Misunderstanding
District 18 of the Imperial Capital.
It was a sprawling refugee camp, formed when countless souls who had lost their homes to the Demon King's offensives or monster waves fled to the imperial seat, where personal safety was at least nominally guaranteed. The people here scraped by on private charity or survived as the lowest tier of wage laborers. Naturally, their lives were destitute beyond description.
And now, it was also the location of my new workplace.
Well, maybe calling it a workplace is a bit of a stretch.
A swordsmanship clinic.
In truth, facilities like this were usually opened by washed-up, mediocre knights who had retired due to age or injury and crawled back to their home provinces, running a dojo as a hobby and a desperate bid to make ends meet. Half of them were outright frauds; the other half were operated by cynical wrecks with zero passion left in their bones.
Still, I figured a clinic founded by a freshly retired knight of the Imperial Guard might draw a different crowd...
Or so I had assumed. The moment I actually set up shop, harsh reality came knocking.
The swordsmanship clinic consisted of little more than a roped-off wooden fence and an overhead tarp to block the sun. When I first planned this, I had imagined a crowd of scruffy, soot-faced street urchins with fierce, ambitious gleams in their eyes—eager youths just like I had been as a boy, when I was desperate to learn how to hold a sword from the cranky retired veteran in my village.
Yet the applicants who actually showed up defied all expectations.
"How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Twenty-eight, sir."
"You're older than I am. Do you have children?"
"My boy is watching from right over there. My wife ran off months ago."
Here was a grown man who could barely feed his child, begging to learn swordsmanship.
"With that frame, you couldn't even swing an arming sword. Actually, your build aside, may I ask why your left hand only has two fingers?"
"Heh. Minor accident while working the cargo boats."
Another applicant was a walking skeleton who stood roughly my height but weighed half as much, missing three fingers on his off hand. A man like that needed to worry about basic biological survival, not the finer points of edge alignment.
Yeah, swordsmanship isn't the problem here.
If my genuine goal had been forging functional knights, turning every single one of them away would have been the only sensible choice. But I accepted them all without exception.
I had already prepared for this outcome anyway. I had loosened my purse strings just a fraction and bought bread—massive, golden loaves that could keep a family of four fed for two solid days, stacked by the hundreds.
In a place like this, handing out bread made you a living god.
"Do any of you kids happen to know what Kodana is?"
"Ko-what-now?"
"Never mind. Take your loaf."
Even as the rest of the capital tore itself apart over Kodana, this slum remained a tranquil eye in the hurricane. They had no idea the Holy Kingdom was hurtling toward the greatest existential catastrophe since its founding, nor that the imperial aristocracy was a powder keg waiting for a spark, nor that a certain former Imperial Guard knight—namely, myself—was actively fearing for his life.
Of course, I wasn't tossing bread to these starving wretches out of spiritual benevolence. District 18 simply happened to be the perfect stage for what I needed to accomplish.
He should be showing up right about now...
Not long ago, I had dispatched a substantial convoy of relief supplies to the Rancart Margraviate: medicine, grain, and even boots. Boots might sound like an odd charitable donation, but in a territory ravaged by war, durable footwear was shockingly scarce. The caravan would likely reach its destination by the day after tomorrow.
I hadn't parted with those goods out of bleeding-heart sympathy either. It was merely one component of a calculated maneuver. If this gambit paid off, the lingering threats to my life and fortune would be snuffed out for good.
Amelia and I had handed out perhaps a dozen more loaves when a familiar voice cut through the murmuring crowd.
"Eric. Are you here?"
The long-awaited guest had finally arrived.
I deliberately froze mid-motion, then turned around with calculated delay.
The newcomer possessed an unexceptional build and a full head of dark hair. At a glance, one might take him for a man in his late thirties or early forties, but in reality, he was a hardened veteran pushing sixty.
The Commander of the Imperial Guard Knights, Rufus Wainwright.
He had dressed in faded, threadbare commoner's clothing, evidently wanting to move about unnoticed. Unfortunately, the scabbard strapped to his hip was obscenely opulent, completely ruining the disguise. It was a masterwork forged from true dragon fang, presented to him by the late Emperor with the solemn charge to safeguard the realm.
Does he honestly believe he can blend into a slum wearing that thing?
Then again, he could get away with it for a very simple reason: whenever the Commander signaled that he wished to travel incognito, every royal guard and court noble in the capital knew better than to acknowledge his presence.
"Commander? What on earth brings you to a place like this?"
Blinking as if caught completely off guard, I rose slowly to my feet, a heavy loaf of bread still cradled in my left hand.
Commander Wainwright studied me with a somber, heavy expression before speaking in a low, troubled tone.
"It has been some time, Eric. You appear occupied, so I shall be brief. Is it true that you dispatched relief supplies to the Rancart Margraviate?"
"Yes, sir. As I told you when I took my leave of the order, I intended to honor my fallen comrades' wishes by supporting relief work. You can consider this an extension of that."
"Indeed. Up to that point, it is a noble endeavor. You are shouldering a burden the nobility ought to carry." Wainwright's jaw tightened, his brow furrowing. "However, Eric... if you demanded an investiture of nobility as a condition for that aid, the matter changes entirely. Is there truth to that rumor?"
"I did include a request along those lines in the sealed letter accompanying the caravan," I replied, tilting my head with a look of mild bewilderment. "Though I am curious, Commander... how did you learn of it? The missive was sealed with wax."
At my unabashed admission, a crack formed in the old knight's stern composure, his eyes wavering with disbelief. I pressed the wedge a fraction deeper.
"If the Margrave accepts my proposition, I even promised to send an additional sizable donation as a token of my gratitude. That was written in the letter as well."
The phrase donation upon acceptance made the shadow of disappointment across his weathered face deepen into genuine disgust.
Had anyone else stood before him, Wainwright might have exploded on the spot. I hadn't prepared a vial of Elixir beforehand for nothing.
"...Eric. Promise me that you will withdraw that solicitation, and I shall turn around and walk away this instant. Purchasing a title with coin is a wretched, disgraceful act."
I let out a faint, hesitant murmur, forcing an awkward, self-conscious smile.
"Withdraw it? Commander, I honestly assumed you would welcome the news."
"You thought I would welcome it? Not merely tolerate your greed, but rejoice?"
A chill swept through the dusty training yard. I clasped my hands together politely in front of my waist, warily observing his shifting expression like a chastened subordinate.
"Commander... why are you so upset?"
"Eric, Margrave Rancart is an honorable man. Above all else, that border territory is the bloody ground where your own comrades were butchered! Philipp was slaughtered fighting those beast-kin, and Ramsey was crippled for life. Those very comrades gathered to see you off with warm wishes the day you resigned!"
"That is precisely why I intervened," I countered calmly. "The Margraviate is facing extreme hardship, so I believed he would accept the offer, even if he had to swallow his pride."
"Listen to yourself speak!"
Wainwright's features twisted into open fury.
"Ah, of course, from the outside, it might look like I am bartering cash for an aristocratic title," I said, waving a hand placatingly. "Yet in the grand scheme of things, it directly benefits the people suffering in the Margraviate..."
"Eric—!!"
Unable to stomach another word, the Commander roared.
The invisible pressure radiating from a warrior who had reigned as a Sword Master for over three decades washed across the dirt lot, instantly draining the color from my fledgling students' faces. Several dropped to their knees in sheer terror.
"Commander," I pleaded softly. "I am not claiming my methods are entirely pure. But I hardly think this calls for such righteous indignation."
"Silence."
Wainwright drew in a slow, ragged breath, fighting with monumental effort to master his temper. His gaze drifted toward a weapon rack standing against the fence, lined with notched wooden practice swords. A dry, humorless chuckle escaped his lips.
"At least you have the basic furnishings. Take up a sword."
"You mean to instruct me after all this time? But Commander... shouldn't we at least dismiss these people first?"
"Pick it up, Eric. Unless you wish to be beaten like a cur before the very wretches you pretend to teach."
I stared at him with an expression of stubborn incomprehension, then sighed, relenting. Stepping over to the rack, I drew a dull wooden blade and settled into a low, forward-pointing Pflug guard.
Even as we stood on the verge of violence, Wainwright gave me one last out.
"Eric. This is your final chance. Renounce that solicitation right now, and we shall correct this disgrace together."
"I still cannot comprehend why you are so furious, Commander. Nor do I understand how you knew the contents of a letter that hasn't even reached the border yet. Could it be that... no, never mind."
"Before that shameful letter arrives, contact the Margrave via communication crystal and issue a formal apology—"
"With all due respect, Commander, I do not believe I have anything to apologize for."
In the next instant, Wainwright surged forward like an avalanche.
He didn't coat his weapon in aura, nor was this a duel intended to kill. He held a simple wooden stick that weighed less than half of an arming sword. But this was a monster of a man who could decapitate an armored knight using nothing more than a stalk of dried sorghum.
I was going to take a vicious beating. And in truth, I felt a twinge of guilt toward the old man, who had always quietly shielded me from the worst of the court's malice. But to preserve my life and my fortune, I had no choice.
Lukewarm protection was no longer enough. I needed a towering figure who would be morally compelled to drag the true vipers orchestrating this disaster into the blazing light.
Before an audience of several dozen stunned paupers, the clash between the former and current masters of the Imperial Guard unfolded.
The refugees who had gathered around the clinic had initially watched with wide, excited eyes, thinking they were about to witness a grand spectacle for free. Now, they shrank back against the wooden fences, paralyzed by primal dread.
For the first dozen exchanges, the bout resembled a fierce, competitive sparring session. But before the count crossed thirty clashes, the pretense evaporated, devolving into unadulterated corporal punishment.
Wainwright showed no mercy, his practice sword cutting through the air in sharp, merciless arcs.
"Guh!"
The hard timber struck Eric's wrist with a sickening crack. He miraculously maintained his grip on the hilt, but his balance was utterly shattered, his defensive perimeter collapsing under relentless pressure.
Even so...
Behind his grim scowl, Wainwright swallowed a breath of genuine admiration.
The boy's martial prowess was nothing short of magnificent. If they had been crossing live steel, the duel would have ended far sooner, but even across the entire expanse of the Imperial Capital, there were perhaps only six or seven knights capable of holding out this long against Rufus Wainwright in a straight exchange. Every single one of those veterans was years older than the youth before him.
Eric had indisputably crossed the threshold into the highest tier of the Expert rank.
Yet what value was transcendent genius when paired with a corrupted heart?
Attempting to purchase an aristocratic title from a devastated border territory using relief funds was revolting, but Wainwright could have forced himself to overlook even that. He still carried the guilt of having treated Eric harshly during his disciplinary discharge.
I can understand the hunger for nobility. The despair of being stripped of his mantle must have left an unbearable void.
The unforgivable sin was that Eric exhibited not the faintest shred of shame. He hadn't flinched; he had cocked his head in genuine confusion, wondering why anyone would object. He had brazenly declared that the charity would only flow if the title was granted.
It was that shameless amorality that had shattered Wainwright's restraint. Even so, the Commander had exercised immense discipline by reaching for a wooden sword rather than drawing the dragon fang at his side.
Crack!
"...!"
A heavy strike took Eric across the ribs, dropping him to his knees before he could even draw breath to scream.
Looking down at the battered, gasping youth slumped in the dirt, Wainwright felt a twinge of remorse. He had been careful to strike muscle and bone in a manner that wouldn't leave permanent crippling trauma, but the boy would be bedridden in agony for weeks.
Wainwright tasted bitterness on his tongue. There was no satisfaction in this victory. If only Eric had muttered a single word of surrender—if he had shown even a flicker of remorse—it never would have come to this.
Still... I should at least leave him coin for medicine.
Sighing, Wainwright reached into his tunic to pull out several heavy imperial gold coins, only to freeze mid-motion.
Eric, glancing up through sweat-matted hair, was quietly slipping a thumb-sized glass vial from his inner pocket.
Hailing from an ancient, wealthy countdom, Wainwright recognized the iridescent, shimmering liquid instantly. It was an Elixir—a legendary, priceless draught capable of miraculously accelerating cellular regeneration and knitting shattered tissue within hours.
Watching Eric hastily gulp down an astronomical fortune simply to mend a few bruises made the last vestige of Wainwright's affection curdle into disgust. It felt like a spiteful demonstration, a petulant brat flaunting his absurd wealth to protest being disciplined.
"Fine. Drink it, then... and pick this up."
Feeling his remaining sympathy evaporate into thin air, Wainwright flicked a single gold coin into the dirt at Eric's knees.
His hands trembling violently as he drained the vial, Eric stared at the coin in the dust, his eyes widening in stunned silence.
"Mark my words, Eric. You will never obtain the title you covet. No matter how desperate his lands become, Margrave Rancart is not a whore who sells fiefs for donations. Had you offered your sword to defend the border out of genuine chivalry, he might have elevated you regardless of wealth. But you chose corruption."
"That... that wasn't what I intended... Wait, Commander. Did the Imperial Prince...?"
Stammering incoherently, Eric suddenly clamped his mouth shut and let his head drop, his shoulders trembling as if seized by sudden terror.
Pathetic fool.
Wainwright turned his back on the kneeling youth and strode away without another word. The watching paupers parted like the sea, bowing their heads in terrified reverence as the old warrior vanished into the capital's alleys.
The following evening, Wainwright received an urgent summons through his private communication crystal, requesting an immediate connection from Margrave Rancart.
It must be about that boy.
Wainwright activated the crystal promptly, mentally steeling himself to offer a formal apology on Eric's behalf.
"Commander Wainwright. Do you happen to know a lad named Eric?"
"...I do," Wainwright replied heavily.
"A merchant guild just rolled into our fortress bearing a massive shipment of relief supplies under his name. The critical medical draughts arrived first, and they tell me the heavy grain wagons will pull in within two days. By the Goddess, it is a godsend. But... there was a rather absurd request penned in the letter that came with it."
"I offer my deepest apologies for Eric's brazen, disgraceful scheming," Wainwright cut in grimly. "Please, pay it no mind and reject him outright."
"Oh, you give me leave to reject it? Thank the heavens! I was agonizing over the matter because the request was simply too unreasonable."
"Indeed. The fault lies with me for failing to discipline him properly—"
"I mean, generous as the aid is, how on earth could I appoint a crippled knight as a landed vassal?"
"...What?"
Wainwright's mind went entirely blank.
"Ramsey, was his name? That fellow with the wavy, seaweed-like hair. His family originally hailed from this province, so Eric seems to have assumed I would gladly take him under my wing... But a man who can barely grip an eating knife, let alone a longsword, cannot possibly serve as a frontier Vice-Count in a brutal territory like this. It sounds harsh, I know, but our border cannot afford useless figureheads like the interior provinces can."
"Wait. What... what are you talking about?"
Oblivious to the Commander's rising horror, the Margrave continued chattering over the magical frequency, showering Eric with praise. He explained that hundreds of commoners on the verge of starvation had been saved by the sudden influx of grain, adding that he felt terribly guilty for accepting the life-saving aid while denying the request.
"Still, to show such profound devotion to an old comrade... Demanding a title on another man's behalf was completely unhinged, to be frank, but on a personal level, I was profoundly moved. As a veteran yourself, Commander, you know better than anyone how few men would move heaven and earth—and spend a staggering fortune—just to secure a future for a crippled colleague."
Listening to the Margrave's booming praise through the glowing crystal, Wainwright's face solidified into absolute, bloodless stone.
It was an expression of pure, unadulterated horror—one that could easily rival the hollow despair of an imperial noble watching his entire life's fortune vanish into the Kodana abyss.