Preparations for the Outing
Bayfort Manor office. Butler Hermann tore his gaze from the stack of documents before him and lifted his head.
"May I head to the count's castle for about a month?"
Standing before the desk was Gallein Bayfort, the third son of the Bayfort family, beaming with an innocent smile. Hermann lost his words for a moment, staring blankly at the young master. Just a few years ago, the boy had been an ordinary child of his age with a small frame. Now, he was gone. Broadening shoulders and solid muscles that grew visibly day by day exuded an intimidating presence that surpassed most adults. His loose tunic strained taut as if ready to burst, and his eye level now looked down on Hermann from a considerable height. He was already as tall as an average grown man.
He really grows at a frightening rate. Hermann clicked his tongue inwardly. Even for a knight family, such development during puberty was rare. It wasn't just height; the aura emanating from his entire body was different—the distinctive pressure of a knight's aura, like that felt from the family head and the eldest young master.
"Young master, what brings this up so suddenly?" Hermann asked, struggling to maintain his composure.
Gallein launched into his request as if he'd been waiting. "I've made plenty of money now, so I want to buy gear and a warhorse that fit my body. And since we're short on hands, I'd like to pick up a few slaves too."
Hermann furrowed his brow. Here we go again. This third young master always tossed out demands that defied common sense as if they were nothing. It wasn't just a casual trip to sightsee the count's castle. He was pushing a detailed plan: commissioning custom gear from the armory workshops there and even joining the periodic slave auctions.
"Young master, why not put off getting gear for a few more years? You haven't even had your coming-of-age ceremony yet. Even if you get fitted now, you'll outgrow it soon. That would be a waste."
Hermann advised as gently as he could. A knight's gear, especially custom-made armor, cost hundreds of silver coins without batting an eye. Pouring that much into equipment before growth spurts ended was no different from scattering money on the ground.
But Gallein didn't back down. "That's why I'm planning to order just a weapon and chainmail for now. Plate armor can wait. And for a warhorse, don't I need to start breaking it in right away to get used to it?"
It wasn't wrong. But the real reason Hermann wanted to sigh had nothing to do with that. The problem was there was no justification to stop this headstrong young master. The silver coins he planned to spend weren't from the family vault. They were entirely Gallein's own earnings, achieved single-handedly without anyone's help.
Who would've thought the pottery business would grow this big. What had started as giving the boy an abandoned house and scraps for mere child's play had become the family's golden goose, propping up their finances. From the start, the pottery had decent quality, and it only improved over time. Gallein's pieces were fully supplied to the merchant guild designated by the count, fetching unimaginable sums. Over the past few years, a significant portion of the debts from Lord Balorn's aggressive village pioneering had been covered by taxes paid from Gallein's earnings. Gallein hadn't even haggled—he'd paid up without complaint and even donated part of his profits to help clear the family debts.
So how could Hermann possibly block him now from spending his own money on a few purchases? He pressed his temples as if nursing a headache.
"...Understood. But, young master." Hermann paused, choosing his words carefully as he met Gallein's eyes. If he couldn't stop it, he needed to install every safety measure possible. And this was a good chance to handle some long-delayed family diplomacy too. "You're free to go, but you're currently the captain of the territory guard."
"Ah, right."
"You need to resolve the village's security issues thoroughly before leaving."
Gallein tilted his head. "Hmm, you're right. So, what should I do?"
"The family head has a method he often uses." Hermann pulled a map from his desk drawer and spread it out—a detailed strategic map of the terrain around the village. "Right before departure, go deeper into the forest than usual... all the way here, and conduct a longer subjugation. Sweep the woods for about seven days to eliminate threats. That should keep things trouble-free for the month you're gone."
It was a show of force and a thorough cleanup. Clearing out nearby beasts and monsters to keep them away from the village for a while.
Gallein peered at the map and nodded. "Got it. I'll do that."
"Also, the armory you want to visit requires the count's permission to even meet the artisans." Hermann picked up a pen and began writing on parchment. "It's essentially the count's exclusive workshop. They don't take general commissions. You'll need a formal audience with the count for approval."
"An audience...? That sounds like a big deal."
"There are procedures for a reason. I'll write to the family head requesting he draft a formal audience petition."
Hermann nailed it down firmly. "You'll have to meet the count in person and secure permission for the armory. If the family head refuses the petition or the count denies it..." He trailed off, shrugging. "Then there's no helping it. You'll have to find another way."
Whether the curt family head would bother writing a petition to the count just for his third son's shopping spree was anyone's guess.
"The subjugation will take time anyway, so it should line up with the messenger round trip."
"Understood! Then I'll go prepare right away."
Gallein gave a light bow and left the office without looking back. The door shut with a thud, breaking the silence.
Hermann stared at the closed door for a moment, then picked up his pen again. He had to draft the letter to the family head. The contents were obvious: 'The third young master requests use of the count's castle armory. Permission is required.' He gave a wry smile and rang the bell to summon a servant.
"Prepare a messenger. This is for the frontier."
*
The forest air was cold and damp. The scent of earth and blood filling my lungs deeply stirred a strange tension.
I shook the thick blood from my sword and caught my breath. "Hoo."
At my feet lay three or four goblins, throats pierced or limbs severed, sprawled in the dirt. The goal of this subjugation had shifted to wiping out a goblin village deeper in the woods.
Four days into the seven-day extended patrol with the patrolmen, as Hermann suggested. The first two days were the usual—hunting wolves, boars, bears. But as we strayed from routine routes toward the spot he marked, goblins started appearing in droves.
Clearing them as we advanced revealed why they kept respawning no matter how many we killed. At the mountain foothills, in a valley, sat a goblin village.
"Block the entrance. Don't let a single one escape."
At my command, the patrolmen moved with crisp efficiency. Using the wagons we'd brought and shields upfront, they sealed the narrow valley pass and formed a spear wall.
Confirming their retreat cut off, I gripped my sword tighter and strode into the village heart.
"Kieeeek!"
A lookout atop a watchtower shrieked piercingly, pounding a leather drum wildly. Huts erupted in chaos as dozens of goblins poured out, clutching rusty knives, clubs, crude wooden spears. Their eyes mixed murderous intent with bewilderment.
Relying on numbers to charge was pathetic. I smirked bitterly and kicked off the ground.
Boom!
My senses expanded, their movements slowed, and the earth cracked as dust exploded upward. Distance closed in an instant. The lead goblin's eyes bulged. Before it could squeak, my sword sliced the air.
Schwick.
The familiar severing feel came with its head slowly arcing into the sky. That was the start.
I wove through them like a dancer. Each swing scattered limbs and torsos. Their crude leather scraps were paper against precise strikes.
It wasn't mere strength. Aura-enhanced body, slowed perception, expanded cognition—they couldn't graze me. Zero wasted motion, targeting vitals only; the goblins crumbled helplessly.
"Queeek—!"
Realizing the overwhelming power gap, they screamed and backpedaled. Half the horde lay dead; the rest lost heart, scattering every which way.
Those scrambling up steep slopes were out of reach, but most fled toward the valley mouth—straight into our waiting hunters.
"Thrust!"
Spear tips impaled goblin flesh to the rhythm of the soldiers' shouts. Trapped by the shield wall, they were nothing more than vermin in a cage. A mass charge might’ve breached the line, but their panic left them skewered from both sides—spears ahead, my blade behind—ending in a wretched slaughter.
Soon, the valley fell silent, no more screams. Less battle, more one-sided cleanup.
I shook blood from my sword and surveyed. Gore-soaked goblin corpses littered the ground indiscriminately. Roughly a hundred, by my count.
"Captain, no injuries!" one soldier reported, face flushed with excitement. He eyed a bonus.
I nodded. "Skin them, then burn the rest."
Goblin hides fetched less than beast pelts but didn't rot quickly and came in bulk. We could haul them back intact. Not enough for every corpse, but plenty for good profit.
Soldiers drew daggers with practiced hands. Soon, rinsed hides dried on nearby rocks by the stream.
We axed the empty huts to rubble, piled stripped bodies and debris atop, and lit it with magic. Tiny flames roared into an inferno devouring the heap.
Whoosh.
Acrid smoke blotted the sky, burning away the stench. Only then, with the goblin village reduced to ashes, did we resume patrol.
After the full seven days, on the way back, our wagons brimmed with hides. Longer than usual, but the massive spoils had every soldier grinning.
This purge should ensure peace for a solid month.