Chapter 21
Chapter 21
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 021
Chapter Title: Who is the Protagonist? (1)
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Arun van Brennenton, the savior, headed toward the column of refugees.
Clop, clop.
The massive warhorse, boasting a frame over 600kg including its barding, shattered stones beneath its hooves as it moved.
Crunch.
An orc corpse's head burst open.
Neigh, whinny.
The white steed 'White Flower,' mirroring its master's beauty and temperament, snorted fiercely.
"Which group's refugees are you? Who's in charge?"
"I'm Donern Hamel, the squire and apprentice knight who served Knight Camel Nair. My master fell in battle just moments ago."
Arun glanced at the cloth-draped corpse behind them.
"My condolences. Are you the senior now?"
"Y-yes, sir. Thank you for the rescue."
Arun nodded and turned his gaze elsewhere.
"Rayner."
"Yes, my lord."
"Share water and rations with them. We'll camp here tonight."
"Understood. I'll see to it."
Leaving the two behind, Arun wheeled his horse around.
"We are grateful for your grace."
"Thank you for saving us."
As he rode White Flower past the refugees, they began bowing or lowering their heads one by one. A priest knelt and traced the holy sign.
"The Lord God has sent a savior, a sign of the saint's will to descend to the lowly and care for the afflicted..."
"Which temple's priest are you?"
"I am a missionary of the Aimsel Order, the one true temple of the Lord God."
Arun dismounted and helped the kneeling priest to his feet.
"I am Arun van Brennenton of Westguard. In your name, I'll build a church in the fortress. Can you comfort the weary?"
"Oh, my God."
For missionaries, the pursuit of faith's essence and devotion to the world often meant death. Their highest honor was a church bearing their name.
"I accept this fate as a disciple."
The priest bowed his head. Behind their shadowed silhouettes, the red sunset descended. People gathered, tracing holy signs and kneeling in prayer one by one.
The scene was as beautiful as a painting from myth made real.
Soon, night fell.
Even amid scattered orc corpses, no one minded.
They lit fires, cooked food, and shared hidden liquor, giving thanks for surviving another day.
"The night is cold. Warm your belly with this."
Acting adjutant Rayner Cus handed over a bottle of spirits.
"I've set four rotating watches until dawn."
"So at least eight hours of sleep, then?"
"The supreme commander is exempt."
Gulp, gulp.
"Ahh."
Arun took a swig of the strong liquor and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
"Supreme commander, my ass. This is just a brawl with monsters. You and I are nothing but hunks of meat of equal weight—no prisoner swaps, no ransoms."
Rayner's eyes flickered for a moment.
"Then I'll put you on the first watch."
"I'll gladly take the consideration."
First and last watches were easiest. Of those, the first let you crash right after, exhausted—best of all.
"Fills the gut nicely. You have some too."
Arun passed the bottle, and Rayner wet his throat this time.
As wind shook the campfire, Rayner added more wood. He spoke cautiously.
"You've changed, my lord."
"...?"
The campfire danced in Arun's clear eyes as he stared.
"In a good way, of course."
"They say people change when death's near."
"Gasp. That's not what I—"
Arun's brow arched.
"You turning into Drain too? Learn to separate jokes from truth."
"Ah."
Rayner sighed shortly.
"He's scatterbrained and full of bluster, true—but please, don't doubt his loyalty."
"Is that so? This that thick brotherhood you guys have?"
Arun glanced behind Rayner and shrugged.
"Some big dumb lunk just turned tail when he saw you coming."
"Oh? Heh."
A dry laugh escaped.
"Time for my watch soon, anyway. Like you said, night's getting chilly."
"I'll fetch a blanket."
While Rayner was gone, Arun added more wood.
The campfire crackled and flickered.
The next day, supplies arrived at camp.
Leaving the refugees' transport to the supply train, Arun led his unit eastward.
The orcs, routed by the knight order's charge and the infantry's tight phalanx, had scattered—leaving them helpless. They passed the sealed Kiter outpost the following day and continued purging stragglers after that.
Along the way, hidden refugees and locals sought mercy and submission.
"Take them all in."
"Support from home won't last forever. You sure?"
"Pretend they don't know the front lines' plight? Then make it their front line."
Arun's reply was clear-cut. Not exactly an answer, but it shifted his knights' mindsets positively.
"True, if Westguard falls, Brennenton's next. They'll have to act if they have any sense."
"Spies among the merchants too, probably."
The Royal Guard Knights nodded.
"Sir Benjamin in the capital will surely bring results."
"No. The capital nobles don't care about the borderlands. They won't stir without fire on their own feet."
"Pardon?"
The knights blinked in confusion at Arun's denial.
"Then why send him? Sir Benjamin's key manpower."
"It's a warning to the family. I'm a knight appointed by His Majesty—if they plan to abandon the north, abandon me too."
"I see. But Sir Benjamin won't return empty-handed."
"Apologies, but I agree."
"Heh heh, guess I've misunderstood you all."
Arun shrugged.
"Weren't you all displeased with Benjamin's command before?"
"Misunderstanding, my lord."
"Indeed. voicing rightful opinions is a knight's duty."
Knight Landiv cleared his throat and changed the subject.
"Ahem. Anyway, we'll accept refugees regardless of numbers."
"Good. As Harrig reported, each one's worth five producers."
The young noble who rose from failure was sharp.
"Plus, it's summer. Plenty to forage from hills and fields—no food worries for now. Rayner."
"Yes, my lord."
"How much farther?"
"Almost there. Half a day's ride."
Arun stared at the horizon beyond hills and woods.
Somewhere past his gaze lay this expedition's goal—and his own abyss.
His chest burned.
He licked dry lips, but the thirst lingered.
The capital, visited after so long, gleamed as splendidly as ever.
Boulevards wide enough for eight carriages abreast, towering buildings, throngs of people—all proclaimed it a great city.
True to the longest peace since settlers tamed the continent, streets overflowed with plenty. Carriages on the main drags gleamed with rare ebony paneling, adorned in gold and silver.
Children with pinwheels dashed by, laughing gaily.
"Whee, hahaha!"
"Tch, these kids are reckless."
An elderly gentleman clucked his tongue and continued on.
A waft of perfume drew his eyes to a noblewoman's high heels clicking away.
Benjamin shook his head sharply to refocus.
"Guess I've turned full country bumpkin."
Recruited to House Brennenton five years post-graduation, sworn to the third prince two years ago. His time since: northern blizzards.
His gaze caught lovers whispering at an open-air café. Academy days with her surfaced bitterly.
The capital academy embodied civilization's pinnacle, knowledge's ivory tower, empire's future. A diplomatic stage too, via foreign royals studying there.
His steps halted at its main gate.
The guard eyed Benjamin's attire politely.
"Pardon, but what's your business?"
"Alumnus from undergrad, back from post to pay respects."
"Welcome. Need assistance?"
"Where to find Instructor Novak?"
The name softened the guard further.
"Dean Novak Feil should be in his office."
"Dean?"
Benjamin blinked in surprise.
"You must not have visited in ages. He's led the Knight Faculty three years now."
"I see. Time flies."
Time changes much.
Foolish to think the years battered only him. Those with ambition carve paths anywhere. Everyone wages their wars from their posts.
"Knight Faculty building's unchanged."
"Thanks. Rediscovering it from memory sounds fun."
Memories bloomed as he crossed the campus.
Summer break left the grounds quiet.
Tree leaves rustled, dappling paths with light. A book's pages flipped on an empty bench. He followed, soon entering the main hall.
He straightened his clothes before the door marked "Dean's Office."
Knock knock knock.
"Come in."
"Good day, Dean."
"...!"
The middle-aged gentleman polishing his sword squinted, then stared.
"Benjamin? Benjamin Sad!"
"Benjamin Roth now. Belated congratulations on your promotion."
"Right, Benjamin Roth. The chap you yielded the valedictorian seat to was Malton Sad—nearly mixed those up."
"You remember the oddest things."
"Sit. I've got tea cooling."
Benjamin sat sheepishly opposite Dean Novak.
"Sorry to come empty-handed."
"Nonsense."
The dean set aside his sword and waved dismissively.
"You'll get it when you teach someday. Students aren't enemies in class, but a visit's the best gift."
"I see. So I was your enemy."
"Hahaha."
Slurp.
Cooled tea eased the mood.
"A wave?"
"Sir Brad Cahill judged so. My lord concurs and acts accordingly."
The response was unexpectedly curt.
"Sir Brad Cahill's name rings in the capital. And your lord's rivalry for succession."
"...That aware of the north?"
The dean shrugged.
"Don't underestimate capital nobles. Merchant investments aren't just for coin."
"Mm. My thinking was shortsighted."
Major trading companies' intel was formidable. Their noble backers wouldn't miss northern stirrings.
'They know, but pretend not to?'
Simple reason: ignorance profited them.
"They hope someone steps up—but not them. Cowardly, yet pragmatic. Besides."
Dean Novak's tone chilled.
"No official reports via proper channels, right?"
"North can't issue stances now."
"Exactly. No lord, no official stance."
"...!"
"Tell me. Who's north's overlord? Eldest Lloyd van Brennenton? Arun van Brennenton? Or Brad Cahill? Whose side should the capital take?"
Not a question seeking reply.
Moments later, Benjamin bowed politely.
"Thank you for the lesson."
"Glad it helped. What's next?"
"Meeting alumni."
Words don't make facts; silence doesn't hide truth. Confirmed, time to move on.
"Stirring the tin cans, eh?"
"Knights guard peace, but prove worth in war too."
Some say untested braves crave conflict. Scolding war-dreaming knights is irony.
"No fault there. Yielding valedictorian was your mistake."
"Heh. Let me thrash Malton Sad, didn't it?"
The dean shook his head, rising to his bookshelf.
"Hold on. Alumni contacts somewhere here."
Academies had knightly hierarchies too.
Not rigid as noble birth, so alumni often reversed roles later. Still, it offered chances.
Folk called it 'old school ties'—Benjamin benefited.
'Classmates and juniors first, Malton that punk.'
Urgent thoughts of battling north aside—his battlefield was the imperial capital.
Soon, the dean handed a roster.
"Copy it."
"Borrow your desk?"
Curtains fluttered at the window, but the breeze sweltered.
Full summer.