Chapter 40
Chapter 40
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 040
Chapter Title: End of Winter (1)
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Baron Bendel Mirramount removed his helmet and reported.
"We've taken care of all the orcs, but we were too hasty. Who would have thought some were lying in ambush. Prioritizing speed led to us neglecting our vigilance."
'Obsessed with hierarchy, a commander whose abilities are just average.'
He might have been average as a noble, at least. It was a small mercy that he wasn't foolish enough to cover up the sacrifices with the victory.
"What's with the kid next to you?"
"Ah, this is my son. Come on, say hello."
"I'm Schmitt Mirramount."
Maybe thirteen or fourteen? Arun's brow furrowed at the sight of the noble boy standing there with blood trickling from his head.
"Come closer. Benjamin, pour some strong liquor on the table there."
"Yes, my lord."
He examined the boy's head, carefully parting the hair around the wound. The young noble boy didn't make a single sound throughout.
"You endure well."
He cleaned the scabbed area with the strong liquor and wrapped it in bandages. That was the extent of what he could do.
"Keep your hair from covering the scar for the time being."
"Yes. Thank you for your grace, my lord."
"Thank you."
Moved by his kindness, the baron's voice grew softer.
But Arun remained cold.
"What are our casualties?"
"Hampton, Madison, and German fell, and five are seriously wounded."
At that moment, a soldier whispered something into Benjamin's ear.
"Boldrun just stopped breathing."
"Ugh."
Sacrifices followed every battle. Still, it wasn't right for sons, brothers, and fathers to die like that.
'Bendel Mirramount—the price of testing his abilities was high.'
As Arun fell silent instead of praising their hard-won victory, Yains stepped in after a quick glance.
"Everyone, good work. Distribute liquor to the soldiers and let them rest."
Nil shot a brief glare at Baron Bendel before leaving the tent. Landiv followed silently behind him, and Benjamin tactfully escorted the baron out.
Yains, who had seemed to leave with them, returned shortly after with liquor and jerky.
"Lighten up a bit. Someone might think we'd lost."
"If it's comfort you're offering, make it a little gentler."
"..."
Yains looked at him with eyes full of disgust.
"I can overlook you pretending to be a perfectionist, handsome, or brooding. But playing weak? No."
"Pity. I thought we were friends."
"That's why I'm saying it. With nothing but weaklings around, don't you need to stand tall as a pillar at least?"
Glug glug.
The sharp scent of strong liquor stung his nose.
"Whiskey, huh."
"Would I offer you cheap swill? Here, have some."
Arun lifted the glass to his lips.
"Where's a victory without sacrifices? If you want, tell Baron Bendel to cough up some compensation."
"Tempting. You know something about him?"
"Not much about the baron himself, but a little about Mirramount Fortress. It was a place I had my eye on."
"Come to think of it, it's on the border between Westguard and Northguard."
"The reputation was for solid forces overall. The locals spoke well of them too, so I figured military absorption had its limits and started looking into economic approaches."
Arun sipped his liquor without a word.
"As Grand Lord, he'd make a fine steward."
At the mention of Grand Lord, Arun's movements paused. He glanced sideways at his friend while tilting his glass.
"What? You didn't forget our promise, did you? Stabilize the North and come to Northguard."
"Kuh."
Arun grimaced at the burning heat scorching his throat and wiped his lips.
"Don't pile on scraps you've picked up here and there to your hopes."
"Huh? What if you're already going back on your word?"
"I remember telling you to find opportunities by my side. If anything, depending on your performance, I might offer a little help."
"Did I?"
Seeing Yains's mouth stretch to his ears, Arun gave a wry smile.
"You managed to wrangle a bonus out of me."
"A little? Even if you pretend not to know later, what can I do?"
"Is that so?"
"What I know for sure is that I'm useful to you, and I need you too. Can't beat that for a relationship. I'll bring it up every chance I get and confirm your answer."
There was no deviation from the premise: cooperate, and he'd get a chance.
"To fill your gaps, I'd need to know what's in that head of yours. We're not kids anymore. How are things with your family?"
"The headache of a third son hoping for mutual destruction with the orcs, me treating them as a supply depot, and the sly old foxes weighing the two?"
"Heh heh heh. Right on the nose."
Yains shrugged and continued.
"What's your policy on Springgarden?"
"I'll make sure they get a taste of it. Not sure if the chance will come."
"Aslram..."
Arun added wood to the brazier and answered.
"To me, it's just another—or bigger—money pit like Brennenton. I'd like to draw in the Emperor's gold and troops, or at least pressure the main family if not."
"Efficiency across the board."
"Efficiency my ass. I'd be thrilled if half of it panned out."
Yains laughed at Arun's grumbling. After that, the two discussed the northern situation, troop operations, and native policies. Mostly Arun talking, Yains listening.
The flickering winter night flames painted their faces red.
The next day, one seriously wounded man passed away. The remaining three followed the morning after.
On the tenth day of the expedition, the task force loaded fifteen bodies—including those from Mirramount—and began the return journey.
"It's frozen solid already."
Yains grumbled under his hood.
The steppes weren't all grass and plains. Dense forests on hills could pass for mountains, and overlapping ridges formed valleys.
Icy patches everywhere slowed their pace.
Clop clop.
Arun was lost in other worries the whole return trip.
'I need knights.'
With most of his Royal Guard Knights fallen, he needed replacements.
'I don't ask for much. Just reducing idiotic mistakes would be enough.'
He desperately needed field commanders who could shine in simultaneous battles. Ones faithful to doctrine, who listened to veteran advice and stayed steady in any situation.
Arun's worries deepened.
The Imperial capital Aslram was full of monumental buildings commemorating its short history.
One of them was the 'Stadium'.
This circular structure, 500 meters in circumference and 40 meters high, supported by eighty pillars, boasted 30,000 seats—surpassing even the palace as a single building.
The Emperor reviewed the Imperial Army here or hosted knight tournaments. On off days, gladiator slaves fought to the death.
There was a presence in the Stadium's contestant waiting room.
Clank.
"Let's see. Should hold up a month or two no problem."
Clink.
"Rivets look fine too. Dry season, so no worries for a while."
The man checked the corrosion on the chair's chains and rivets, then frowned at the bloodstains on the floor. But he'd only ensured his juniors' safety—no need to clean.
After inspecting the waiting room and stables, he climbed the stairs.
Thud thud.
Halfway up, he paused and looked back, a trace of regret in his eyes.
He'd competed here for decades, mostly on the losing side.
Comrades he'd shared it with became crippled one by one or crossed an irreversible river, with only a few retiring unscathed. He'd endured twelve years to become a tournament legend.
'Eternal Survivor, the Undying. Everyone's Loser.'
Countless ways to introduce him, most drawing laughs from the crowd.
He liked 'Everyone's Loser' best.
"Even if it means the total opposite."
He turned and walked on, passing the stairs he always climbed post-match, the corridors enduring cheers or jeers, to the cabinet he'd used for years.
The inscription on the door caught his eye.
'perennial winner (eternal victor)'
A junior from his briefly shining days had carved it.
"Perennats, rest easy there."
He paused, then drew a dagger from his waist.
Scrape, scrape.
Soon, the words were neatly gouged out, erasing his lingering attachments.
It was the end of Philip Casamir, the tournament legend.
"Where do you think you're running off to?"
A hulking figure blocked the Stadium entrance—though his small head just made his body seem bigger.
Philip clicked his tongue.
"Tch. Thought the send-off was grand enough."
"There's always room for one last hurrah. Let me, Ron Mayer, escort you."
"Pass."
"Come on, how about your favorite tea then, senior?"
"..."
Glug.
The view from the second-floor salon was peaceful.
"Heard you overdid the drinking. Stomach okay?"
"You're the one worrying about that, and you come inviting me for more?"
Philip scolded his junior, savored the tea's aroma, then set the cup down.
"Got a letter from home this morning. Started with 'To my beloved'—blew away my hangover like that."
"Heh heh heh."
Clink.
Ron fiddled with his teacup handle. Seemed like checking the temperature, but it didn't fool his seasoned senior's eyes.
"Something bothering you?"
"What, one or two? Faster to list what's not."
Ron Mayer was a mid-to-lower tier tournament contender.
"Actually, the Dennis Company approached me about sponsorship."
"Oh? Congrats."
"Baron Alex's house offered too."
"Really? Now that's awkward."
"Awkward? I could die without a single win."
When people gathered, corruption followed. Tournaments with money on the line were no exception.
Nobles pressuring opponents of their sponsored fighters were common, down to one-off rich bettors and even back-alley thugs.
—A knight's gut still takes a knife. Watch yourself.
—Once is enough. 10 gold buys a fine horse.
Resisting threats and temptations wasn't easy. Compromising wasn't either—if the losers complained, it all came out.
"What's your goal?"
"To become an honorable knight who doesn't yield to injustice, of course."
"Nonsense."
Thud.
Philip Casamir, who'd survived the tournament's wounds and deaths for over ten years, set his cup down.
"Ron Mayer, the tournament itself is the heart of injustice. What honor in weighing which injustice to join?"
"Mm."
"In a life with a sword, you don't need others' approval. Just follow your heart."
The talk flowed between advice and grumbling.
"When you win doesn't matter. Winners win eventually. Same with making money—those who do, will. Strive for your goal, and you'll reach it."
Philip's voice softened.
"But the timing isn't ours to choose. So don't rush. It'll let you make slightly better choices."
"The world's too complicated."
"And cowardly too."
"Got it. I'll play it safe and cowardly. Then someday, like you, Philip Casamir, I'll retire to juniors' applause."
"That a jab?"
"Hahaha."
Ron laughed heartily, waving his hands. Moments later, staring at his cold tea, he blinked.
"The North? That noisy with the Wave?"
"I want my career's end on the battlefield."
"Sounds like opportunity, but they'll suck you dry and spit you out. You know that, right?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Huh?"
"I know that's how this world works. But."
"..."
He let out a long breath and stared at his junior. His eyes were lightly bloodshot but relatively clear.
"Isn't it the same everywhere?"
"W-Well."
"We're freelancers. Easy gigs slip by while chasing the perfect spot."
"Mm."
"Appreciate the concern. All this time..."
"Where is it? That place."
"Hm?"
"Follow your heart, you said. Rather than scrapping with money-grubbers, I'll tag along with you, senior."
"..."
He just blinked at his junior's sudden move.
"Well, now."
The next day, Philip visited the Loyton Merchant Company branch.
"Welcome. Good to see you."
Second Clerk Moheni Lorn greeted him in the lobby.
"Heard you retired from the tournament. Excellent."
"How many squires can I take?"
"We can offer 100 gold for a year's salary. Spend it as you like, but remember we evaluate merits annually and adjust."
Enough to arm one apprentice knight. Decent if he charged tuition—not great, not bad.
'For an apprentice, should I bring Ron?'
Philip sank into happy deliberation.