Chapter 26
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 26
Chapter Title: The Dragon's Son is a Dragon
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When I first heard the outline of the plan, I was skeptical.
But the more details I learned, the more I thought, This might actually work.
And in the end, it succeeded perfectly.
Sixteen Experts lay before me, their hands and feet bound tightly.
The rest were dead.
The seventy-odd regular warriors who weren't Great Warriors had been slain by the escort knights who pretended to retreat and then circled back.
Our side had zero casualties.
"...To think I'd lose to a brat like this."
One of them, who seemed to be their leader, groaned in disbelief.
Magic-suppressing manacles bound his wrists and ankles.
The same kind I'd used on Valerius. No... the very ones he'd used on me, recycled.
Expert upper rank.
The man who killed my predecessor, Sir Gerhardt.
They say blood must be repaid with blood, life with life, so killing him would be fitting.
But if I could get a ransom, that would be better.
I wasn't particularly loyal to Sir Gerhardt anyway, and more money was always good.
Besides, this wouldn't be legion funds—it'd be my personal slush fund.
Ransom from prisoners captured in war went to the captor.
That was the custom in this world.
"You speak the imperial tongue. Good, we can communicate."
"What's your name?"
"Kuulruk."
I stood before Kuulruk.
Even sitting, his eye level nearly matched mine standing.
"Which tribe?"
"Kuman Tribe."
Who does this guy think he's calling a kid? Sure, I was a kid, but still.
"I mean, which clan within the Kuman?"
"...Red Deer Clan."
"Right. How much ransom could the Red Deer Clan pay for you?"
Kuulruk's eyes narrowed.
"Hey, brat. Figures a southerner would think like that. Kid like you, obsessed with money. Don't you know who your father is? A real man values honor over coin..."
"Enough."
I cut him off.
"Ransom. How much can you get?"
Kuulruk sighed deeply.
A face of resignation.
"Kid, you won't get what you're hoping for."
"Why not?"
"Reason I speak southern? My mom's from down south. Captured in a war. My dad wasn't some big warrior either."
Chatty for such a big lug.
But I got the gist.
Humble origins.
No chieftain blood, no powerful lineage.
No backing to pay ransom.
"Truth is, plenty of guys in my tribe would celebrate if I got caught. The ones eyeing my spot. No reason for them to spend coin saving me. Sorry, kid. You caught a broke one."
If he'd been from a proper clan, I could've gotten good stuff.
Special wolf pelts that perfectly blocked heat and cold, herbs that skyrocketed conception rates. Items northern barbarians had that sold instantly on imperial markets.
But...
Not this guy.
"Guess execution it is, then."
"...What?"
"Crime of killing Sir Gerhardt. Invading imperial territory and plundering. Threatening supply lines. Any one merits death. And you piled them up..."
I glanced at the knight beside me, and she reached for her sword.
"Shall I... do it now?"
"No. Public execution's more dramatic. Better for morale in front of the troops. So for now, instead of killing..."
"Wait."
Kuulruk's voice grew urgent.
"Wait, wait...!"
The man who'd calmly claimed no ransom was suddenly thrashing.
His manacled wrists rattled.
"W-wait! Brat!"
"Why? You said no one to pay."
"Th-that's true, but...! I heard you got big ambitions! How about it? Absorb me and my men into your forces!"
Kuulruk's tone was desperate.
But...
"Don't talk nonsense. Those attempts mostly fail."
History books detail it.
Efforts to capture nomadic Experts and turn them into subordinates. Over 50 years, 23 attempts by count families and above.
Results?
21 failures.
Escape, rebellion, assassination. Methods varied, ends same. Betrayed their masters, fled to the steppes—or took their heads on the way.
The two successes had strict conditions. Nomads who surrendered first. Ones ousted in power struggles with nowhere to go.
Nothing like this.
I didn't think myself a genius, nor was I dumb enough to arrogantly believe I'd be one of those two.
So I called the knight beside me.
"First, sever the tendons in his limbs and remove his balls, then pick a clear day for public execution..."
Kuulruk's face hardened. But he gritted his teeth.
"...Blackmail, huh. Think a steppe warrior bends to that?"
"Not blackmail. Procedure. Prevents escape."
My calm reply shook his eyes. He realized I meant it.
"Pl-please, spare me!"
Kuulruk screamed.
Gone was his composure. Face drained white.
"I'll spill everything! All of it! Anything you want!"
I nodded.
Plan working.
No idea how valuable the info, but success in prying his mouth open.
"Knight. Isolate the prisoners separately, ask each the same questions, cross-check answers. Matches are good. Mismatches... start with balls and tendons, as I said."
"Understood."
The knight replied vigorously.
"Got it! I get it!"
Kuulruk wailed.
"I'll tell all! No lies! Spare my balls at least!"
Didn't expect him to fold so easily to that threat.
Unmanly guy.
...Well.
Get your balls cut off, you're no man anymore.
Not like some TS magic turns you into a girl or whatever.
Reality? Just a guy minus balls.
Makes sense he'd tremble.
Or maybe he was just cowardly.
How's a coward rise to Great Warrior?
Fair counterpoint.
But battlefield bravery and torture endurance are different.
Fine.
I wasn't banking on his word alone anyway.
I, Kuulruk, felt true terror.
Or rather, a warrior's instinct screaming.
Ten years old, he'd said.
Unbelievable.
He had a doll-like pretty face, maybe from some southern chieftain's favored concubine. But when that kid rested his chin and looked down at me, I knew.
Those weren't a child's eyes.
That silver-haired girl with the eyepatch. The sword demon exuding Great Warrior aura despite her youth.
Even such elites fawned over him with crude speech.
Because he's the boss? No, more than that.
Genuine admiration.
Cruel kid? No. Not just cruel.
Demanding ransom right away was merchant-like calculation. Instantly spotting my betrayal risk was veteran strategist. Ordering separate interrogations was decades-old torturer precision.
And he broke me, Kuulruk, Great Warrior of the Kuman—utterly.
"Start with balls and tendons."
Said it without a flicker. Calm as picking dinner.
Rumor of wiping out 1,000 orcs without loss came to mind.
I'd dismissed it as exaggeration. What could a ten-year-old do?
Now I knew. Possible. With him.
The dragon's son is a dragon from birth, they say.
Duke of Krushtein. Empire's Grand Master. His blood couldn't yield mediocrity. I didn't lose to a kid. I lost to a dragon.
"Got it! I get it! I'll tell all! No lies! Spare my balls at least!"
Interrogations spanned three days.
Sixteen isolated separately, same questions, answers cross-checked.
Results.
Eight told the truth.
The other eight stuck to lies till the end.
Kuulruk was in the truthful group.
Power of the balls was mighty.
The lying eight.
They couldn't pay proper ransom either.
No powerful lineage among them.
All warriors of humble origins like Kuulruk.
Risen to Great Warriors on skill alone.
Admirable paths, but business was business.
Prisoners who didn't pay were baggage.
Feed them, guard them, prevent escape.
Best use? One way.
Public execution.
Gathered the soldiers.
Even called nearby villagers.
Built a temporary platform in the square.
Eight Great Warriors dragged out.
Manacled.
Forced to kneel.
"These men invaded imperial soil, plundered supply lines, and lied under interrogation."
My voice was boyish and thin.
But the knight beside me bellowed it loud.
"Crimes: invasion, plunder, perjury! Sentence: beheading!"
The crowd murmured.
Revenge burned in the soldiers' eyes.
Killers of their comrades. Thieves of their supplies. Now paying the price.
"Execute."
Eight necks laid on the block one by one.
First shouted something in Kuman. Curse? Prayer? Unclear.
Second clenched teeth, silent to the end. True steppe warrior's death.
Third begged mercy in fluent imperial. Too late.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The rest followed.
Last one trembled violently. Urine soaked his pants. Lips quivered, no sound.
Thwack.
Done.
Spared the truthful eight.
Might squeeze more info. And keeping promises built a good image for the future.
Blood soaked the platform.
Red liquid seeped into wood cracks.
Cheers erupted.
"Hooray!"
"Long live the Legion Commander!"
"Fuck those Kuman bastards!"
I watched calmly.
Brutal act.
Necessary one.
Morale soared. Villagers got the message: the legion was doing its job.
And.
"Salt the heads and send to the ducal house. Request reinforcements from home base."
The truthful eight's info: 2,000-strong force incoming soon.
But no great worry.
Knowing this, just request aid from home.
House Krushtein's forces could handle 2,000 easily.
A week and two days passed.
A messenger arrived.
Dust-caked armor. Exhausted horse. Pale face.
"No reinforcements coming."
"...What?"