The Wicked Lord of Seorigol (4)

A clamor of noise. Work chants hauling timber. The scrape and thud of shovels biting into earth.

Was this a fief?

Or a construction site?

I looked down over the racket-filled worksite and smiled with deep satisfaction.

"Heh heh heh…"

Anya, standing beside me, gave a full-body shudder.

Which was her way of saying she was staring up at me like I was some kind of monster.

"Ugh… why's your laugh so creepy, nyang."

"Sorry."

Couldn't help myself.

But look at that dust-choked landscape!

How was anyone supposed to keep a straight face?

Instead of despair and listlessness, the air of Seorigol was thick with energy and the will to survive.

A sight I couldn't have imagined only a few days ago.

Watching the refugees bustle about, I felt a profound sense of contentment.

Success.

That speech I'd half-doubted would work had landed perfectly.

Honestly, I'd been confident.

I'm a washed-up veteran of Teore, after all.

I knew exactly what cut deepest into the people living in this place.

Survival.

Words that struck at the instinct to live and the hunger for safety had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠set fire to hearts driven to the edge of a cliff.

Now they had accepted that they had to build their own shelter and find their own food with their own two hands.

No — they were actively fighting to seize those things.

Offering the future value of safety in place of immediate comfort had been the key.

Without those dirt-cheap tools I picked up, we couldn't even have started.

Axes, shovels, saws — the lot of them.

All bought for next to nothing at the Academy.

Everyone else had been so fixated on recruiting talent that I'd scooped them up without a scrap of competition.

— "You're just going to throw these out anyway, aren't you? You know the western territories got wiped off the map. The whole Academy's crammed into the main hall right now. That's how bad it is. Forget the regulations — just sell them to me cheap. Pretend you're scrapping them."

Discard-bound junk gathering dust in a corner of the Academy warehouse.

Under the pretext of "disaster preparedness," a little bribery and some creative paperwork had let me walk off with them for practically free.

If I'd had to buy them at full price, Seorigol's finances wouldn't have stood a chance.

— "Hey, Luni! Quit goofing off and swing that hammer proper!"

— "Why's this damn hammer trying to fall apart on me!"

…The refugees were having a rough time of it, sure.

Sorry. That was the limit of what our fief could provide.

I watched for a while as people packed down house sites, raised posts, and threw up temporary walls, then pulled a battered notebook and quill from inside my coat.

This notebook — which recorded the state of the fief through the gaze of an Aberration, as if it were a living thing — had become my most important source of intelligence and my primary management tool.

The moment I gripped the quill, that familiar resistance pushed back.

The tip writhed of its own accord, trying to vomit out grotesque symbols and words that meant nothing.

Some will that was not human was clearly lodged in this pen.

Not a chance.

I locked my arm muscles and crushed the quill's thrashing into stillness.

I was used to this by now.

Like breaking a wild horse with a loose rein, I kept the pen from running wild and guided it into writing the information I actually wanted on the page.

For anything unimportant, I let the pen take the lead. For what I truly needed, I forced it down by sheer will.

The quill still radiated an unpleasant aura and fought me every inch of the way, but I managed to get most of the data down — including the fief's rank.

A smile spread across my lips.

I'd expected it, but seeing it confirmed still hit differently.

The explosive jump in population had done this.

A fief that had barely scraped fifteen souls had swollen to sixty-five overnight — of course the rank would climb.

"Fief rank up… so we're a two-star territory now."

A lot changed when a fief's rank rose.

A whole range of buildings unlocked for construction.

Seorigol's name would start circulating among neighboring territories, the way people treated its residents would shift, and my own name would begin to spread.

The name part's a little annoying.

It was only two stars, though. Nothing worth losing sleep over.

Of course, there was no guarantee the game systems applied one-to-one here.

Still, I looked quietly down at the notebook.

Calling it simple visualization didn't quite cover it. There was clearly something more going on.

The possibilities the system was laying out were starkly different from before. The new facility suggestions were concrete, and it was even hinting at aggressive expansion — absorbing neighboring fiefs — something I couldn't have imagined until now.

So it finally begins.

A two-star fief.

The rank where you left the "tutorial" state of one-star behind ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and started pursuing real territorial growth in earnest.

Seorigol was no longer just some backwater village on the fringe. Small and fragile still, yes — but a seed packed with infinite potential. Water it and tend it right, and it could grow into a towering tree. Neglect it, and it would simply rot where it lay.

Fief Potential still reading ???… What the hell is that?

The unmeasurable tag hadn't gone anywhere, but the note about a "far stronger, denser aura than before" was new.

Did that mean some special power was sleeping under this worthless scrap of land — or in the land itself?

Maybe that was Seorigol's true value.

The scent of growth draws predators…

The warning stuck with me. Lionel? Or some other ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠unknown presence? One thing was certain: Seorigol was starting to draw eyes. Growth inevitably came paired with threat.

But I wasn't afraid. If anything, my pulse was racing. The work ahead was clear.

Snap.

I shut the notebook hard.

"Everyone! Your attention, please! Stop what you're doing for a moment and listen!"

A bigger fief. A better one.

I was going to raise Seorigol into the greatest territory there was.

His spine felt ready to snap.

Every muscle in his body was screaming, and the blisters on his palms had burst and crusted over with scabs of blood.

It had been barely a day since he'd taken Lord Lionel's orders, disguised himself as a refugee, and infiltrated this godforsaken Seorigol.

"Ah, I'm seriously gonna die."

A cracked voice tore out of Galan's throat.

"Who's dying over there?"

"Hey, Galan — move it already! You wanna die? Out there is death!"

These insane refugees had a ghost riding them that would kill them if they stopped working!

"Y-yes… yes, sir……"

He'd considered pushing back, but the vibe said he'd genuinely get beaten to death if he tried.

The refugees were working with the same wild-eyed frenzy as that lunatic lord of theirs.

Galan was no exception, and he was utterly spent.

He'd already been dragooned into raising the frames of several log cabins. He didn't have the strength left to lift a single finger.

There was no way he was winning a fight against these people.

Damn it… I was just going to take a quiet look at the situation and slip out. How the hell did I end up on a chain gang…!

The spy Galan ground his teeth in silence.

That bastard lord, Ian Darkest. His speech had wormed into people's hearts with the cunning of poison.

Even Galan himself had, for a moment — just a moment — entertained the empty hope that maybe I'd be safe here.

By the time he'd come to his senses, he was already out there with the other refugees, axe in hand, felling trees. Damn it, damn it, damn it!

"Demon bastard…"

He wiped the sweat with a dust-caked sleeve and glared hatred at Ian, who was rallying the refugees from a distance. But something was off. Ian wasn't just barking orders. He was shouldering logs himself, driving a shovel into the dirt himself. Sweating freely, leading from the front. It looked far too genuine to be an act.

…I'll give him this much — the man has talent. That grip on people… and that deranged gift for agitation on top of it.

The refugees falling for a performance like that were pathetic, but unease crawled over him all the same.

At this rate, Lord Lionel's plan — expelling Ian Darkest from the Academy — might hit a serious snag.

No. It wasn't simply a matter of expulsion anymore.

With or without Galan, Ian's expulsion would go through.

By now the board would already be preparing to convene a committee on Ian's dismissal. By tomorrow, Ian would be dragged back to the Academy.

The problem was—

This feels like a variable too big for expulsion to fix.

Galan's gaze wavered.

"Come on, just a little more! We've got to have somewhere to sleep tonight, don't we?"

At Ian's encouragement, refugees who looked ready to collapse found a second wind and started hauling timber again. Pain sat in their eyes — and something strangely like pride alongside it.

They're insane… all of them!

To Galan's eyes the scene twisted into something grotesque. This was not what a lord and his people were supposed to look like.

This was……. This was it!

A Demon King and his thralls.

Slaves who, even as they broke their backs, lit up at a single word of praise from their Demon King.

A devil who would one day turn this Seorigol into a demon fortress and grind every soul around him under his heel.

I have to report this. To Lord Lionel. Right now. Ian Darkest is more dangerous than anyone imagined. He's no mere bastard son.

Cold killing intent flashed through Galan's eyes. For Lord Lionel's sake — for the peace of the empire Lord Lionel would one day build — this dangerous sprout had to be cut down early.

He could not allow a creature like that to grow stronger.

Escape now and make the report.

Figure out Ian's weaknesses on the way out. Learn just enough to know how to kill him.

"Watch it, Gal—!"

"AAAAAAGH!"

A log caught him square in the head. Galan tumbled across the ground a few times and was excused from the rest of the day's labor.

Galan waited for night.

When the dark had deepened and the exhausted refugees and villagers let their watch grow slack, he began to move with care.

Darkness was his oldest friend. Holding his breath, tracking the shadows toward the edge of the fief, his footsteps were as cautious and silent as any trained spy's should be.

The slapdash temporary palisade was no trouble to clear.

The moment he finally put Seorigol's border fully behind him, a sigh of relief tore out of him on its own. Drawing the clean night air deep into his lungs felt like coming back to life. Now all he had to do was get back to Lord Lionel as fast as possible and report everyth—

…!

In that instant, the world stopped.

The night wind that had been tickling his ears, the distant chir of insects, even the frantic hammering of his own heart — all of it vanished into absolute silence.

His body locked as if turned to stone. Only his terror-blown eyes could still rake desperately across his surroundings.

And at the edge ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of his vision, an unreal color shimmered.

Beneath the moonlight, in a stillness without a breath of wind, cherry-blossom pink hair drifted softly on its own.

The face that turned toward him slowly was beautiful as a goddess of the night — but her eyes were colder than ice, and deeper than the dark.

Linea Judith.

Genius of the Blue Magic Tower. The witch who commanded time. What in the world was she doing in a backwater of backwaters like this…?

Galan felt the blood in his entire body run cold.

Panic seized him. Thought locked up.

He knew her reputation well enough.

That was the problem.

Why was a being like her here.

And why had she frozen time.

"You."

A voice like a shard of ice split the absolute quiet.

"A spy of the Darkest family."

Linea Judith's lips curved, just slightly, into a smile.

It was freezing.

How had she known?

And did it even matter to a genius mage of her caliber that he was a spy?

Why?

The only one who stood to lose was Ian, wasn't it?

Someone like her couldn't possibly have anything to do with Ian Darkest!

Galan turned it over and over, and no answer came.

"So your Lionel is already plotting Ian's death, is he?"

"Uh… uhh."

The moment he saw that unreal smile, Galan felt a total despair so complete it was as if his heart had stopped.

A smile honed sharp as a drawn blade.

Linea Judith.

She was drowning in murderous intent.