsters had seized the tunnel entrances. Two of every three miners died or were injured on shift. Survivors flat-out refused to go down anymore.

No mines meant no funds. No funds meant crumbling food supplies and troops. Crumbling troops meant fallen walls.

That simple chain crushed Prana's mind.

"Aaaah... Why did this have to happen when that bastard Maker's gone?!"

The core that had blocked external threats and united the internals. Maker.

"You've lived easy till now—why am I the one suffering?!"

Blind to her own faults, she hurled blame at Maker. Suddenly, Prana flashed a mad grin. She hurriedly drafted a report framing Maker as the culprit behind it all.

Right then—the door burst open. A woman with icy blue hair appeared.

"Prana."

It was Irene, who had joined hands with her. Cold silver eyes. Immaculate attire. But her face was hardened with fury.

Irene had believed Prana. That Maker was a lousy administrator. Inefficient operations blocking the north's future. So Irene invested. Poured in funds, backed Prana. And this was the result: utter ruin.

"Explain yourself."

"Ah... Aaaah... Lady Irene. Well, you see... it's like this...!"

Irene's voice was low but glacial. Prana opened her mouth, but excuses wouldn't come.

Irene glanced at the desk, spotting the report Prana had just written. Prana's eyes wavered.

"Maker's the mastermind? Ah, so you're dodging responsibility like this?"

"Ah... Yes! It's all because of Maker. He—"

"Shut up and listen."

Prana had assumed Irene would unconditionally take her side. But Irene slammed the desk, cutting her off.

"Maker's already settled in. Over a thousand people gathering around an unclaimed minor territory in the northeast."

Irene continued slowly. Already settled? With his own people?

"He even saved the Garding family's youngest daughter, Yuris's territory, they say."

That name hung heavily in the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠air.

"Against a slime horde, he unleashed tremendous necromancer power. Detonated cores from within and wiped them out in one go."

Prana's eyes shook at those words. Irene pressed on.

"And the people following him. Despite being a dark mage, they show near-worshipful trust."

They worship Maker. The word stabbed Prana's chest like a dagger.

"Is this the mark of a lousy administrator?"

Irene's gaze pierced straight through. Prana was speechless. Her mind went blank.

Irene added one final blow.

"Fail to resolve this, and I'll report you to the court for false reports and investment fraud."

It wasn't a threat—it was a declaration.

"You'll bear the blame alone then. One month. Your last chance."

With that, she tossed a pouch. True to her "last chance," it brimmed with gold coins—a lifeline in this crisis. Enough to cover skyrocketing prices for food and mercenaries.

"Hah... How did I ever contract with a fool like you? Tsk...!"

Evidently done with Prana, Irene sighed and left. Cold footsteps faded from the office. The door shut on its own.

Silence.

Prana stood frozen for a while. Half-dazed, she stared at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the ceiling. A small chandelier swayed emptily.

"What the hell did I... Where did I go wrong...?"

She couldn't deny it anymore. But she couldn't collapse either.

Slowly, she sat. With trembling hands, she pulled out paper. Picked up a pen.

Framing Maker? No—Irene had seen it. Time for a different tack.

It galled her. Pride shredding apart. She prided herself as an elite.

But if she continued like this, the court would drag her in. Execution. Or lifelong slavery.

She had to avoid that end. No matter her pride, death or ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠enslavement changed nothing.

Steeling herself, she began to write.

First, insincere pleasantries. Then?

She phrased it as politely as possible. Desperate yet not groveling.

But inwardly? Survive this crisis first. Use him to stabilize the walls, recover the mines, rebuild the troops. Then reclaim control.

Sealing the letter, Prana closed her eyes briefly. A long sigh later, her body shuddered.

"This is all... your fault, Maker! You'll come crawling back like an idiot. Let yourself get used like a sucker, then get discarded again. Right?"

Based on how pathetically he'd acted before, it seemed certain.

But Prana didn't know. Maker had simply been a superb operator and leader, focused on governing well and developing his territory.

He was no sucker. On the contrary, he was rapidly building fearsome power. Pulling women destined to be heroine allies to his side. Becoming a dark mage lord worshipped by the people.