I Refuse Northern Grunt Duty

After working myself to a literal death, I didn't take long to figure things out once I reincarnated in another world.

What I'd been given was an extraordinary talent for combat — and the time-limited life that came bundled with it.

When I discovered that slaying a monster by pure chance had extended my lifespan, only one path lay open before me.

And so, six years into my life as a mercenary...

I once rescued a woman who was moments away from getting torn apart by a goblin horde out in the western provinces.

Her name was Novelia. A cute young woman with the unmistakable look of a bookworm.

Even as her arms and legs were seized and her body dragged apart until it seemed she'd be ripped in two, she clung desperately to an enormous bag, hugging it against her chest and somehow holding on — and then,

Slaash—

In the span of an instant, my sword ran black with goblin blood.

"Are you alri—"

"A-ah... actually, if the heroine gets handled this roughly, then...?"

Half her clothes had been torn to shreds, yet she made no move to cover herself, instead mumbling gibberish under her breath. A genuinely bizarre individual.

When I draped my coat over her shoulders, she flushed crimson and scrambled to fish out proper clothes, and frankly, the sight was hard not to laugh at.

"Th-thank you so much!"

She bowed so deeply her forehead nearly struck the ground, repeating her thanks over and over.

Some faint, indefinable scent of eccentricity clung to her, and my legs itched to bolt — but I couldn't exactly leave her stranded in dangerous territory.

"...Shall I accompany you to the outskirts of the capital?"

"Eeep... y-yes. Thank you..."

Since our paths happened to align, I saw her safely as far as the central provinces.

For days on end she scribbled something into a notebook, sneaking glances in my direction — so absorbed she wouldn't have noticed tripping over a stone right in front of her.

We exchanged little conversation over those days of travel, and eventually they came to an end.

"Thank you so, so muchhhh!"

"...?"

I can still picture her final moments perfectly.

So this is the woman who couldn't manage a single word for days...

It wasn't even a stiff, casual bow — she folded at the waist until her head nearly touched the ground.

Whether the blood had rushed to her head or not, she wobbled for a moment before straightening up, and the request she made of me then is still seared into my memory.

"I-I, um...!"

"Take your time."

What I meant was: please stop stammering.

But she apparently took me at my word, and as her deep breathing stretched into a solid three minutes, I was beginning to consider just walking away when—

"M-may I use you as the model for a character in my novel!?"

So that's what all the scribbling was for. She was a novelist.

She certainly lived up to her name.

"...Go right ahead, Lady Novelia."

I granted permission without hesitation.

There was no reason to refuse — and surely she wouldn't write anything unflattering about the man who'd saved her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠life.

Not that I had anything to do with literature in the first place.

In other words: I figured I'd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠never lay eyes on that novel for the rest of my life.

"...I hope to see you again someday."

Smiling shyly, she adjusted her monocle and bowed in farewell.

A white shirt. A brown checkered skirt.

Her traveler's longcoat billowing as she turned to go.

That was the last image I held of Novelia.

"Yes. Should the chance arise."

And even as I said it, I was certain I'd never see her again...

"...How many, did you say?"

I turned the leather-bound cover over in my hands, examining it.

"Fifty-five thousand copies."

55,000 copies.

That was this book's sales figure.

"Insane..."

It might not sound like much, but you had to account for the fact that this was a medieval nation where printing technology remained severely limited.

Sell 1,000 copies, and you had a hit known to anyone worth knowing. At 5,000, you were required reading across noble society. At 10,000, you were a cultural phenomenon that transcended genre.

And this had sold 55,000.

"That's ridiculous."

That wasn't a bestseller anymore. That was a national social event.

As I stared blankly at the cover, a voice drifted over from somewhere nearby.

"Commander, may I get up yet—"

"No."

Glancing down, I found a red-haired woman prostrate on the floor, forehead pressed flat against it.

Her name was Rupia. My left hand, and the vice-commander of the mercenary band.

The reason she was like this: she'd hurled a crudely handmade marriage contract at my face, alongside the lunatic declaration of "Marry me — on the condition that we divorce."

"I genuinely thought you'd finally lost your mind."

"It was a joke... no, wait — I never imagined you wouldn't have read it."

Rupia continued, her voice trembling.

"There isn't a single citizen in this country who hasn't read this book by now, honestly, hmph—"

"...So that's why things felt off."

Culturally illiterate as I might be, I was still a mercenary commander — and technically a viscount.

Whether I went looking for it or not, information tended to flood my way regardless.

"I knew it was popular, in a vague sort of way..."

I'd been aware that a novel called The Black Grand Duke of the North was all the rage. It had mildly amused me that the Northern Grand Duke trope was trending even in another world.

When my own subordinates started whispering behind their hands — the Northern Grand Duke, look, it's him — I'd shrugged it off. When marriage proposals kept arriving lately, I hadn't given it much thought either.

But it had gone this far?

Wait. Hold on.

"Then why am I the one being called the Northern Grand Duke?"

"C-could we maybe discuss this standing up?"

Smack— Smack—

I brought the book down hard on the rear she'd raised toward the ceiling, and she staggered to her feet.

"...Hhk."

Rupia swept her disheveled red hair back into order.

Blood rushing to her head had turned her face crimson, and she curled her lips into a mischievous smirk.

"They say the Northern Grand Duke has rough hands..."

"Get back down."

"Yes, sir."

She darted to the sofa and threw herself flat, stretching her slender legs out long behind her.

"The author of this novel said the Northern Grand Duke was based on a real person, remember? She never named him, though."

"Why would she even do that?"

"That Novelia woman — wasn't she the girl you rescued a few years back?"

"...How does anyone know the model is me?"

Swish—

Rupia twisted at the waist, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠propping her chin on her hand and regarding me with a languid sideways look.

Those crimson eyes gleamed, and a lazy voice followed.

"Guardian of the frontier. A longsword. An Expert-class powerhouse. And... black hair."

"......"

"There's exactly one person in this country who fits that bill. Kik-kik."

So it was the hair.

Apparently because this was a medieval fantasy world, everyone sported hair in every color of the rainbow.

To the point that "the black-haired powerhouse" alone was enough to pinpoint a specific individual.

Not that this made the misunderstanding any more forgivable.

"I'm not even northern, and I'm certainly not a Grand Duke."

Hundreds of subjugation requests resolved in the kingdom's western territories alone.

A viscountcy earned through years of monster-slaying stretching back to my mercenary days.

If anything, "Viscount of the West" was the accurate title.

"Of course, my Black Grand Duke of the North. Euhu-hoo."

"Don't mess with me."

This might actually be more serious than it looked.

In a monarchy, a false identity was a grave offense — a direct challenge to the Crown's authority.

And if I got dragged into the mess alongside her?

Rumors would spread that some mere viscount had proclaimed himself a Grand Duke on the coattails of a novel's popularity.

Before long, the royal swords would come to carve off my limbs one at a time.

Well, if it gets out of hand, the kingdom will clean it up themselves.

The right move was to do nothing, let the fad burn itself out, and stay out of trouble.

"Just handle yourself discreetly. Don't give them anything to pin on you."

"Yeth, sir."

"You're a grown woman. Stop talking like a child."

"......"

Rupia sprawled on the sofa kicked silently at the armrest, thump thump, and the posture left the curves of her figure pointedly on display.

It genuinely worried me whether she behaved like this outside these walls too.

Honestly.

Everyone had been so lost in the novel lately that I'd left them to it, and now the whole unit's discipline had collapsed at once.

What could possibly be so entertaining about it?

I rose from my seat, tucking the book into my coat.

Even if I didn't partake in cultural pastimes, I was a modern man by origin.

Compared to these primitive medieval folk trying to force-fit fictional characters onto real people, I was unquestionably the more civilized one.

If I find the time...

I decided I'd give it a read one of these days as I stood — and just as I made to pass by, ruffling the hair of a sulking Rupia, who was kicking the sofa in silent protest,

"Commander. It's Alfred."

"Come in."

The door opened, and a man stepped inside.

Neatly combed white hair. A dignified, immaculate black suit. A gentleman in his middle years.

My right hand, and the chief administrator of the mercenary band — Alfred.

"What is it?"

In his hand, exuding that old-world refinement of his, he carried a thick sheet of parchment finished with gold leaf.

"A royal decree, sir."

"The Crown?"

A name I hadn't heard in a long while.

Ever since I'd received my viscountcy for pacifying the kingdom's west by slaying monsters, I'd had no dealings with them whatsoever.

And now the royal family, of all people. Why?

"...Don't tell me."

For some reason, the novel I'd just tucked away sprang to mind.

It couldn't be because of that book. I hadn't done anything.

The worst-case scenarios began assembling themselves in my head.

" Surely it's nothing serious?"

"...I certainly hope so."

"If it were, they'd have come marching in all glittering and splendid last time too, screaming at you to kneel."

Rupia appeared at my shoulder out of nowhere, resting her chin on it, and urged me to hurry up and unroll the decree already.

Then again, there's no way.

Medieval or not, no royal house — the royal house — would seize an innocent man over some fanciful story in a novel.

I broke the red wax seal with an easy mind and spread the parchment open.

"...What."

"Yes?"

"......"

And the moment I read the elegant script inscribed within, I understood: I'd been half right, and half wrong.

The right half was that the Crown wasn't petty enough to persecute me over something like this.

"Are these people insane?"

"That's lèse-majesté, Commander."

Where I'd gone wrong, it turned out, was in assuming the Crown — of all institutions — wouldn't be swayed by a fanciful story in some novel.

Unbelievable.

Because a fictional duke was based on me, they were just going to hand me a duke's seat outright?

And it wasn't even a Grand Dukedom — it was a Margraviate.

Exactly like those modern rofan casuals who couldn't tell a duke from a count and used the terms interchangeab—

"Please compose yourself, Commander. It won't be what you're thinking."

"...I suppose not."

Overinterpretation. Everyone but me had been living and breathing this novel, so I'd probably started feeling left out.

"Then what does this mean? Why me, all of a sudden?"

A count's seat, handed over without so much as a reason?

"The answer's obvious."

Alfred adjusted his glove as he spoke.

"Barbarian incursions from the north have been increasing."

"Ah."

The moment those words reached my ears, a memory from some twenty years in the distant past surfaced.

A memory that should no longer exist.

Jjam-chori. Grunt duty. Being dumped with the shit work.

Roughly two years of military service.

Two years of crawling through hell — only for a rotation mix-up to leave me unable to promote, and discharged anyway.

Ugh, that god-awful memory again.

So the novel was just the pretext.

They needed someone handy with a sword, so they were shipping me up to the troublesome northern frontier to take the fall — is that it?

Tossing a margrave's seat into the desolate north like tossing a dog a bone?

"Absolutely not."

No wonder the rank-and-file soldiers of all those Northern Grand Duke houses in rofan novels held so much resentment toward the capital.

In a situation where you were guaranteed to die before enjoying even half the privileges your title came with, there was no reason to hesitate any longer.

"Alfred. Help me out."

Scriiitch—

I slid open the desk drawer and took up a quill.

"We get to be a count? Eeek."

I shoved the situation-oblivious Rupia roughly aside and sat down — and there was the parchment Alfred had brought, plain before my eyes.

I dipped the quill in ink and set my hand moving.

And ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a mere few minutes later...

"...Good enough?"

"More than sufficient, sir."

Viscount or not, I was nothing more than a lowborn ex-mercenary, so the letter had been drafted with the help of Alfred, once head steward of a noble house.

Much like an unemployed bum writing his cover letter for a conglomerate.

Having succeeded in stretching [I refuse Northern grunt duty] into several hundred words, I dispatched my reply to the royal house at once.

And then, right around the time the whole affair was beginning to fade from memory, I received the next decree from the Crown.

Staring at the decree — which might as well have been stamped [BULLSHIT IN PROGRESS] — I drew my sword down from the wall mount.

"Commander! Don't tell me you're staging a coup—"

"Save the jokes. You two, draw your swords too."

"...Excuse me?"

"Listen carefully."

I fastened the sword at my hip and spoke with absolute resolve.

"By the time this decree arrived, we were already several years into planning a long-term expedition against the Giant Drake at the kingdom's westernmost edge."

"Yes, sir."

"The expedition will fail before launch — due to internal issues within our territory."

"Er... are we allowed to say that?"

Beats me. But that's not the point, is it.

"I refuse grunt duty."