Chapter 31
Chapter 31
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 031
Chapter Title: The Survivors
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Baron Millen Gafner, the dispatched inspector, stepped out of the government office.
"I'll report every single detail to His Majesty without omission."
"Thank you. I'll add a little extra to the lobbying funds."
"Didn't you see me empty my entire fortune to calm the townsfolk? The travel money I slipped to Sebayn is enough."
"Hahaha. Please hear me out a bit more."
"No. There's a limit to scamming your juniors."
The baron straightened his face, waved his hand dismissively, and mounted his horse. He rode out of the fortress at a speed as if afraid someone might grab him.
But his empty hands soon grew heavy.
"Greetings. It's an honor to escort you."
"...!"
Waiting for him as he exited the fortress's south gate was a caravan forming a line of wagons. The man who appeared to be in charge pointed to one wagon piled high with orc hides.
"You said this was all you had to offer."
"For 'all'... it's quite a lot."
A single wagon of orc hides was worth about a year’s salary for a low-level administrator. Baron Millen Gafner scratched his goatee.
"Are you the one handling the transport?"
"Moheni Lorn of the Loyton Merchant Company. If you wish, we'll even handle consignment sales."
"Efficient."
From transport to sales, he wouldn't have to lift a finger—just blow his nose and be done. It was consideration at its finest, perfectly executed.
"I'll think it over slowly."
"Yes, sir. Would you like to inspect the goods first?"
"No need. Let's get going."
"Ah, then allow me just a quick explanation. Here."
The merchant glanced around slyly and lifted an orc hide.
"Hm? There's something else inside."
"Perfectly processed mink. Enough for two coats for your wife."
"Mink? Well, now."
In the imperial capital, it traded for its weight in gold—a luxury item.
An unexpected gift. My shoulders are getting heavy.
"In this northern region, only about a hundred mink get trapped each year. Two coats require around sixty, so this is more than half the annual catch."
"Mm."
The life of a dispatched inspector was grueling by nature.
As a result, privately engaging in trade had become a sort of custom, and even accepting bribes under the guise of gifts was somewhat tolerated to a degree. The incorruptible ones had no choice but to go bankrupt.
Even so, Arun van Brennenton's sincerity was overflowing.
Orc hides worth two or three silver per skin on the surface, and priceless mink hidden inside—perfect.
"Then we'll set off."
"Do that."
Baron Millen handed the reins to his horse.
He had spent his life traveling the neighboring kingdoms, spearheading the empire's interests. At an age where retirement loomed, all he had left was a mansion in the capital and a small farm on the outskirts—barely enough for his children's wedding funds.
He glanced back at the fortress.
I hope you hold out. I'll do what I can.
After that, he urged his journey onward without a word of complaint.
The departing caravan was clearly visible from the government office as well.
Arun stood with his hands behind his back, gazing out the window.
I hope he fulfills his role.
Nothing in the world was free. Having given the maximum gift possible, all he could do was hope the truth would be conveyed.
But the final decision rested in the hands of the capital's power brokers.
Fortunately, supplies were still flowing smoothly. His brother in Brennenton wanted mutual destruction, not the fortress's fall. Perhaps even the emperor thought the same.
"Tch."
Arun clicked his tongue.
"If that's truly the case, I'll have to change my thinking."
Turning from the window, he looked at the bearskin hung on the wall. It depicted the terrain of the entire northern region centered on Westguard.
"The population has spiked dramatically. We need urgent measures."
Not only had numerous small and medium settlements in the north been destroyed, but there were even partial reports that Northguard had burned. Proving it, refugees kept pouring in without end.
"We need to accept as many as we possibly can."
People produce more food than they consume.
They gather more hides than they wear, and build more houses than they need. If controlled properly, more people meant greater efficiency.
Of course, the commander's qualities played a huge role.
Experience mattered too. The weight of leading a hundred men couldn't compare to leading a thousand.
What they needed now was more talent.
Arun pinched the bridge of his nose.
Above all, we desperately need to divide the administrators' workloads.
In a refugee influx, the most urgent need was administration to manage them. But as an extension of a military fortress, Westguard had clear limits.
He had pushed the few administrators to handle compensation for the fallen somehow, but disability ratings for the wounded were dragging on endlessly.
Looking to the future is a luxury; people live for today.
His suddenly sharpened senses pulled him back to reality.
Knock knock knock.
"Come in."
Moments later, Pendersen entered, leading about ten people.
"These are the representatives of each group, Master."
"Ahem."
An uncomfortable cough came from somewhere. Even in this situation, it was a protest against treating nobles wholesale. As if to prove it, an elderly man stepped forward.
It was the one who had blocked his path to the siege camp a few days ago.
"Greetings. First, our thanks for the rescue..."
"Consistent as ever. Sit."
Arun cut him off, and the man furrowed his brow but sat obediently soon enough. At least he recognized who held the high seat here.
However, fewer than half sat with him. Excluding three, the rest stood encircling the table.
Among them was a boy of thirteen or fourteen.
"And who are you?"
"Ah, I pay respects to the ruler of Westguard. I am the nephew of the late Baron Besil..."
"Where does some distant branch kid get off..."
The elderly man openly showed his displeasure.
"I asked. The boy merely answered."
"Mm, forgive my rudeness."
A swift apology followed.
Just faithful to the logic of power? Not bad.
Revising his assessment of the man, Arun looked back at the boy. Fortunately, he seemed perceptive.
"Norman Besil. Two weeks ago, several of our family's settlements were raided. I hastily gathered the refugees, rallied our household, and evacuated. With the adults fallen in the process, I reluctantly took over as temporary representative."
"A royal response and an honorable end."
Arun swept the room with a sharp gaze that brooked no dissent.
"Norman, was it?"
"Yes, sir."
The boy answered with a tense face, but Arun's eyes continued scanning the others.
"Surviving isn't a crime. Straighten your shoulders, all of you."
"Ah."
His tone remained forceful, but the intent was clearly consoling. Sighs of relief rose here and there.
"The worthy always die young. For honor, or just in place of someone else."
"......"
Force and logic subdued the room.
"I recognize this boy as the representative of House Besil. Any objections, step forward."
"Baron Bendel Miramount of Miramount accepts your will."
"Apprentice Knight Donern Hamel accepts your will."
With their stances made clear, no one dared argue.
These were the key figures from the recent siege. Westguard's symbolism and Arun's feats during the victory had imprinted him as the north's leader in their minds.
Arun's face softened as he indicated an empty seat.
"As per custom, we'll witness the internal succession. Baron Norman Besil, please sit."
"Thank you."
Title successions concluded with the emperor's approval. For the record, they required endorsement from other nobles, forming alliances in the process.
Arun van Brennenton was merely a baron, but a knight personally appointed by the emperor—and above all, virtually the north's sole powerhouse. Legitimacy and might harmonized perfectly.
The young noble sat with a now-relaxed expression.
"Are those standing denying their own representation?"
"Ah."
Only then did they one by one state their names and take seats.
"Abel, village chief of Bear Village."
"After introductions, state your refugee numbers."
"Ah, yes. Bear Village refugees number 238."
"Greetings once more. Apprentice Knight Donern Hamel. I lead two comrades, 15 soldiers, and 116 villagers."
"I've confirmed your leadership. Drop the 'apprentice' label."
"My gratitude for the grace."
Knight Donern, now recognized by Westguard's ruler, knelt on one knee in obeisance. It was thanks enough for guaranteeing his independent knighthood.
Thus, people banded together unconsciously or for immediate survival.
"Nordik, centurion of Karika Outpost under Northguard. I evacuated with 8 soldiers and 319 villagers from four nearby settlements."
"Hyman Salt, village chief of Salt Village. We 96 were saved alongside. Better late than never—thank you."
"From Severto Village..."
Eventually, the eleven finished introductions and faced each other across the table.
"As you know, I'm penniless. I sold the Brennenton estate to pay the families of fallen soldiers, and my adjutant is still liquidating the rest."
"......"
"All that's left is Westguard. As I said, I intend to share its fate."
"Your speech that day was moving. I could feel the soldiers' and townsfolk's support."
"Thanks for the kind words, Donern."
"Forgive my impertinence."
Arun shook his head.
"I understand your feelings well. Mine aren't different. For example, isn't it about not giving up, pooling strength to find a breakthrough? You're asking me to be that focal point."
"I can only apologize."
Submission by force had led to requesting a leader, yet no one objected.
It was audacious—saved yet asking him to step up for them. Some had even been hostile recently.
"Now is the time to move forward for survival."
"Y-Yes."
"Whew."
Small sighs of relief echoed around.
"Pendersen."
"Yes, Master."
At Arun's gesture, a map unrolled on the table.
"First, let's assess our reality. Based on Westguard, I judge all northern settlements destroyed. Any objections?"
"......"
All affirmed with silence. No northern refugees among them proved it.
"Agreed, then. East: roughly 30-40% evacuation success. Northguard likely took irreparable damage."
"Mm."
A few from Northguard affiliations or friendly villages reacted.
"Of course, there's hope. A fortress equal to Westguard wouldn't fall easily."
"Kuh."
"Next. West: Springgarden..."
Arun tapped the map as if organizing his thoughts.
West of Westguard was grassland mingled with glaciers—Hasseldorff County territory. Lacking viable farmland or pastures, provocations never ceased.
"Given the gradual border nibbling over the past half-year, I estimate minimal damage."
"This confirms the orcs' base is in the Kervenon Mountains."
Arun tapped the map's south end in silent agreement.
"Finally, south: cooperation with the alliance minimized losses. The Mad Tribe-led coalition has secured supply lines from Brennenton through Noxen Prison to Westguard."
"Oh, thank the gods."
"Truly fortunate."
People finally relaxed, the tension easing.
"Tribal coalition forces reported at around 700, planning to expand to 1,000. Of these, only 100 cavalry for scouting; the rest guard supply lines."
"Wise judgment."
Those who knew the terror of cold and hunger nodded vigorously.
"Unlike smooth supply support, don't expect troop reinforcements soon. No need to explain why."
Arun pressed his forehead.
"This isn't the place to probe human selfishness."
"Urgh."
"Brennenton family's complicated too—ah, my apologies."
It was improper to speak of other houses in his ruined state, against etiquette. Arun continued with a cold warning glare.
"Current fortress troops: 285 including the 50 native instructors who returned two days ago."
"Hah."
Cold reality and tangible hope struck the room.
"Royals entrusted here will cooperate. Capital Guard Knights' chief knight, Baron Creep Yansel, notifies joining with 5 squires and 100 soldiers. Loyton Merchant Company plans to arm their slaves."
"Ooh."
"Now, it's time to choose."
Gazes concentrated after the hot-and-cold ordeal.
"What will you offer?"
Silence fell for a moment.