Chapter 47
Chapter 47
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 047
Chapter Title: The Enemy Is Behind Us (4)
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As sunset painted the sky, light spilled from a house atop the hill.
Creak, creak.
A signboard reading Liquor and Food swayed in the wind. The three-story building was flanked by several annexes facing each other across the courtyard.
Beneath the hill stretched a row of about a dozen warehouses.
"Is this the place you mentioned? It's not quite the scale I pictured."
"They must have expanded in the meantime."
Neigh, neigh.
"Whoa, good work. Up you go."
As they dismounted in the inn's courtyard, a little boy came scurrying out.
"Welcome, sir. This way, uh, uh?"
That kid's grown a lot in just a year.
"Y-You..."
"Yeah, it's the lord. Mind washing the horses and giving them some feed? Here's a tip."
After ruffling Alfonso's hair wildly, Arun slipped a silver coin into the boy's hand and beckoned the group.
"Come on in. Let's get some real rest tonight."
"Just what I wanted. Sleeping rough is no joke."
Yains gave his waist a pat and followed the others inside.
Terman had returned to Westguard the moment stability returned, expanding the inn and hiring on discharged soldiers.
They had swept the surrounding orc remnants and criminals, securing public order. In turn, the Liquor and Food inn became a vital stopover for supply caravans passing through the fortress—and that was how it had grown to this.
Stepping into the first floor, eyes turned their way as always.
Merchants unwinding from the road's fatigue, hunters clinking mugs and laughing raucously, servers frozen mid-stride—all halted.
Those who recognized Arun began showing their respects one by one.
"Lord."
"My lord."
Arun scratched his cheek and strode to the hall's center.
"You all know the drill by now. I'm not here to play the noble. Let's just relax and be on our way—you, me, everyone."
"Come on now, show some gratitude for the lord's grace and carry on like usual. I know it won't be easy."
Yains clapped to pull the stares his way and took a seat at the counter.
"Think I could sample that famous Terman soup?"
"The soup's no trouble."
Arun held Benjamin back as he started forward at the innkeeper's stiff demeanor.
"I've heard plenty about you from Sir Brad. Just treat us like travelers far from home? That'll do."
"I'll do my best."
Arun nodded and claimed a high stool at the counter.
By then, the hall's hush gave way to lively chatter once more. Folks fresh off grueling treks drowned their weariness in beer.
"Your lands are really full of life."
"Lands? Call it the vigor of folks hitting stability after holding out thirty years."
"Exactly. The pride of making it on their own."
Northguard's people had been passive, perhaps because they'd never truly pitched in.
Yains's face fell.
"A feeling no eternal failure like me will ever know."
"Here, have a drink."
Arun took the brandy from Terman and filled an empty glass.
"You lost your lands. I lost the succession."
"Kukukuku, quite the tragic tale."
"Just saying—easy gains make effort and longing pointless."
"No wars, either. Now that would be paradise."
Yains topped off his own glass.
"Paradise is open to all, but the path is hard, so not everyone makes it," the bishop said.
"Who?"
"The priest—no, the bishop. Paradise welcomes everyone, but the road's too tough for most."
"Heh heh heh, so toe the line if you want in."
"Not sure about that. But I think I get why you're on this path, my lord."
Yains shook his head, déjà vu prickling.
"Fine, you get it."
"All for stabilizing Westguard."
"Enough."
"To rally more support, you're making the plea in person."
"Stop."
Yains plugged his ears with both hands and shook his head.
Arun cracked a wry smile. Benjamin muttered "not bad" and knocked back his brandy.
"Soup's here."
Terman's soup pulled the self-tormented soul from the abyss.
Clink.
Talk paused as the meal went on.
Satisfaction soothed hearts; slurred chatter and the crude clack of wooden mugs lulled everyone drowsy. That fleeting haze was the peace they'd all craved.
"I see the secret to the flavor now."
"...?"
Schmidt turned, spoon in mouth. Benjamin perked up, scraping his plate with crusty bread.
"Endless plains and hills, arriving footsore along cart ruts—soup like that can't taste bad."
Benjamin and Schmidt nodded wordlessly.
Overhearers nodded too, without much thought.
"Never realized. You're more sage than lord..."
Terman caught Arun's eye, nodding right along.
Arun shrugged and drained his glass.
Meal done, Schmidt pitched in with Alfonso's chores. Arun cocked his head at the noble's lack of decorum.
Some attachment to what he couldn't protect?
Those who'd lost comrades knew the ache of lost folk.
The summons freed him from lordly drudgery's tangle. Long night, old friend, trusted knights, kids—no loneliness. He savored the rare freedom, emptying his glass.
And so the day faded.
They rose at dawn for training.
Arun and Benjamin sparred after laps around the inn; Schmidt kept running. Benjamin dropped; Yains's turn.
Yains wore a "why am I here?" look the whole time.
Invited to the inn family's breakfast, Mrs. Terman's mushroom soup finally chased the hangover. They hit the road again.
Terman's kin and six families of discharged soldiers saw them off.
"Safe travels, please."
"We pray for the lord's safe return."
"Big bro, come visit on the way back."
"Sure thing, Alfonso. Mind your folks till then."
Mounted, Yains sighed.
"What a warm family."
Little talk shared, but what topped family warmth?
Arun leaned forward on his horse.
"What we lack. What we'll never have."
"Likely."
Yains looked bitter.
A noble house was a corporation unto itself. Territories to seize and run; marriage a mere tool; blood spilled casually over succession.
It said plenty about humanity.
"Picking up speed. Southern Alliance by sunset."
"Let's fly? Hya!"
"Hah, hah."
Clop, clop.
Alfonso had fed them well enough; the horses flew. Kid earned that tip.
Ramping speed, they alternated gallops and trots.
Late afternoon brought Mad Village.
Clop, clop.
The welcome was formal, courteous. Imperial-armored warriors lined a path in twin files, elders waiting at the end.
Yains whispered, astonished.
"Imperial garb, imperial rites. Seamless."
Just as he said—the native line felt obsolete.
"We see the North's master."
"We see the alliance elders."
They spoke imperial; Arun replied in native. Dismounting, he met their gazes.
"Thrilled to meet at last."
His imperial drew Yains's surprise; the fluent native flipped it to "figures"—then widened eyes anew.
The elders gaped more.
"How does a noble—no, our lord—know our tongue so well?"
"Sir Brad's tutelage."
"Ah."
Sarmanni Mad, the alliance head, shut his eyes, lips moving. Catching the tribute, Arun smiled.
The banquet reaffirmed Brad Cahill's pact and toasted successes.
"Alliance fields 1,200 standing troops. Half cavalry; 120 dispatched to Westguard."
"Thanks to them, supply lines hold. Expecting great things from those riders."
It doubled as sounding out the new master.
"Word is you're off to the grand priest."
"Yes. Orc stirrings loom; need full support. Clear any misunderstandings, please."
"Ah, thought so."
The elders exhaled relief.
They had eyes, ears, wits—knew power's ways. They'd just acknowledged Arun's feats since stepping up.
Turmoil guessed at, but his poise built trust.
"If possible, we'll settle your titles too."
"Ooh."
Imperial goods had made them nobles already. But noble rolls meant more—they knew.
Super-tribe shelter promising glory, joy overflowed.
"May dawn light the North's master."
"We'll stand firm beside you."
Arun's trust, measured distance, goodwill won them over.
That's near an oath of fealty.
Yains sipped beside, inwardly wry.
Not bad. Their faith could reclaim my lands someday.
The liquor tasted as sweet as rosy prospects.
Another drowned in honey beer's allure.
"Mnya... My lord's back guarded by Schmidt Mirramount... zzz..."
"Vicious stuff."
Benjamin eyed the slumped Schmidt, shook off the golden temptation, and set his glass down.
The banquet brimmed warmth. Elders pressed if Arun had a consort, prayed his return. Some reeled out drunk.
Arun cooled his gut with tea.
Wish the capital's power players were this reasonable.
So-called barbarians backed wave defenses. Civilized folk? Suspicion, obstruction. Guarding mankind's frontier felt futile.
Next day, training dawn-started, soft soup for breakfast.
Leaving elders' farewells, they rode on.
Clop, clop.
Clear skies, cool breeze—prime riding weather.
That eve, overnighting at Roxen Prison, they pushed south to Brennenton. Ten days from Westguard.
The city buzzed at the third son's return.
Darkness cloaked Brennenton.
This storied city, ancient defender of the empire, lay hushed. Walls broad for carriages bore lonely sentry silhouettes.
Moonlight bathed the silent study.
Pour.
Lloyd van Brennenton, the eldest, filled his glass.
"Toasting now?"
He smiled bitterly.
Arun's concession secured his succession—but the underbelly tangled.
No deaths kept positions intact, yet Westguard's loyalty to his brother snuffed the spoils.
Harmony soothed the uncles, but razor interests nursed blasts waiting. Knights' fealty? The wealth to pay it—how much?
Family fortune's survival? Debatable.
Just crush him?
Lloyd shook his head inside. Victory at ruinous cost—what of the waves?
Win that way, house crumbles.
No designs on heading a falling Brennenton. Nor yielding the seat.
"Sigh."
He slumped back.
The ceiling caught his eye: spear-phalanx trampling monsters in rough strokes. Ancestors claiming the land.
He smirked.
"Back then, at least friend from foe was clear."
Not now. One slip, all foes.
Knock—butler entered.
"Third young lord seeks audience, journey done."
"Send him in. Candles, please."
"Yes, master."
Dozens flames chased moonlit gloom; Lloyd's face shifted.
Door opened; half-brother stepped in.
"Hahaha, welcome, brother."
Smile granting all.