This Ain't No Romance Fantasy
This wasn't romance fantasy. How the hell was this supposed to look like a noble's life? I'd been totally duped by those flashy webtoon panels. Since I'd already transmigrated, I figured this life would let me live like a trust fund kid—lounging around, fat and happy.
The "romance fantasies" I knew were all about being showered in affection, surrounded by fluffy, cuddly vibes. As long as I steered clear of the protagonist, I could coast through life outside the main plot in peaceful bliss. Dodge the protagonist's stormy fate, and I'd be buried in a cozy bed all day—hell, all month—without a care in the world. That's what I thought I'd get.
But reality? Before I even crossed paths with the protagonist, there was no comfy bed—just a creaky barracks cot. No sweet floral scents—just the stench of goblin blood thick in the air.
Look at this. Reality was a shithole.
My dreams of a luxurious bedroom start? Shattered to pieces. What stretched before me was a dense forest, swarming with goblins drooling as they encircled me and the soldiers. Grotesque green faces, twisted and ugly. I'd been thrown right into the heart of the slaughter, tasked with purging these eerie monsters.
The biting northern wind pierced deep into my lungs. That chill burrowing into my skin felt like a brutal reminder: I was alive in this unforgiving world.
The smell of blood rode the wind. I turned my head and locked eyes with a goblin that had crept too close. In an instant, it charged at me, its repulsive face contorted, eyes mad with animal frenzy.
Staring down the rushing goblin, I gripped my sword—maybe forged with care by the family blacksmith, familiar yet alien—and swung with all my might. With these tiny kid hands, could I even fell such beasts? Fair question.
But this world didn't play by common sense. Magic and aura were real. Unknown power surged through my grip, turning a frail child's arm into a steel arc cleaving the world.
I lacked the experience and knowledge to manifest true aura yet. But as blood of the Valenvalt line—one of the pillars upholding this world—terrifying talent coursed through me. Despite my young age, I wrapped my hand in mana, mimicking aura's form. A fake, sure, but it radiated the overwhelming presence of a northern overlord.
From above to below. Just the basics of swordsmanship—a simple vertical slash. But infused with mana, my blade brooked no resistance.
In one stroke slicing through empty air, the charging goblin split in two without a scream, tumbling to the ground. Impossible by the laws of my old world. A kid barely able to hold a sword, felling a monster in one cut? A miracle, mocking physics with transcendent mana.
I flicked the blade clean, splattering goblin blood and chunks onto the dirt. Black ichor sprayed across the northern snowfield, freezing in the cold air.
No thrill from taking a life, no guilt. Just the heavy heft of the sword in my hand proving this shithole reality.
Feeling that weight, I glanced at my blade. Tailored to my small frame, it felt good in hand—but that was it. My unskilled swings killed the goblin, but blood and gore splattered my clothes, ruining them.
"Hoo..."
After several fights, everything was already filthy, but even the last clean spots were now goblin-stained. Sighing at the sight, I wondered: Why'd I transmigrate for this? For glory and riches? Into a "romance fantasy" I never asked for. I must've been nuts.
Blindsided by pretty art and glamorous villainesses tormenting the heroine. Paying for eye candy with a blood-soaked battlefield.
Staring at the splattered blood around me, I bitterly regretted my past tastes. Looking up, the sky mocked me—cruelly beautiful, pure blue without smog or dust. Stark contrast to the gore-stinking sewer below.
"Young master! This is a battlefield! Focus!"
Mistaking my distraction, an old soldier who'd just slain a goblin scolded me from the side.
"I know. I get it..."
I don't slack when death's breathing down my neck. Battlefields demand constant vigilance, but seeing soldiers handle goblins effortlessly eased my tension a bit. Perfect for "training" a kid like me—no knights needed, just soldiers. We even had a squire.
"Does 'I know' cut it?"
"I'm just trusting our soldiers, that's all."
"Don't try sweet-talking to fool me again. I'm not falling for it every time."
"Then why's your mouth twitching up?"
"Ahem. Anyway, focus."
His gruff words clashed with girlish mannerisms. The gap sparked mischief—like teasing a shy girl—but knowing his fierce loyalty to me, I swallowed the joke and nodded quietly, accepting his care.
Maybe because I sensed his worry. Even I softened around kindly old Hans.
"Grip your sword right."
Sun setting—return time nearing—but he demanded focus to the end. I readjusted my grip as ordered.
Sword fixed, but my heart? Not so much.
"Aaah~ Wanna head back already."
I muttered softly, hiding my true feelings from Hans. This damn life was nearly over. Survive today, home tomorrow. One hell of a week.
For a modern guy, barracks life was hell. Sword forward, I prayed for time to fly.
What felt like crawling through mud all day—goblin hunting—was finally done. Their foul blood-stink and the forest's damp clung stubbornly to my skin.
Back at camp, goblin hunts were too routine for victory cheers—just tedious chores. Dull sunset filtering through worn canvas felt leaden, exhaustion heavy.
I started to plop on the creaky cot, then remembered the blood and sat on the floor instead. This wasn't the noble life I dreamed of. What a mess.
No noble dignity here. Sitting, soldiers' grumbles leaked through the thin tent. No triumph—just petty complaints as backdrop while I stripped gear.
Guilt could've weighed on me—they suffered for me. But rationally? Paid work. Goblin-crawling wages already paid. Employer-employee: clean and simple. No need for sentiment or shared fatigue.
Time to get used to it. Modern sensibilities didn't survive here.
"Those mud-eaters dare... Should I kill them, young master?"
See? Modern heart can't grasp it. The cold voice belonged to my assigned guard squire, Kalia Crisia.
Met just before this expedition; I knew little of her. But one thing crystal clear in our short time: fanatical loyalty to House Valenvalt—maybe deranged.
A squire's weight here defies imagination. With my say-so, she could slaughter these soldiers in seconds—overwhelming force.
Her red eyes burned with arrogant confidence from that power. Meeting that piercing gaze, I sighed inwardly. Stunning beauty, but her killing intent chilled like a battlefield demon.
"Even so, isn't that too extreme? They're just exhausted from goblin hunting."
Kalia replied flatly to my objection.
"You're too merciful, young master."
"I don't really see myself that way..."
I trailed off, averting eyes. Grateful for loyalty, but her sharpness sometimes scared even me. As Valenvalt blood, her blade wouldn't turn on me—but body reacted first to the chill.
Untested by true power myself, her aura drilled home what a "real powerhouse" felt like.
Time around her froze—still, sharp. Not mere arrogance, but absolute presence of one who decides life and death.
Yet a week bunking nearby dulled the initial suffocation. Her edge still razor-keen, but now everyday scenery.
Even a demon knight: daily face-time, shared breaths humanized her. Instinctual fear faded; her as a person emerged.