Chapter 56
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 56
Chapter Title: Born on Third Base
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He had the gall to march right up to his own father-in-law and say that.
It was just as I'd expected.
I'd read that man's autobiography three times.
Before awakening to my past-life memories, I'd plowed through the thick tome out of sheer admiration, barely understanding a word.
All I got out of it was a vague sense of "damn, he's badass."
After awakening, I read it out of curiosity, analyzing as I went. I saw a lot more this time. Like most autobiographies, it was full of embellishments.
After getting acquainted with Sir Heinrich and Sir Wolfram, I read it again for verification.
"When negotiations broke down, I personally lopped off the opposing lord's head. Three of his escort knights charged me. By the time the fourth came at me, the other three were already corpses."
Why bother doing it himself? He could have just ordered a subordinate.
Now I knew why. That man did it himself because it was faster that way.
"The captain's hands often moved before his words."
"But that approach usually yielded better results."
"Even when the outcome wasn't ideal, it was never a complete disaster."
That was the consistent testimony from his close aides.
The conclusion was clear.
Walter von Krushtein's true nature wasn't that of a noble. He was a mercenary captain.
And in some ways—no, blatantly—that man showed more camaraderie toward the comrades who'd stuck with him since his mercenary days than to his own blood kin.
Sir Heinrich. Sir Wolfram. And about ten others.
The men called his "disciples."
Each one was a monster who could claim the title of strongest in any average territory.
You could tell just from the nickname he used for Sir Heinrich.
"Baby bro." Not what he called me.
It was what he called Sir Heinrich back when he was the youngest in the mercenary band.
And those closest aides had been framed. By Ernst and his maternal grandfather.
Helmut von Müller. Ringleader of the rebellion twenty years ago. A man who was once a duke.
Did that fool of a noble even grasp what that meant?
"Y-Your language has suddenly turned crude... I merely raised a suspicion..."
For a while, I'd played the part of a noble. Mindful of etiquette, observing decorum, using honorifics with my father-in-law.
At least on the surface, I'd clumsily mimicked nobility toward those I dealt with superficially.
But as my status rose, the mask slipped. No need for it anymore.
A man whose possessions dwindled with every move faced off against a hero who'd seized everything through his own might and charisma.
He was no match.
"Suspicion? What bullshit. I was right there. Are you calling me a liar, old man?"
And that "suspicion" was a complete fabrication. At least as far as that man was concerned.
He'd witnessed the battle firsthand.
It was the very battle boldly detailed in the autobiography I'd read three times.
In other words, that fool noble wasn't just slandering Sir Heinrich.
He'd dared to trample on the pride of someone untouchable.
Some say it: In the North—a vast land nearly half the Empire's size by area alone—the number one is Krushtein, and number two is Müller.
Not wrong.
One and two.
Numerically, just a hair's breadth apart.
But the gazes gathered at this party told the real story.
The actual gap in power was worlds away from what the rankings implied.
It had been that way ever since the rebellion was crushed twenty years ago and the ducal title changed hands.
And the gap had only widened recently.
While Krushtein single-handedly quelled the southern rebellion, what had Müller been doing?
The 6th Legion. Over a thousand men. Wiped out.
Of course, compared to total forces, it was just a fraction. Not a fatal blow.
But was it a wound you could shrug off? Hardly.
The bigger issue was who the opponent had been.
Eleven years old.
He'd lost a thousand men to a mere eleven-year-old serf. Word of that number spread across the entire North.
He must have been pissed. Naturally.
So what did he do?
Framed the close aide attached to that eleven-year-old.
Wrong answer.
Completely wrong.
It was so absurd I double-checked for any ace up his sleeve. My conclusion?
Nothing. No ace at all.
Yet he'd acted anyway because Helmut was being Helmut again. That's all.
If Walter von Krushtein had walked an unbroken uphill path since birth, then his nominal father-in-law, Helmut von Müller, was the polar opposite.
A man who'd slid downhill his entire life.
So even if such a man pulled another boneheaded stunt... it wasn't exactly surprising.
Most of his life's choices had been wrong anyway.
One more wouldn't change that.
"Th-there must be some misunderstanding. I merely sought the truth."
"Truth? Getting your ass handed to you by a kid who was still in diapers not long ago, then taking it out on innocents. That your truth?"
Müller's neck twitched.
"G-Georg acted on his own..."
"Georg moved without your permission, old man?"
The response stalled.
And moments later.
"That's right."
"Then I can deal with Georg however I see fit."
He muttered it, but it rang out clear enough for the entire party hall to hear.
Müller's face went pale.
Georg. Müller's bastard son. One of their top warriors. Though he'd taken after his father in brains and lost embarrassingly easily.
"N-No, that's not..."
Müller started fumbling.
"What's not?"
Walter didn't wait for an answer.
"If it was his own initiative, deal with him. Otherwise, it was your orders."
The escort knights behind Müller did nothing. No, they couldn't.
They knew. If the man before them willed it, their paltry swordsmanship meant nothing.
Escort knights standing idle, unable to protect their lord.
That alone proved the gulf in power.
I turned my gaze. Ernst's hand clutched his clothes.
This was his engagement celebration. Yet he wasn't the star.
A man forced to watch his father crush his grandfather. Unable to intervene or back away.
What to call that expression? Humiliation? Rage? Both?
A whisper came from behind me.
"Is this okay?"
"It's okay, so that's why he's doing it."
Two nobles with heads together.
"Even so, I didn't expect him to go that far. I heard rumors he favored young Lord Adrian more, but."
"Hasn't he proven his ability? Better than Sir Georg, said to be the most capable of Müller's bloodline. And he's only eleven."
"Still, nominally, Ernst is the heir."
"What matters to the Empire's strongest man?"
"Fair point."
Sir Heinrich's lip curled up.
His lord stepping up like this for him? Overwhelming.
Then it happened.
The party hall entrance stirred.
It started small. Someone turned their head, then the person next to them followed.
Ripples spread like waves.
Setting aside the tension between the current duke and former duke for a moment, noble gazes turned en masse to the entrance.
The crowd parted.
No command given. Naturally, like water cleaving apart. A path opened to the hall's center.
A woman in a white dress and veil approached.
Pearl adornments. Her steps slow but steady.
"Her Highness the Princess..."
"Coming out herself."
"She is the star of tonight."
Ernst turned toward the princess. His face brightened instantly.
The princess didn't stop. Passed Ernst by. Stood precisely midway between father and Helmut.
"Today is an auspicious day. Bloodshed at my engagement celebration wouldn't do. Duke, please, just for tonight."
She only glanced at Helmut. No words for him.
That alone showed the hierarchy. Helmut looked at her with eyes no different from his grandson's.
I observed the princess's movements.
Knowledge revealing more? Too refined.
Trained movements.
Unlike the natural grace unique to nobles.
Our eyes met through the veil.
Fleeting.
Her head tilted ever so slightly toward me, then away.
"Hahahaha!"
Walter von Krushtein's booming laugh echoed through the entire space.
"The princess is right. An auspicious day."
Ernst's expression had changed. No longer ashen.
Smug now.
His fiancée had stepped in to defuse things.
He'd think his marriage investment had paid off.
"But whether I kill him or not? That's not my call."
Walter's head turned. Not toward Helmut or Ernst.
Toward me.
Over a hundred gazes poured down at once.
I saw Ernst.
His recently relaxed face had hardened like stone.
Father was looking at me.
"What say you?"
Murmurs spread.
"To that boy?"
"He's only eleven."
"But it's proper. Georg is young Lord Adrian's prisoner, isn't he?"
"True, but."
"The captor holds the right of disposal. Empire law says so."
"What will Count Müller do?"
Helmut's face stiffened again.
I walked forward briskly, stopping three paces from him. Neither too close nor too far.
"I have no intention of needless killing."
A calm voice.
"Wise."
Someone murmured.
"However. I will claim proper ransom."
I fixed my gaze on Helmut. Unwavering.
Murmurs swelled again.
"Ransom?"
"For Georg?"
"How much will he demand?"
Helmut's lips twitched. Words failing him.
Moments later, a voice emerged.
"How much do you want?"
Murmurs rippled.
"Four thousand at least."
"Seven thousand gold, maybe?"
"For Müller, ten thousand..."
I watched Helmut's face. His eyes narrowed slightly.
Calculating.
How much I'd demand.
If it was within his means.
I could almost hear the abacus beads clacking in that old man's head.
If it ended with money, he'd count himself lucky. That's what he was thinking.
As silence dragged, murmurs quieted. Helmut's brow twitched faintly. Sensing something off.
"I need no gold. Instead, right here and now, admit that you falsely accused Sir Heinrich."