Chapter 57
Chapter 57
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 57
Chapter Title: Even in the Winter of Blasting Winds, Sprouts Emerge (1)
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The 1st Prince bantered idly with the eldest son of the Winter Castle lord, bickering like children. The watching knights jumped in, and soon they were all chuckling together. Even the rangers and regular soldiers crowded around, chattering away, their camaraderie astonishingly genuine.
"Ah, come on! I'm exhausted enough to drop dead, so why are you all sticking to me like this!"
Even as the 1st Prince yelled in frustration, the soldiers just burst into laughter with a hearty "Wah!", none of them taking offense.
"Ooh! Weren't you the one who said those orc scum weren't even worth a single meal?!"
"No way you're tired from just catching a few orcs, right?!"
Some soldiers even jeered playfully.
"You lot! Do you think I'm a joke?!"
When the 1st Prince finally straightened up and shouted in earnest, Maximilian thought the soldiers were in for a scolding.
"What do you take me for!"
He did get angry.
"Even if ten times that orc rabble came charging in, I'd handle them with ease!"
But the reason for his outburst was utterly unexpected.
To Maximilian, it was baffling, even disconcerting.
"Then you can take on five legions by yourself, Your Highness, and we'll just relax on the walls shooting arrows!"
The soldiers snickered.
"Hm."
Maximilian felt a strange mix of emotions.
A royal exchanging trivial banter with lowly soldiers—it was unimaginable.
Yet it didn't look bad at all.
They treated him without reserve, hurling jeers, but the soldiers' and knights' eyes brimmed with respect, their actions laced with genuine affection.
"You lot shooting arrows from inside the castle like you've got energy to spare? You're on cleanup duty today!"
The 1st Prince grinned as he spoke, and the soldiers unleashed another round of jeers.
"Hurry up and move!"
"We're going! Right away!"
But no one truly defied the order. The rangers and soldiers grabbed carts and headed out the gates.
The knights chatted a bit longer before scattering to their duties.
Watching the 1st Prince left alone, Maximilian reflected.
If the capital's nobles saw him mingling with the rank-and-file like that, they'd surely criticize him for unbecoming royal conduct.
He half agreed, half couldn't.
His brother's behavior was undeniably un-royal. But it didn't come off as vulgar, either.
"Your Highness."
Lost in thought about his brother, Maximilian heard the Iron Lions approach.
We're glad you're safe. To fight so valiantly in your first battle—truly impressive.
Standard platitudes. But as he faced them, Maximilian suddenly felt a sense of dissonance.
A peculiar sensation he'd never felt before. His sharp mind quickly identified it.
Pity.
The admiration and goodwill on their faces were no different from praising a child's trick.
Maximilian realized it naturally: the expressions of those who praised him in the capital had been the same.
Once aware, a flush of shame washed over him.
Maximilian, oh Maximilian. Were you so proud of showing off your childish feats?
At fifteen, being called impressive by adults was no flaw. But his brother, just a year older, was already acknowledged as a man in his own right.
The gap felt immense.
"Your Highness?"
Ehrim Kiringer's voice snapped him from his reverie. He rubbed his face dry to hide the heat rising in his cheeks and asked,
"Do you have more to say?"
They lingered after their business, so he addressed the Iron Lions.
"If you'll permit, we'd like to go down and pay our respects to His Highness the 1st Prince."
Their eyes flicked toward the lone figure standing below the walls. Maximilian nodded assent.
The Iron Lions rushed down en masse, surrounding the 1st Prince and making a fuss.
"What are you lot suddenly acting all chummy for?!"
He bellowed, but his face showed no real displeasure. The Iron Lions chuckled. They didn't look much different from Winter Castle's knights.
"They volunteered for this post, didn't they?"
A mission requiring them to strip their proud Iron Lion emblem, shed their plate armor, hide their names, and venture forth. Yet every one of them had eagerly volunteered for the harsh northern journey.
"Yes, Your Highness."
Maximilian thought he understood why they'd come all this way to the remote north.
"Your Highness."
Ehrim Kiringer spoke softly.
"Don't be impatient."
He turned. The vice-commander's smiling face greeted him.
"I'm just surprised."
He hadn't imagined witnessing such a scene before coming here.
The kingdom enjoyed peace, yet a massive war raged in the north. Orcs, dismissed as mere vermin, had built their own kingdom. And there, Leonberger blood had taken root, growing into a mighty tree.
Who in the capital—himself included—could have foreseen it?
All had deemed him hopeless, shunning his very existence as a blight. Yet here in the north, he was accepted like this.
A question arose.
Why had someone so capable worn the stigma of disgrace and played the wastrel all this time? It made no sense.
If he'd shown even a tenth of this, the capital wouldn't have scorned him so. Perhaps even His Majesty wouldn't despise his eldest son now.
He couldn't fathom the reason.
Watching would reveal the answer, eventually. Maximilian's gaze deepened.
War was great, battling orcs head-on was thrilling—everything was perfect.
Except for this wretched body of mine.
Mana had long been depleted, and my overworked muscles ached everywhere without exception.
I'd played tough in front of the soldiers, but truthfully, I was at my limit.
I wanted to collapse into bed right then. But there was still work to do.
I beckoned the mercenaries watching me from afar.
They approached as if they'd been waiting, bowing their heads upon reaching me.
"Let's talk somewhere quiet first."
"Our tent is fairly secluded."
Their leader stepped forward. I nodded and followed them.
It wasn't far to the mercenaries' tent.
"Please, come in."
The leader held the flap aside. Unlike its shabby exterior—likely once a command post—the spacious interior was well-equipped.
"You two, make sure no one approaches."
They were already securing the perimeter without instruction—sharp as expected of mercenaries.
"It's an honor to meet you like this, Your Highness. I'm Antoine, leader of this humble mercenary band."
I cut straight to it.
"Are you contracted with the royal family?"
"We've signed a long-term deal, for now."
He explained they'd started with a year, renewable if the war dragged on, eyeing me intently.
"Any plans after?"
"What plans does a mercenary who might die tomorrow have? If we survive by luck, we find the next employer."
I made the fox-faced Antoine an offer.
"Contract with me."
"We're already contracted to the Leonberger royals—isn't that the same as with you, Your Highness?"
Not a fool who wouldn't grasp my meaning, yet sly as ever.
"Not the royals—with me, personally."
"Our band may be riffraff, but we're not cheap."
Handpicked by the royals for northern support—who knew their price tag?
As expected.
Of course, I had no money. There was some stipend for a prince's dignity, but not enough for a full mercenary company.
"Price, huh..."
But that didn't matter.
"That crude mana you've scraped together."
Payment didn't have to be coin.
"I'll refine it properly for you."
Sometimes the intangible outweighed the material.
"So you'll never be scorned again for low-grade methods."
Like right now.
A quick glance showed Antoine's mana crudely piled via mid-tier forging. The band's elites were probably similar.
And such shoddy energy could never reach higher realms.
Sword Expert at best—a sandcastle built on impure mana.
Even built the same way, results differed vastly.
Our realms might match, but the caliber was heaven and earth apart.
I recalled the achievements I'd stacked in my heart. The poem weaving those feats. And I drew it forth.
Not the poem's power, but its stature.
The soul that had incinerated countless orcs, reaching the cusp of transcendence.
I showed the fox-like leader a taste of my payment.
Rattle, rattle.
The tent's furnishings shook wildly. The cheap teacup trembled violently; the banderole fluttered as if in a gale, despite the still air.
I reined it in. The rattling items stilled as if by magic, the banner sagging limp.
"Still not enough?"
I eyed Antoine. The leader's face was stone-stiff, eyes darting frantically.
I waited calmly.
Any who'd forged mana in their heart would bite. Any mocked swordsman would.
Parading myself more would cheapen the offer.
"If words alone could do it, I'd be a Sword Master by now."
Antoine finally spoke.
Rejection?
I stood without regret. If not them, someone else. Antoine grabbed me.
"But it all depends on who's speaking."
The sly leader added with a grin.
"And to me, Your Highness, that's exactly what it sounded like."
He smiled obsequiously, but his eyes burned earnest—the unique glint of one who'd cultivated heart-mana, unlike a knight of rings.
"Grant me a title."
Antoine demanded of a mere prince—an outrageous ask, yet honeyed words evoking a bright future.
I laughed.
Amusing fellow. Unlike the steadfast knights, he seemed useful.
"Contract until when?"
His question got my instant reply.
"Until I become king."
Antoine and I sealed a verbal pact.
He was still probing me, and I planned to observe if they were truly worth it.
But this fox of a leader would prove quite useful—that much was certain.
"Do you know how to use heart-mana?"
I tested if they grasped true Mana Heart usage.
Instead of words, Antoine drew his sword and dagger from his waist in unison.
Squelch.
Mana stirred. He grounded himself heavily and intoned lowly,
"Blade that cuts the sword!"
His sword blade gleamed. Antoine pressed the shining sword against the dagger—it sank a third deep.
"This is my sword song."
"Sword song?"
"We call it the sword's song—what the blade sings."
I was dumbfounded.
"Even in the trade, it's considered decent."
As Antoine puffed up proudly, I covered my face with my hand.
Good lord. "Blade that cuts the sword."
Me, who knew more poems than anyone, couldn't fathom it—not poetry, not song, just strung words, and this was a top mercenary's "poem."
It was maddening.