Count Ansberg's Funeral
Inside the carriage bound for the Ansberg Territory.
The Count eyed me with suspicion.
More precisely, my waist.
Following his gaze, I checked my hip and realized I had strapped on the sword I'd taken from Leo without even thinking about it.
"Louis Wallenstein."
"Yes, my lord."
"If my eyes aren't deceiving me, that sword bears the Epsilt crest."
I swallowed hard.
"Let me see it."
At his command I carefully offered the blade. The Count's expression turned terrifying at once.
"If you don't explain yourself properly, I'll take your head."
What a cruel thing to say.
"Haha, you're joking... right?"
"Does this look like a joke to you?"
I scrambled to speak.
"No—it's just that you seem to be under the impression I've defected to House Epsilt or something of the sort..."
"Exactly."
"I tell you again, it's a misunderstanding."
I hurriedly recounted the duel with Leo Epsilt.
"...And that is how it happened. This sword is what he staked as the condition of the duel."
"Oh-ho... Excellent. Truly worthy of the Wallenstein heir."
The murderous look vanished, replaced by a look of pure satisfaction. The Count took the sword and examined it at leisure.
"Hmm. This does not seem like an ordinary blade."
Sharp as ever.
Yes, it really wasn't ordinary.
But I could hardly explain the power hidden within the sword, so I kept it simple.
"It's said to be the treasured heirloom of the Epsilt ducal house, passed down through the generations."
"Splendid! I was right to name you my successor."
"I'm an only child anyw—"
"Quiet."
He continued to inspect the blade, murmuring appreciatively all the while. Was the fact that we had scored a solid hit against the Epsilt dukedom really that pleasing to him?
Seeing him in high spirits, I carefully seized the moment.
"Um, my lord? Since I won the duel against that bastard, perhaps a small raise in my allowance..."
"Shut it."
"Yes, sir."
...Damn it.
A short while later the carriage rolled to a slow halt.
Following the Count out, I took in the wreckage of the Ansberg Territory. The crowning glory of the devastation was the shattered Ansberg lord's castle. Enough time had passed since the gargoyle swarm that I had expected the land to show at least some recovery. Apparently that had been wishful thinking. The ruined castle in particular was beyond mere repair; it would need to be rebuilt almost from the ground up.
The Count and I made our way toward it at an unhurried pace. This was no ordinary funeral—it was the funeral of the head of House Ansberg. Though both were count families, the Ansbergs stood on an entirely different plane of prestige from our fallen Wallenstein house. Nobles from every corner of the empire had gathered for the occasion. The gleaming carriages crowding the half-destroyed castle looked almost surreal against the ruin.
At the entrance a knight stood ready to receive guests. Count Wallenstein addressed him without hesitation.
"What festival is being held here?"
At a provocation that would have made even the devil flinch, my jaw dropped. This Count Wallenstein was unmistakably a psychopath.
The knight's eyes went bloodshot; he ground his teeth as he answered.
"...It is not a festival. It is a funeral."
"Oh dear, how clumsy of me. Haha!"
With that laugh still hanging in the air, the Count handed over the invitation and strode past. I followed, offering the knight a small nod as I entered.
Really—people had died...
We headed for the funeral hall prepared inside the castle. True to the Ansberg family's standing, the place was packed. Most were nobles, though I also spotted a fair number of cadets I had crossed paths with at the Academy. If every noble brat was here, the Academy must be empty today.
Not knowing what was expected of me, I simply stood still. Even in this rootless fantasy world that somehow had martial arts, I doubted a funeral required two full prostrations. I had intended simply to follow Count Wallenstein's lead, but he showed no inclination to move. Other nobles gathered in quiet clusters and conversed; we Wallensteins, of course, had no such social obligations.
After a stretch of silence the Count spoke.
"Wait here a moment. I'm going to take a look at Count Ansberg."
My jaw dropped again as I stared at him. Had he just said he was going to "take a look" at the corpse?
While I was still reeling, Count Wallenstein vanished without a trace.
"Hey, wai—"
He was already gone.
What exactly was I supposed to do alone?
The Academy cadets chatted among themselves or trailed after their parents making the rounds of greetings. And I stood alone. That alone would have been tolerable, but people kept glancing at me while pretending not to. They whispered under their breath, thinking themselves unheard; every word reached me clearly.
"That's him, right?"
"Yeah. Louis Wallenstein."
"Even a Wallenstein managed to show up..."
Like the Count before them, their eyes kept drifting to the sword at my hip.
"Isn't that the Epsilt family's treasured sword?"
"How does that fellow have it?"
The nobles' puzzlement was quickly resolved by their children—the Academy cadets.
"Yes, Father. The two of them dueled..."
"As the stakes, a public apology and the family's treasured sword..."
Watching the rumor spread, I laughed inwardly. That Leo bastard—I wondered if he would ever be able to hold his head high again. According to the game lore, this sword had been passed down from the founding head of the Epsilt dukedom. If Leo had kept the loss from his father, and the Duke learned of it for the first time here at the funeral...
This should be interesting.
I barely managed to smother the laugh that tried to escape.
Some time later people began to move, and I followed the current. From what I gathered, it was time to bury Count Ansberg. Conversation naturally turned to House Ansberg and the gargoyle swarm. Voices rose on every side.
"To think Count Ansberg would meet his end like this..."
"I heard he stayed behind to the last, standing against the swarm to protect his people."
"Sob... so heroic."
Praise for the late Count.
"Still, even though the Count himself fell, the territory looks better than expected."
"It's hard to call something this smashed 'better'..."
"Comparatively, I mean. When a count dies, you expect the whole domain to be wiped out."
That was thanks to the warning I had given in advance. It had to be.
"Apparently Lady Felice Ansberg gave them advance warning, so they managed a little preparation."
"Lady Felice? How did she know...?"
"That's the question. Still, as expected of Lady Felice. She's always been known for her brilliance..."
The whispers grated on my ears. Of course I had told Lucy to name Felice instead of me. But Lucy had thanked me afterward, so I had assumed she would set the record straight once the crisis was over. Apparently not.
I felt a twinge of disappointment toward her. I had given the warning to save lives—including hers. That did not mean I had to smile while someone else, someone who had cursed me to the end, claimed the credit.
Keep quiet, or find another way to screw over the Ansbergs?
I considered it for a moment.
And something else occurred to me just then: I was not nearly as kind as I liked to pretend.
Today was her father's funeral.
Even so, Lucy was not particularly sad. It was not that her tears had run dry; she simply felt no deep sorrow, and so the tears refused to come. That was only natural. She had seen the man called Father even less often than the household maids.
Count Ansberg had been the perfect knight and the perfect head of house. Such a man had little time left for his children. Other noble families might be similar, yet the Count had been extreme even by those standards. The rare moments he did spare for his daughters had almost always belonged to her older sister, Felice Ansberg.
It was only to be expected. From childhood Felice had shown talent with the sword. Everyone praised her, elevating her as a prodigy. Their father had marked her as the heir and poured every scrap of attention onto her alone. In the end Lucy Ansberg had felt like someone who simply did not matter to Count Ansberg. Whether that was truly the case she could never know, but his actions had been more than enough to wound her.
She had received no affection from him. She had felt jealousy and inferiority toward her sister. Their mother, while pretending otherwise, had likewise favored Felice. Even Felice herself had been so absorbed in sword practice that she rarely spent time with her younger sister. So it was hardly strange that Lucy did not grieve deeply at the funeral.
What truly grated on her now were the whispers circulating through the hall—that her sister, Felice Ansberg, had saved the territory. Every word of it was a blatant lie. Felice stood there brazenly, offering no correction, and Lucy found her utterly detestable. Far off, Louis Wallenstein stood alone, and Lucy felt a crushing apology toward him. It felt as though she were doing him a terrible wrong.
Still uncertain of the exact right action, she started toward Louis Wallenstein—right now, with her own father's burial about to begin. It did not matter much, she told herself. After all, Felice Ansberg would be standing in that place of honor.