The Shame of Shatren (7)

Rusmayer Territory.

This place had been isolated not simply because the nobles suppressed their actions and obstructed their revival — it was also because enemies came steadily, time and time again.

“Grrrr...!”

At first glance it looked like a dog or a wolf, some four-legged beast — but its hide was not a coat of fur that a sword could easily split. Hard slabs of stone sheathed its skin instead.

“Demonic beasts have appeared!”

“Children, women who cannot fight, and the elderly — evacuate at once!”

These were not animals.

They were Demonic Beasts.

Back when I'd merely been playing the game, they were just "monsters" I barely spared a thought for. But they were the Empire's other great enemy — and the true, standing nemesis of this territory.

So that's why Rusmayer got torn apart by the beasts every single time.

No matter how fine a wooden weapon they carved, its damage would be heavily reduced against those monsters. Worse still was the fact that they had no proper armor to speak of. Neither beast had particularly high attack stats, so with even a modest set of armor, the villagers could have held out for a while.

No weapons. No armor. No means to make either, and no way to contact the surrounding territories. Rejected and isolated by the nobility, the only option left to them was a single, obvious one: buying time and throwing themselves on someone else's mercy — the same passive, predictable recourse as always.

But this time was different.

Just as Camilla had said, they had risen on their own. Even if it meant an egg hurling itself against a rock.

I'll need to watch for a bit.

There was no reason for me to hold back. I had chosen Rusmayer as my stepping stone to the Eastern Noble Conference, and if I meant to show how a territory could be led to revival, then minimizing the damage from these beasts was exactly right. The Achievement Rate for Rusmayer rose according to how well the village was protected, after all.

And yet that was a one-sided way of thinking — a comfortable delusion that only worked inside a game, and I had to keep that firmly in mind.

“Uwaaaaah!!!”

“Keruk!!”

“Hey, monkey! Keep your eyes on me!”

“Kwooooh!”

The moment the beasts appeared, two young men charged out. The two strapping fellows — quite possibly the greatest fighting force this territory had — hurled themselves fearlessly at the monsters, gripping nothing but crude, worthless wooden spears.

“I've got that one tied down! Deal with the others in the meantime!”

“Right — let's go!!”

He'd tied it up, so naturally he told the others to handle different beasts first.

It was, without question, inefficient. Every time one of these villagers got hurt or exhausted, the Achievement Rate dropped. A minor wound could be brushed past without much trouble, but a serious one would cause a steep decline — and if anyone died, the rate would plummet so far that the episode would fail outright. In a word: a bad ending.

Which meant that, running this episode, Karsein inevitably ended up taking on those beasts himself. This village's fighting force simply couldn't handle them. No matter how high their morale ran right now, there were limits. And so Karsein — having banked plenty of stat points by now — was the one scripted to clear the monsters out. To keep the Achievement Rate from bleeding away, he had to intervene now.

But.

Was that really the correct answer?

No. I can say it flatly — that is absolutely not the answer.

Look at this episode coldly, and it amounts to Rusmayer repelling the beasts entirely on the strength of Karsein alone, doesn't it? And that, in itself, carries a massive contradiction.

Rusmayer gets attacked by beasts on a regular basis. Suppose Karsein holds them off this time. Then what about the next attack? And the one after that? If no one keeps standing guard in perpetuity, what becomes of this village and its territory in the end?

That was the blind spot. No matter how high the Achievement Rate climbed this time, the moment Karsein was gone, the territory would once again have to lean on someone else. On the Bagrands' backs, or on whatever knights could be summoned later — or, in the worst case, on a begging hand stretched out to those very nobles. Either way, Rusmayer never truly changed.

So I will not intervene. Even if the rate falls and falls again, I must not rush to lend them a hand. This is no longer a game. For me, it's reality.

Which means I need to devise another way.

Their dependence on me had to be slashed down to a fraction of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠what it was. I had to find the method.

My eyes swept over the villagers battling the beasts. The will was already there — I could see it in the way they bared their teeth and threw themselves at the monsters. They had more than enough resolve to change themselves.

So then.

What needs to change is the method.

Not an egg cracking itself against a rock, like now — the rock had to be shattered with something efficient, something revolutionary. And precisely because this was not a game, my side would have leeway to work with, too.

“Camilla.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“How long can a territory hold out after a beast attack like this?”

Camilla raised a hand to her lips, thinking.

“The beasts of Waglu Mountain are terribly sturdy, and with no proper weapons... around this point, they would normally send word to other territories that beasts had appeared and request aid. They can hold out for about an hour, you see.”

“A whole hour?”

I was genuinely surprised. Those people, with nothing at all — holding out a full hour?

“It's, ah, difficult to explain in detail... but the reason Rusmayer has suffered so little damage despite being attacked so many times comes down to their diet. Living on crops that grow in such harsh ground, they've become able to hold their own against beasts up to a certain point.”

“I see. So that's how it is.”

When I first heard about them feeding the children milk to supplement their nutrition, I'd wondered what such an odd bit of lore was doing in the setting. But having actually eaten the crops grown here, I could tell it wasn't mere flavor text at all.

Right. The people of this territory might look destitute, but they were legitimately strong.

If you filed this away as a game — as just another bit of in-game lore — you'd shrug and move on: ah, a special food item that grants buffs. But take it as reality instead?

Bitter medicine is good for the body, as they say — and that held true here as well.

Rusmayer whole wheat and Rusmayer whole grain rice, crops that grew nowhere but here. Truly, they were crops far too harsh for young children to eat. The harvest alone was brutally difficult, and even after toiling through the whole arduous process to get it down, the texture remained coarse and gravelly — of course it would be hard on the stomach. That was precisely why the milk mattered.

And yet the adults had eaten this stuff their whole lives and grown used to it. Seeing that, it hardly seemed strange that the crop would keep granting additional stat bonuses the further their bodies adapted to it.

Back to the matter at hand. One hour? Then that's plenty. Permanent strength gains built into their bodies? An even better condition — it meant they could swing something heavier. Something stronger.

“Well, well. Looks like there won't even be any need for me to step in myself.”

“I beg your pardon? What do you mean—”

“Armor I can't speak for, but weapons? Those I can make as many of as you like.”

“You... can make weapons, my lord?”

“I can. Guide me to the village hall — or a warehouse, anywhere at all. A place piled with odds and ends would be even better.”

They had spent all this time trembling in fear, but that was a problem that teaching could solve. Those beasts ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠were weak enough that even Karsein's stats — a mere noble lord's — were enough to put them down.

“Haaahm... why do I have to sit through this tedious nonsense?”

Hemnon Modric, son of Count Modric, rose from his seat with a yawn.

The Eastern Noble Conference would convene before long. As the eldest son of the Modric countly house, it was his duty as a noble to attend. But he did nothing but grumble — why on earth should he have to sit through such a bone-dry meeting?

“What's so important about the damn Eastern Noble Conference anyway? What, commoners have to exist for nobles to live? The country survives because we spare the lowborn?”

Hemnon clicked his tongue with a scoffing tsk, tsk.

“The blood in our veins is different from theirs from the very first drop. Anyone who couldn't carry on that noble lineage is flawed to begin with — and we're supposed to help such people? It makes no sense.”

As if the very idea disgusted him, he slapped his book shut.

“They should be thanking their stars to serve the likes of us! Why should we have to... ugh! Tsk!”

To Hemnon's way of thinking, commoners were nothing more than tools for crafting a noble's comfortable life — and the filthy, stinking lowborn were nothing more than society's refuse. That was his creed. So whenever this season came around, he made a habit of grumbling at the Imperial Family, which did nothing year after year but pile up useless institutions and whittle away at noble prestige.

“Hm... well, all the same, today should be a rather enjoyable day.”

The corners of Hemnon's mouth twisted into a lewd smirk.

“Young Master Hemnon. The carriage is ready.”

“Oh. Right.”

Told that everything was prepared, he glanced at the mirror once, flicked his cravat with a fingertip, confirmed all was in order, and stepped outside.

The Modric family carriage, with Hemnon aboard, was headed for a single territory.

A territory no one would help. A territory the nobles wouldn't even lift a finger for. A territory destined to depend on the Modric countly house alone, forever and ever — Rusmayer.

He had known for a long time that demonic beasts appeared in Rusmayer at regular intervals. That was exactly why he had left them to it. Helping them would yield nothing — it wasn't even his own land — and if anything went wrong there, the countly house would simply eat the loss.

He'd been racking his brain over how to drive those stubbornly alive Rusmayer folk out anyway, so the beast attack had actually been welcome news.

But as time passed, they did not collapse. They clung on, stubborn as ever. Looking perpetually on the verge of falling, they kept repelling the beasts' raids all the same, and even after he'd conspired with other houses to shut them off completely, they still scraped by somehow — a sight that galled him to no end.

Yet all the while they kept begging the countly house for aid, and watching them do it, Hemnon had at last found the way to break them.

“Heh heh. Shall we collect our reward today as well?”

Even knowing full well that the beasts had appeared, Hemnon had brought only a handful of knights along. Because he knew. He knew perfectly well that the people of Rusmayer had already sapped the beasts' strength for them.

So a small escort was no problem at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠all. And what he stood to gain from this was enormous.

The evidence that the beasts had been slain — the sword scars — would be left by the knights who swung the blades. By the house of Count Modric, in other words. That meant there was no chance of anyone walking off with the beasts' carcasses as valuable spoils. Not that those fools, who did nothing but whack at them with wooden sticks, would even realize the beasts had been drained in the first place.

Because he had "helped," he held the right to strip the village of whatever he pleased, and there was no one to stop him. Those idiotic commoners certainly wouldn't know any better.

And should anyone, against all odds, take issue with it — this land belonged to no jurisdiction at all.

Thus Hemnon profited doubly, triply, every single time.

“Say. Isn't Rusmayer's treasury just about empty by now?”

“It will be a close thing this time, Young Master, but once we collect, there will be nothing left for certain.”

“Oho. Is that so?”

He stuck out his tongue and smacked his lips.

“Then this time, let's squeeze a little harder. We'll be lining your pockets handsomely, so put your backs into it. Understood?”

“Yes, Young Master Hemnon!”

If they had no money to pay, then surely they'd have to offer something else. There was nothing in that village capable of generating wealth, nothing of any worth to trade in its place. And if there was no money, what they would pay was obvious.

Heh heh. And I've heard there's a fresh young woman ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠there who's just about come of age. This time, I'll collect rough.

She would have no strength to refuse. A house like Count Modric's had nothing to be ashamed of before anyone, so she'd fall in line without a fuss.

Cherishing that expectation, Hemnon set foot in Rusmayer Territory.

And yet — something about the atmosphere was strange.

It was always the same: arriving at the entrance at this exact hour, he'd be greeted by the sight of women who'd failed to hold back the beasts, clasping their hands and begging for help. But today it was far too quiet.

Scanning his surroundings for a moment, Hemnon rode deep into the village. And before long, his eyes went wide.

“Waaah!!!”

Stepping over the sprawled carcasses of demonic beasts, the people of Rusmayer were cheering at the top of their lungs.

What in the world is—!

The idiotic peasants of Rusmayer had killed the beasts themselves?

The beasts of Waglu Mountain were sheathed in hard stone from head to tail — without proper equipment, they simply could not be put down. Yet unlike every raid before, there was no sign of the creatures stirring or struggling back to their feet. They were unmistakably, thoroughly dead.

To anyone who looked, it proclaimed the same thing: that these people had killed them.

There's no way they'd have weapons like that. No — wait. That is... what the hell is that?

The flimsy wooden spears they always used were gone. In their place, his eyes landed on cudgels studded thick with useless scrap iron and jagged shards.

Those new weapons had left the beasts covered head to toe in wounds and blood. With that, even if he carved sword marks into the carcasses, he couldn't insist his knights had made the kills.

Damn it all! Then there's nothing to take at all!

The beasts' carcasses. The extermination fee. Even the young woman he could have taken as payment in place of the money they lacked. There was nothing. Nothing to gain at all.

Who is it? Who the hell did this? Who did this to my livestock—!

Someone had intervened. That much was certain. The idiotic peasants of Rusmayer could never have come up with this on their own.

He had to find that person first. Hemnon ground his teeth and bellowed.

“You wretches! I've come all this way and not one of you has the manners to greet me?!”

The villagers turned their heads toward Hemnon. Their eyes held no warmth whatsoever. If anything, they looked like they had plenty they wanted to say to him.

But none of it registered in Hemnon's sight. Because he'd found what he was looking for — a figure standing among them that he had never once seen before.

“You there, in the black hood! Who are you, to come tramping into this territory uninvited?!”

All he had to do was drive that one out. An excuse? He could fabricate as many of those as he liked. With the power of the Modric countly house behind him, anything was possible.

“Get out! Do you even know where you're standing, you—!”

Shring—!

A blade that had cleaved through something whistled past Hemnon.

What had been cut was Hemnon's hair.

“Wh-wh-what?!”

“Young Master Hemnon!”

“You insolent wretch! You dared draw a blade at Young Master Hemnon just now?!”

“How dare you! How DARE you do this to me!!”

Like a toad swollen with venom, Hemnon shrieked himself hoarse.

“Show me the face behind that hood this instant and give me your name! I'll need a good look at that ugly mug of yours before I decide what punishment you deserve!”

At that, the man in the hood finally lowered it and showed his face.

“I don't think an introduction is really necessary, do you? Hemnon Modric.”

“Y-you're...!”

Others might fail to recognize him — he had changed far too much. But Hemnon could never, would never forget.

“Karsein... Bagrand...!”

The memory of being beaten within an inch of his senses at Arina Bagrand's coming-of-age ceremony — no mere change of appearance could ever wash that away.