The Reward

Inside the Commander's office of the Imperial Guard Knights, Rufus Wainwright sat with a ramrod-straight spine, staring blankly into the empty air ahead.

…Eric.

Naturally, his thoughts had first turned to the young man. Eric had been thoroughly thrashed before dozens of his own disciples, and to add ultimate insult to injury, he had been treated like a beggar at the end. Though it had all stemmed from an absurd misunderstanding, Wainwright could hardly fathom how humiliating it must have been for the victim. Eric was likely trembling with indignant fury even now.

Yet Eric was not the only one weighing on his conscience.

"He isn't the only knight I've ruined, is he?"

A parade of faces crossed Wainwright's mind—the countless subordinates who had passed through his hands over the decades. Eric was the first and only knight he had ever expelled through formal disciplinary action since ascending to the post of Commander, but the number of men who had left because of his own failings was beyond counting. He hadn't lost count because there were too many to tally; rather, he had simply never bothered to count them in the first place.

Only now did he begin to understand why he had overlooked them so easily.

It was because I never considered—no, because I refused to consider—that their goals and thoughts might be different from mine.

Wainwright had lived a life of extraordinary privilege. Being born as the eldest son and heir of a wealthy countdom was already an incredible stroke of fortune. His family's estate possessed the second-largest rock salt mine in the entire Empire, serving as an unending source of wealth. Had he chosen to idle away his days in sloth, he could have lived in opulent luxury for the rest of his life. Yet from early childhood, Wainwright had harbored only one ambition: to become a true knight. Even now, he left the governance of the family domain entirely in his younger brother's hands.

To make matters worse, his talent had matched his birth. Though blessed with only an ordinary build, his affinity for aura was so monstrous that he had attained the Expert rank before even entering the Imperial Academy. On his very first day with the Imperial Guard Knights, he had been subjected to back-to-back instructional sparring matches with three senior knights—essentially an initiation hazing—and, entirely devoid of political tact, had defeated every single one of them. For quite a while after that, he had eaten all his meals entirely alone.

From that point on, his career had been a relentless march of triumphs. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠He accumulated brilliant military achievements that bordered on myth. He had single-handedly held off the Dullahan Nevanaha, one of the previous generation's Four Heavenly Kings, for half a day. Twenty years ago, he had stepped into the succession feud of Duke Arcknight's family—a conflict on the brink of erupting into civil war—and resolved it through sheer, overwhelming individual force. Slaying high-tier monsters was a routine matter he handled whenever duty called.

At some point, everyone around him began treading on eggshells, desperate to stay in his good graces. If he made an unfunny remark, men laughed uproariously. If he dug in his heels, even the most absurdly unreasonable demands were rubber-stamped. Such was the natural consequence of standing simultaneously at the absolute pinnacle of authority and martial might.

After living decades in that rarified air, he had lost an essential human faculty without ever realizing it: the ability to understand the feelings and perspectives of others. To put it bluntly, he simply hadn't cared. For him, the only thing that mattered was ensuring that the knight order did not falter.

What is done cannot be undone.

Wainwright closed his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠eyes, haunted by the hollow, vacant look in Eric's eyes as the young man stared down at the coin rolling in the dirt.

Every instinct urged him to mount a horse and gallop straight to Eric's residence in the 3rd District. He wanted to confess that he had committed a monstrous misunderstanding, to bow his head and ask how he could ever earn forgiveness. If Eric wished to be reinstated into the Guard, he was prepared to arrange it immediately. His own reputation would suffer an embarrassing blow, of course, but who on earth would dare mock Rufus Wainwright to his face?

Yet he knew in his heart that Eric would never want that. He had dealt the young man fatal, unforgivable wounds not once, but twice. Wainwright did not even know where to begin offering an apology.

At times like this, it is better to focus on what I can actually accomplish from where I stand.

Steeling his resolve, Commander Wainwright raised his voice.

"Enter, Ramsey."

"...Yes, Commander."

The door creaked open, and a knight stepped inside with a timid, subdued reply. It was Ramsey, a ten-year veteran of the Guard, recognizable by his limp, seaweed-like wavy hair. He was an upper-tier Expert, exceptionally skilled with a spear. While he had a reputation for gossiping behind people's backs, he had always carried out his assigned orders without fail. That diligence was likely how he had survived ten long years in the Guard.

Yet during the recent relief campaign in the Margraviate, he had suffered an irreversible injury.

"How fares the wound?"

Ramsey's face fell into a dark, miserable cast, and Wainwright's gaze drifted to the knight's empty sleeve. The right hand was gone entirely.

For a knight, the loss of a hand was a catastrophic disability. In truth, "catastrophic" was an understatement—it meant the absolute end of his martial life. Losing even a little finger could throw a swordsman's balance into disarray; to lose an entire hand was fatal.

"You said you lost it to the Beast King?"

"...Yes, Commander. The beast burst into the lines without warning, and in my clumsiness, I..."

"No, it was not your fault. It was my foolishness that crippled your career at such an early age. When word arrived that the hound-kin tribes had joined the fray, I should have ridden to the front myself."

"Your kind words alone are more than enough, Commander."

"Furthermore, there is one more thing for which I must apologize."

Wainwright resolved to speak the unvarnished truth about his mistake. It was something he had rarely ever done in his life, and the words felt stiff and awkward on his tongue.

"...It was I who ruined your opportunity to be enfeoffed as a Viscount in the Margraviate."

Ramsey's face twisted in sheer, unvarnished ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shock. His expression was completely blank with disbelief. It appeared Eric had moved behind the scenes without consulting Ramsey beforehand, likely wishing to protect the crippled knight's pride by securing the title in secret.

"It was a long shot from the start, but I offer no excuses. I have committed an indelible sin against you, and against Eric as well."

"Why... why does Eric's name come up here?"

"Because Eric was the one trying to secure that title for you. Hearing that you had lost your sword hand, he evidently could not stand by and do nothing."

"......"

Ramsey stood completely frozen, his jaw slack in utter disbelief. Wainwright felt a bitter taste in his mouth, realizing that his own blunder had not only cost Ramsey a title, but had also robbed the two former comrades of a chance at genuine reconciliation.

"Do not despair, however," Wainwright said, attempting to soften the blow. "Eric has already established a relief facility in the refugee quarters, and he has extended a compassionate hand to the Margraviate, which was devastated by the Beast King's onslaught. Just as occurred with you, he seems to be misunderstood by the nobility, but that is an issue I intend to resolve myself."

"......"

"Therefore, you may prepare for your life after the Guard with an easy heart. I will make arrangements so that you may live out your days helping the destitute commoners to your heart's content, exactly as you wished. If all else fails, I will gladly draw upon my family's own coffers to finance your endeavors."

Wainwright forced the corners of his mouth upward, trying to project reassurance. In truth, smiling was the furthest thing from his mind, but he worried that speaking with his usual cold severity would discourage Ramsey from ever asking him for help.

"You have my word, Ramsey."

Yet even after such grand promises, did Ramsey still doubt his sincerity? The crippled knight gave only a perfunctory, half-hearted bow before practically stumbling out of the Commander's office.

It was an unseemly display of disrespect, but Wainwright did not feel the slightest urge to reprimand him. Instead, he felt he could vaguely perceive what lay beneath Ramsey's stunned reaction. Ramsey was likely wrestling with complicated, bitter emotions toward Eric. Seeing Eric, a mere commoner, successfully spearheading the very charitable endeavors Ramsey had wished to undertake in his own name must have tasted extraordinarily bitter.

It was jealousy, certainly, but Wainwright could not bring himself to view it harshly. After all, wasn't it an emotion born from a sincere desire ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to aid suffering people?

Better late than never. I must learn to consider the hearts of my subordinates from now on.

Late though it was, he would begin now. And the first step was shielding Eric from the slander and malice of the nobility.

Just as he had once viewed the young man through a jaundiced lens, there were many aristocrats who looked upon Eric with venomous hostility. Those who had lost vast fortunes in the Kodana collapse were particularly rabid with resentment. Perhaps it wasn't even a misunderstanding; they simply wanted an outlet upon which to vent their catastrophic fury.

"To protect the lad in the midst of this storm, the surest way would be to grant him a noble title, but..."

That was no simple matter. Banishing Eric to the distant Margraviate would prevent him from personally tending to his relief facility in the 18th District.

After brooding in silence for some time, Wainwright recalled an extraordinary privilege bestowed upon him during the very first year of the current Emperor's reign: a solemn imperial pledge that any single wish he made would be granted without condition. At the time, the Emperor had offered the boon while expressing heartfelt gratitude, claiming Wainwright had "supported him in surging ahead during the bitter succession contest." In truth, Wainwright had never actively supported anyone's claim, and he had wondered what the newly crowned monarch was talking about, but since the Emperor was offering a blank check, he had accepted it.

He had forgotten about that royal promise for nearly twenty years. Now, it seemed, the time had finally arrived to cash it in.

Without wasting another moment, Commander Wainwright set out directly for the Imperial Palace.

Ding— Dong— Ding—

The bell mounted beside the front door chimed with crystal clarity.

Now, this was how civilized people behaved. If a bell was present, proper etiquette dictated that one should ring it, rather than attempting to batter down the heavy wooden planks. Lately, however, several uninvited guests had shown an infuriating habit of taking out their frustrations on my poor front door.

First came an Academy professor who had evidently lost his entire life savings to Kodana, followed by a top-ranking bureaucrat from the imperial taxation office who concocted absurd pretexts to browbeat me before storming off, and finally a ducal scion who dragged along servants and armed retainers just to glare at me in stony silence before whirling around and leaving.

Compared to that carnival of lunatics, this new visitor was remarkably polite. When I opened the door, however, his expression was completely sour, as if he too had seen his life savings vaporized in the coin crash.

"...Are you Sir Eric, former Second Flag-Bearer of the Imperial Guard Knights?"

As he verified my identity, the man held a scroll carefully in both hands—one fitted with exquisite golden rollers. In the Imperial Capital, only one institution ever utilized documents formatted like that: the Imperial Palace. More specifically, they were reserved exclusively for formal imperial decrees. And the man demanding that I pay proper homage was a high-ranking official from the Court Department.

A noble title.

The crown had arbitrarily lifted the name of a village situated directly within the Emperor's personal crown lands to grant me the noble surname of Wellesley. Naturally, the decree did not confer any actual landed fief along with it.

While the decree bore the sovereign's personal seal, guessing whose muscle had brought it about required no genius. It could only be that bullheaded gentleman who had gleefully beaten me black and blue just a few days ago.

To be frank, this wasn't the kind of compensation I had anticipated. I had assumed Commander Wainwright would either clear my name publicly in front of the Guard, or offer a gruff, awkward private apology while pulling strings to install me as a Viscount in the Margraviate. I could practically picture him wearing a deadly serious face, telling me, "Ramsey would want you to have the title rather than himself...!"

Yet an imperial decree conferring title directly from the throne?

The Imperial Palace was notoriously stingy about adding new names to the peerage registry. Even when prominent Countdoms petitioned to elevate meritorious retainers, the imperial court dragged its feet more often than not. Expanding the privileged class was rarely advantageous to imperial governance. To make matters stranger, this was the rank of Court Noble—granted without any specific bureaucratic post or military commission attached, merely tossing me up into the aristocracy as an unlanded baron. And the recipient of this extraordinary favor was none other than myself, a commoner currently soaking up the undivided hatred and envy of high society. How Wainwright had forced such an absurdity through the Court Department was an absolute mystery.

Whatever the mechanism, the outcome couldn't have been better for me. In fact, it far exceeded my expectations.

Even if I was a baron without a single acre of dirt to call my own, a noble was still a noble. More importantly, it sent an unmistakable message to the entire capital: a monstrous political titan capable of muscling through such an outrageous royal whim stood firmly at my back.

At long last, I had secured an unassailable shield. From this day forth, I was Baron Wellesley.