A Killing Blow with Golgol

A killing blow delivered alongside Golgol.

Unfortunately, the man was a far finer knight than I had given him credit for.

By the barest margin he twisted his body and slipped past my strike.

But he hadn't dodged it completely.

My blade had driven clean through his shoulder.

There we stood, each of us with a sword buried amicably in the other, locking eyes.

He was the first to speak.

"So you were holding something back after all."

"I was. And it wasn't just one thing."

I had no idea how any of this had actually happened, but I ran my mouth anyway. In a situation like this, confessing No, this caught me completely off guard too simply wasn't an option.

That aside, though—

Tch. Now what?

Landing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a hit was all well and good, but what came next was the problem. That blow had only been possible because I'd caught him off guard. As long as primate blood of the genus Australopithecus still ran through his veins and he was capable of learning, he wouldn't fall for the same trick twice.

So what then?

[Fall back. It's dangerou—]

A warrior of Valhalla does not retreat.

With a warrior's heart, I pressed forward.

Shhk.

The blade lodged in my shoulder sawed through flesh, and I gritted my teeth through it. Then I took that pain, converted it into rage, and drove my own sword deeper into his shoulder.

"Zeke, was it?"

"It was."

"How about we leave it here? For a knight of your caliber, this seems a rather shabby battlefield on which to close your eyes."

I spoke with a formality I hadn't bothered with until now, and a smile touched his lips.

"A knight, you call me—a sellsword who peddles his blade for coin. I'm honored beyond words. But did I say I was closing my eyes?"

"You did."

"Such confidence. Do you not realize that the only reason I haven't drawn my sword free is for your sake, young master?"

What was he talking about?

[He's right. If he pulls that blade out now, you could bleed out and die.]

Oh. So that was it.

Truly considerate of him.

But I didn't back down.

"Well, if one must close one's eyes on a battlefield, even that would be a happy death. More to the point—aren't you the one laboring under a misconception? Who exactly is showing whom mercy right now?"

"…I find your meaning rather difficult to follow."

"Look around. Where are we?"

"A battlefield, are we not?"

I nodded at his answer.

"Yes. A battlefield. A battlefield where death runs rampant. Then who am I? Must I truly say it aloud?"

"A necromancer…"

"That's right. I am a necromancer. Had you not realized? Every drop of blood spilled on this ground, every death—it all belongs to me."

[Is that true?]

Of course not.

I clicked my tongue at my hopelessly naïve ancestor for a moment, then caught the flicker of confusion frosting over in my opponent's eyes.

From here on out, it was all about the flow!

"I may be a necromancer, but I too am a man who trains with the sword. Though circumstances forced me to resort to necromancy, I wanted to cross blades with a knight such as yourself. For I, too, dream of knighthood. But…"

Ah, fuck, this hurt like hell.

I chewed the pain down and pressed on.

"I carry responsibilities as a noble. And those responsibilities weigh heavier than any knightly creed. Therefore, I cannot yield to you here. Win or lose this duel, my life is not mine alone to spend. So choose."

"…Choose what?"

"Finish this here and now—or withdraw quietly."

"If we finish this…"

"Then one of us will not see tomorrow's sun. And I guarantee you—the one who closes his eyes will be you."

"…"

His eyes wavered.

He couldn't tell whether I was telling the truth or spinning a lie.

Neither could I, at this point.

I myself could no longer judge whether the garbage pouring out of my mouth was pure fabrication or not.

A lie delivered with the full force of the soul!

"What will it be? Should you surrender, I will treat ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you with every courtesy due a knight."

"…Even a sellsword who sold his blade for coin?"

"You never sold your convictions, did you?"

"…"

A tremor ran along the corner of his eye.

I prayed with everything I had.

Please. Please!

Answer already—I'm about to die from the pain—!

How long I endured that eternity, I couldn't say.

"…I surrender."

"…!"

Had my silver tongue actually worked?!

The thought lasted only a moment before I realized that wasn't it at all.

"You bastard—!"

Hiiiihiiiing—!

With the thunder of furious hoofbeats, a magnificent knight came charging toward us.

It wasn't Sir Valt.

"Father!"

"Son, wait for me!"

It wasn't my rhetoric that had broken him. He'd seen my father closing in and realized the game was up—so he'd raised the white flag!

Hold on, though—this was a restricted duel. Was he even allowed to come charging in like that?

Well, all's well that ends well.

I'll take what I can get.

I managed a faint smile.

"You shall receive every courtesy due a prisoner."

"I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠trust your word."

He was Golgol's enemy—but Golgol was with me now, as Bone Armor.

Variables?

Eliminated!

A worldline where everyone was happy!

That said—

[I never knew you were so sincere about the sword.]

Ancestor, you really do have a naïve streak.

Then again, that was probably how you'd ended up as Slave Number One.

All in all, not a bad outcome.

After that, the battlefield was cleaned up with remarkable speed.

"Father, this man has surrendered. I promised him the courtesies of a prisoner, so I would ask that he be treated accordingly."

"This one…?"

"Yes. A pledge made knight to knight."

"…"

Father looked back and forth between the man and me with clear displeasure, then finally nodded.

"Close your eyes. I'll subdue you."

"…Understood."

The man answered respectfully and shut his eyes.

And then—

CLANG—!

Father's scabbard cracked across the top of his skull.

Subdued, physically, in the purest sense of the word.

I checked to make sure his head hadn't split open—mercifully, he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠seemed intact.

Meanwhile—

"Hold still a moment. I'll pour some potion on that."

Father splashed potion over my wound and drew the sword free. Thanks to the potion's effect, perhaps, the bleeding wasn't too severe.

"Apply the rest carefully to the wound and press down hard."

He handed me the remaining potion and a strip torn from a cloak, then strode off toward Sir Valt, who was surrounded by knights.

What followed was… well.

…Smooth.

Father's mere appearance was enough to throw Hadion's knights into disarray. Sir Valt did not waste the opening.

"You lot—!"

With a roaring battle cry, the knights were subdued one after another.

But—

"Father, is this even allowed? You said it was a restricted duel."

"Did this father of yours swing a sword?"

"No."

"Then it's fine."

Ah.

He'd stood on the battlefield, but he hadn't swung a blade—therefore he hadn't participated!

Miraculous logic!

Father then bellowed in a voice that shook the field.

"All of you, lay down your swords—! Surrender, and you will be treated as prisoners of war!"

Silence fell over the battlefield.

Our soldiers and theirs alike blinked, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

"What are you waiting for! You refuse to surrender—! Do all of you wish to die?!"

At that thunderous roar, the enemy soldiers startled and dropped their weapons.

No—not just the enemy soldiers.

Our own conscripts, spooked in advance, dropped theirs too!

And why are you…

Well. He must have been that terrifying.

I decided to leave it at that.

Once the soldiers had laid down their arms, Father spurred his horse straight toward Viscount Hadion.

"Viscount Hadion."

"What is the meaning of this? Taking the field yourself?"

"I merely stepped forward to ensure smooth command. If you object, pick up a sword yourself, Viscount. Well then… care to try? Though the outcome seems rather settled."

"…"

Viscount Hadion's gaze drifted, groping at empty air.

But only for a moment.

He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a long breath.

"…I surrender."

"Come along. You will receive every courtesy due a prisoner."

"A prisoner? You would truly go that far?"

"Then try running. If you believe you can."

"…"

Viscount Hadion's lips worked soundlessly, then he bit down hard.

For all practical purposes, that was the end of it.

"I trust you will keep your word."

"Of course."

Father led Viscount Hadion toward the soldiers.

No one spoke, yet everyone understood.

The war was over.

And it had ended in our victory.

As for who the war's greatest hero was—no one needed to say it out loud.

"Long live the young master!"

"Long live the second young master!"

Someone sharp enough to read the room shouted it first, and the soldiers raised their weapons high and took up the cry without hesitation.

Hmm. Not a bad feeling.

Anyway, if a status window existed, something like this would probably have popped up right about now.

Or not. Whatever.

Immediately after—

[H-hey… why are you collapsing!]

I closed my eyes with a clear conscience.

I had no regrets.

How many days had passed since I'd lost consciousness?

[A full week, no less.]

"I slept a long time."

I woke after a full week.

For some reason, I felt good.

I got up, went to find Father, and received welcome news.

"The ceasefire negotiations are proceeding smoothly."

"Then…"

"We've agreed on a ransom for the prisoners, plus reparations totaling ten thousand gold."

"Oh!"

Ten thousand gold.

A sum that made my jaw drop.

And why wouldn't it?

This world's economy was such a mess that comparing it to modern prices was always a bit fuzzy, but a rough conversion went something like this:

1 copper = 100 won

1 silver = 10,000 won

1 gold = 1,000,000 won

And we were talking ten thousand gold?

In Korean won, that was a hundred billion!

It was basically like hitting the lottery—though, as I'd said, the conversion was only a rough guide.

In reality it could be more than a hundred billion, or less!

The Viscount's personal ransom alone was especially steep—nearly half the total.

Is this why those lunatic nobles start wars every other day?

Of course, I wasn't blind to what that money was worth.

A great many people had died in this war.

Father seemed to understand that as well, because he laid out the use of the reparations as follows:

"First, the reparations will go toward consolation payments for the conscripts who fought and for the families of the fallen."

"Of course they should."

"You little…"

My response seemed to move him more than a little.

Well, that made sense.

In this world, most lords operated on the principle that whether their conscripts lived or died was none of their concern.

But I had a question.

"What about the mana stone vein, though? Is that settled?"

That was essentially why the war had started in the first place.

As long as the mana stone vein existed, there was no guarantee a second war wouldn't break out.

What worried me most was this:

Viscount Hadion pulling in other factions.

On that point, Father had this to say:

"Apparently he hasn't brought in any other factions yet. The man is greedy. He kept it secret even from his own confidants, for fear of attracting flies."

"Then the Viscount…"

"I intend to summon a priest of the Order and have him swear an oath."

"An oath?"

"Yes. It'll cost a bit, but once he's sworn, he won't be able to run his mouth freely."

Was he really thinking something like, An oath sworn in the name of the gods will always be kept?

But no.

"An oath is a force with real substance. The moment it's broken, the curse spreads not only to the oath-breaker but to their entire family. The more expensive the oath, the more powerful the effect—and this time I intend to use a five-thousand-gold oath."

"Five thousand gold?"

That was half the reparations poured straight down the drain.

"Of course, the Viscount will be the one footing the bill."

Ah. Father had it all planned out.

I had never once doubted Father.

I swear it.

So then.

Ten thousand gold…

Even after consolation payments to the conscripts and the fallen, a considerable sum would remain.

In which case…

Maybe I've taken one step closer to my dream?

That is—a leisurely life of tilting a beer stein while watching a red sunset.

But Father did not appear inclined to cheer my dream on.

Because if he had been, he never would have said what came next.

"Which brings me to…"

"Yes, go ahead."

"I intend to use this opportunity to develop the mana stone vein."

"Excuse me?"

Develop what now, Father?

However clueless I might be about worldly affairs, even I knew that developing a mineral vein didn't cost pocket change.

Ten thousand gold?

Sure, it was a lot. A lot—but was it really enough to cover the development of a mana stone vein?

"Your elder brother will fill you in on the details when he returns. For now, you must be tired—go rest."

A wind was blowing.

A wind carrying the plague known as entrepreneurial fever.

At this rate…

…I install my brother as a baron and wash my hands of everything.

A joke, of course.

For now.