Chapter 33
Chapter 33
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 033
Chapter Title: On Humanity (1)
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Who calls humans beings of intellect?
Humans trample others just to feel superior, killing their fellow man under every conceivable excuse. No other species massacres its own kind on such a scale, no matter the reason.
Guilt belongs solely to those humans possessed of good intentions.
"So that man handed some of your people over to the orcs?"
"Yes. The village chief made a pact with devils. We no longer recognize him as our leader."
In the flickering torchlight, the discarded man said nothing. Blood pooled on the floor beneath him.
Arun van Brennenton, lord of Westguard, pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Understood. I'll pass judgment tomorrow morning. Dismissed."
"Please make a wise decision..."
Clank.
Knight Landiv stepped forward.
"Step back. I'll take the head of any who show disrespect."
The knight's menace—half his face handsome, the other half monstrous—sent the crowd retreating.
"Th-then we'll take our leave."
"Pendersen, prepare some strong liquor and fetch a priest."
"Yes, my lord."
The loyal squire turned without question.
Arun crouched beside the bloodied man.
"I know your face. Did you really hand over villagers?"
"Yes."
Arun furrowed his brow. The wicked never surrendered. They wagged their tongues until the end, seeking any opening.
"Family? Anyone detained?"
"H-how did you...?"
Arun rubbed his tired eyelids and beckoned Landiv.
"Go fetch his family—that is, your name?"
"Dawson Almern."
"Right, Village Chief Dawson Almern. How many in your family?"
"My grandmother, wife, two boys, three girls."
"You heard him. Escort Dawson's family here safely. You understand?"
"I'll bring them unharmed."
Landiv turned and vanished.
"Th-thank you. I'll tell you everything. So..."
"No, someone else will hear your confession. Fetch Drill Instructor Harrig."
Ruling meant delegating the petty details, freeing focus for what truly mattered. Soon after, Arun instructed the summoned Harrig.
"Hear him out and cross-verify."
"Understood. Report by morning."
"Appreciated."
Thus ended the day's business.
The next day, Harrig's report lay on Arun's desk.
"Bad blood between the chief's family—who've run the village for ten years—and the hunters representing the armed faction?"
"Seems true the villagers evacuated while the hunters held off the orcs. There were casualties, and they used it as a pretext to oust the chief's faction and seize control."
Pendersen entered, setting down a teapot.
"Tch. For a village of barely a hundred souls."
"How did you know?"
"Know what?"
Glug, glug.
Steam rose with the faint scent of jasmine. Arun lifted his cup, savored the aroma, then set it down.
"You saw through the chief's innocence at a glance."
"Innocence, my ass."
"Pardon?"
Squire Pendersen reviewed the report again.
"Harrig's wise beyond his years. One of the key men we need right now."
"Come to think of it, no mention of right or wrong anywhere."
"Exactly. Thorough investigation only, leaving judgment open to the decider's taste."
"You'll reinstate the chief, then?"
"Punish both sides. It's to our benefit."
"Ah."
Pendersen looked surprised, then nodded and tidied the desk.
"You still haven't said how you knew."
"I don't trust humans."
Something deep within Arun answered. This world wasn't hell after death—it was here, where they tore at each other to flaunt power and claim authority.
"Just sorting the bad from the less bad. That's all."
"Yes, Master."
Pendersen finished up, added logs to the hearth, and withdrew. Landiv entered next.
"Instructor Harrig?"
"Retired for the night. Your judgment?"
"Rebellion charges for the hunters. Send them to the penal company for a year, then pardon."
"I'll assign the useful ones to scouting."
"Handle it. The chief gets negligence charges: forced administrative scribe for a year. Disband the village and scatter them. Post the announcement."
"Yes, sir."
"Recruitment status?"
"157 volunteers as of yesterday."
"Better response than expected."
"Mostly refugees. They figure they have to protect their own families anyway, plus the pay helps."
"Good. Show your face to boost morale."
"I'll accompany you."
Squire Pendersen and Landiv flanked Arun as he left the office.
"Phew, crisp morning air."
Every scent carried memories.
Orc blood smelled of burning oil, evoking the dying screams of comrades. Rain's musty odor brought liberation from battle.
His faint childhood memory—from atop someone's shoulders—reeked of apricots.
Arun paused by an apricot tree.
'Leaves are gone.'
No old memories clung to the bare branches under winter sun.
He walked on.
Even if he caught the scent, the past wouldn't return. Whether it had been happy was questionable anyway.
'Past and future are luxuries. Survive today, or it's over.'
Nothing alone sufficed. Instill hope, reward cooperation, punish defiance. Such examples solidified rule.
Arun glanced aside. Makeshift homes crammed the former campgrounds.
"500 households nearly complete."
"Reaching that longed-for 10,000 population like this."
"Er, we passed 12,000 a week ago. Excludes infants under three. Natives coalition hit 10,000 too."
Pendersen gauged Arun's reaction.
"Administrators are complaining about the growth. They notified us: censuses from weekly to monthly."
"More aides soon. We'll watch."
"Yes, Master."
Street folk halted, bowing deeply. Arun had banned prostration, yet some refugees prostrated anyway. He quickened his pace.
"Garrison cleanup done?"
"Few days left. Make way for the lord!"
Efficiency drove the skipped formalities. At Landiv's gesture, people scattered.
"Any hitches?"
"None. Just the next orc push."
"Good."
The palisade's main gate was gone, replaced by a flattened plain ten steps lower. They'd leveled the old approach for an outer wall and camp.
No easy feat. Felling trees and hauling stone had injured and killed many civilians.
"Forgot. Not just soldiers die."
"What can the weak do but sacrifice?"
"You're cold."
"..."
Landiv fell silent, discomfort evident.
Descending steps revealed a tidy camp. Troops aligned on the parade ground entered view.
"Shields straight."
"Halt at the banner, align ranks. Double time."
"Waaah!"
Rookies charged, unbidden cheers rising.
"Halt at the banner."
"Squad three? Blind? Leader, front and center."
Thwack.
A burly man's head snapped sideways.
"Get it together? Squad three laps the field. Go."
"Go."
Elsewhere, chaos aligning single file.
"Shoulder to shoulder. Tens, left and right."
Click, click, click.
"Shields down. Plant 'em. Go."
Thud, thud, thud.
"That's it. Remember: shields hold, spearmen rack kills. Survive till then, you win."
"Square formation next. Shields to shoulders."
Arun blinked at the sight.
"These are the rookies?"
"Rookies, but one in ten has experience. Leaders get bonuses."
"Nil's gathered plenty of his old crew."
"True, but scraping the barrel now."
"Yeah. No more veterans."
Someone spotted them and ran up.
"My lord."
"Huxly, you?"
"H-how do you know my name?"
He panicked inwardly but played it cool.
"Bolt Unit, right? Word is the slippery guy who worked trainees hard."
"Thank you."
Soon Arun stood before resting recruits.
"Hard training. Good work."
"..."
His siege feats and valor made him Westguard's core. Admiring gazes fixed on him. Arun met expectations.
"Interrupting, so here's a show. Watch."
Arun gripped a shield's edge and hoisted it one-handed.
"Whoa, one hand?"
"Grip strength, but check the balance."
Sometimes actions spoke louder.
He spun into the pull, centrifugal force turning arm and shield into a massive blade.
"Ooh."
The thick oak reinforced with iron and rivets weighed near 10kg. As it danced in Arun's hand, cheers erupted.
"Waaah!"
To Arun, the shield was no mere defense—a threatening weapon.
Combat tricks from his Brad days poured out: rolling over rough ground shield-back, charging edge-first.
"How many minutes?"
Over half an hour, cheers turned frenzy.
"Waaaaaah!"
"Arun! Arun! Arun!"
Finally, Arun stopped before the troops.
"Huff, huff. See my overflowing power?"
"Hahaha."
"Crystal clear, sir!"
Laughter rippled at his jest.
"Even I feel sword cuts. So you shield me, and I'll shield you and yours. Great deal, right?"
"Protect the lord!"
"Protect! Protect! Protect!"
Amid cheers, Arun shed his clothes while walking.
"Water! Pour it on."
Splash.
"Gah! Refreshing. More."
Splash.
Steam rose from hot skin meeting cold water.
Pendersen draped a towel over him. Water dripped from blond hair down flushed muscles.
"Refreshing. Landiv, spar tonight?"
"Always honored by your tutelage, my lord."
Landiv was skilled, but Arun's peak-human stamina and swordplay merited teaching.
"You've changed much, my lord."
"Hearing that a lot lately. Disappointed?"
"Never. Forgive my impertinence."
"No impertinence."
Dried, clad only in gambeson, Arun sat.
"People change, for better or worse. That's the question."
He eyed Landiv sidelong.
"My changes—for you, good or bad?"
"Impertinent, but my attitude proves it."
Arun chuckled.
"Heh heh heh."
"Judge by actions. I won't disappoint."
"Your silver tongue sharpens daily."
"Take it in the good way."
People changed, and that pivot shaped futures. Satisfied, their gazes aligned.
A lazy afternoon peace hung over the camp.
But expectations of a warm close shattered.
"Cavalry Captain Nil Carpenter. Open the gate."
Groooan.
Crunch, clatter.
"Fetch priests. Healers too. Hurry."
Nil's cavalry brought wounded.
"Report: encountered 100+ orc riders on northern Cass Plains this morning. Repelled them, rescued their quarry."
"No major losses. Good work."
"One claims to be heir to the Caminity house."
"Intriguing."
Arun rose.