The Nightmare's True Origin
The feeling of greeting my fake was quite unfamiliar, but by now I had grown somewhat accustomed to attaching honorifics to a false name—or even to my own.
“Good day, Mr. Birette. You appear to be traveling.”
He dismounted the Pegasus and extended his hand without hesitation. I clasped it. His hand was so soft and delicate that it might as well have belonged to a woman—a refined lady who had never once performed rough labor.
“Yes. I’m on my way to Winzers.”
“……”
Perhaps I had made some unwitting mistake, for his expression stiffened slightly. I quickly released his hand. I had probably held on too long, captivated by that softness, or my grip had felt unnatural.
Nevertheless, he soon relaxed and offered a gentle smile.
“The road to Winzers is blocked. If you can wait until we finish helping the villagers, I’ll escort you there myself.”
It was a genuinely kind offer—and precisely what I needed.
“I would be most grateful if you did.”
“You’re in luck. Lord Anak happens to be in the village right now. Otherwise you’d have had to wait until the river ran dry or crossed two roadless mountains.”
The villagers’ eyes and voices carried deep trust, along with a quiet pride and faint superiority, as though they were speaking of their own family to outsiders.
To win that level of trust in such a short time was remarkable—and, I had to admit, enviable. No matter how many good deeds one performed, trust like that was never given freely. I knew that better than anyone.
“You’re right. I really was fortunate.”
He continued working for the villagers—repairing embankments, reorganizing waterways, and handling other tasks. Some of them seemed unnecessary, yet the villagers watched each feat with awe and joy.
I lingered a while to see what summoners he might call forth, but every task was handled by earth elementals or other spirits. Nothing new.
After observing for some time, I used travel fatigue as an excuse and slipped away toward the village’s only inn. It had no proper sign; the second floor of the tavern simply had two empty rooms. According to the locals, traveling peddlers stayed there a couple of times a year, and drunk patrons who couldn’t make it home sometimes used the space to sleep it off.
“Here you are—honey mead.”
Seated at a corner table, I took bread and jerky from my pack. The tavern couldn’t offer a proper meal because of food shortages, and anything they did serve was overpriced, so the owner allowed guests to eat their own provisions—as long as they ordered drinks.
I lifted the mug, its handle chipped, and took a sip, then set it back down. Honey mead was meant to be drunk warm, but this was merely lukewarm, poorly aged, and lacking both smoothness and any trace of honey.
I should have eaten in my room or the study. I had looked forward to the fragrant country mead, only to be disappointed.
“He really is an extraordinary man.”
While I chewed a piece of bread in quiet regret, the tavern door opened and a group of villagers entered—the same ones who had been watching the work earlier. Each carried a plate of bread or meat from home.
“Phil! Nine honey meads over here!”
They took seats at the large table near the hearth. The owner filled worn mugs identical to mine and set them down.
“Look at him. Nobility and grace just radiate from him.”
The tavern was small and nearly empty, so their conversation carried clearly.
“Yeah. I’ve never seen anyone like him.”
“He’s one of the heroes who saved the world, after all.”
I couldn’t help a small laugh. Yes, that was how most people thought after the war. And because of that, I had been forced to meet their eyes—eyes filled with doubt and suspicion.
“……”
I raised the mug and poured the mead straight down my throat. It tasted awful, but I hoped it might at least wash away this useless, ugly feeling.
“To the Summoner of Deception! The Second-Best Strategist! The Nightmare of Orsia Hill! A toast to the great Lord Anak!”
“Cheers!”
At one man’s lead, the others raised their mugs, clashed them loudly, and drank.
“Kuh! Still tastes like nothing. Phil, another nine!”
I raised my hand and ordered another as well. One mug wasn’t enough to drown this mood. Madness, after all, was doing the same thing and expecting a different result. The thought flashed through my mind, but before I could cancel the order the diligent owner had already placed a fresh mug in front of me.
“Calling him the Summoner of Deception or the Second-Best Strategist makes sense, but why the Nightmare of Orsia Hill?”
A young man who still looked like a boy asked the question innocently. The villagers only gave awkward smiles and offered no answer. That was the normal reaction.
The Nightmare of Orsia Hill. Orsia Hill was the place where I had achieved my greatest feat during the war, fighting alone without my companions. That was how the title had been born. Yet aside from my comrades and the handful of people who had been there, few knew exactly what had happened.
“Well… I don’t really know either.”
With a heavy heart I emptied another mug. Misreading my state, the owner brought yet another drink and gave me an incongruous wink with his left eye.
I hadn’t planned on drinking three mugs of this flavorless stuff, but my meal wasn’t finished and I didn’t want to embarrass him. I pushed the empty mugs aside and picked up another piece of bread.
Whether my tolerance had dropped or the local mead was stronger than usual, I could feel a light buzz in my lips and fingertips as I bit into the bread.
“No, I’m fine—”
At that moment the tavern door opened again. He entered, surrounded by a crowd of villagers. Looking troubled, he glanced at the people encircling him but made no move to stop them. They half-forced him into a seat. Without taking an order, the owner set down a plate of honey mead and fresh fruit.
“Please, eat. It’s on us.”
Unlike the chipped mugs in front of the rest of us, his was smooth and new. The fruit on the plate, though not freshly picked, looked undeniably fresh.
“Everyone, as I said yesterday, there’s no need to keep doing this.”
“Not at all, Lord Anak. After everything you’ve done for us, this is the least we can do.”
“If it were up to us, we’d throw a proper feast instead of serving Phil’s tasteless mead and stored fruit.”
It wasn’t mere courtesy. If the village hadn’t been short on food, they really would have held a festival. Many rural villages had festivals honoring heroes or wandering mages who had saved them from crisis.
The villagers ordered more mead. The owner hurried over, collected two empty mugs, and soon returned carrying fresh ones. They raised their voices, chanting my—his—name, and clinked mugs with him. He looked uncomfortable, yet smiled gently at each of them.
He didn’t seem to enjoy drinking. He rarely brought the mug to his lips, and when he did, he only moistened them slightly.
“Cheers!”
“Cheers!”
They continued toasting loudly for a long while, offering cheerful words and thanks. The tavern owner’s smile grew wider with every round.
“…Cheers.”
I raised my own mug alone and took a small sip. My name echoed throughout the tavern, yet I sat alone in the corner. The feeling was strange, but it was enough to make me lift the mug again.
“By the way, Lord Anak, how did you come to be called the Nightmare of Orsia Hill?”
The same young man who had asked earlier spoke up again. He must have thought the person in question being present was a good opportunity. I listened quietly as well. I was curious how he would respond.
Did he actually know what had happened at Orsia Hill? I wondered whether he had investigated that far for the sake of an accurate impersonation, or whether he would simply make something up on the spot.
“That is…”
He hesitated, which suggested the latter. Before he could answer, one of the villagers who had the most empty mugs stacked in front of him stood up and scolded the boy.
“Don’t ask stupid questions, Billy! Obviously because he defeated the enemies brilliantly at Orsia Hill! He became their nightmare.”
His pronunciation was slightly slurred, but no one paid it any mind. Instead, they enthusiastically agreed with his excited tone.
“That’s right! Just look at those cyclops bastards! He was a nightmare to the enemies!”
“The Nightmare of Orsia Hill!”
I felt a laugh rising. If they ever learned the truth of what had happened there, would they still be able to laugh so heartily and raise their mugs?
“Pfft.”
I laughed without meaning to. I hadn’t intended to make a sound, and even if I had, I thought it would be quiet. Perhaps because of the alcohol, a little noise escaped. Worse, it happened at the exact moment their laughter was dying down.
“Hey! You!”
The man who had been shouting earlier raised his voice at me. He tried to stand and approach, but his balance was off and he had to be supported by someone else.
“What the hell are you laughing at, you bastard? Huh? You think Lord Anak is funny?”
Watching him drunkenly rant was almost comical. He had no idea who he was talking to. The situation itself was absurd. Yet while my mind wanted to laugh it off, my face had hardened, and I could feel one corner of my mouth curling into a sneer.
A hot, red feeling—different from the alcohol—rose in my chest. I looked quietly at the shouting man, the other villagers watching us, and the green-haired man who had risen to intervene. Even though my gaze held no particular intent, most of them showed hostility or fear.
“What! What! You wanna fight? Say it! What’s so damn funny that you’re laughing like that?”
I reached out, grabbed the half-full mug, and poured the rest down my throat. I had always disliked people who surrendered both body and mind to drink. The other man was drunk, and so was I to some degree—this was a foolish choice. Still, I wanted to erase the unpleasant heat in my chest.
Of course, as I already knew, it was a foolish choice.
“No, it’s nothing. It’s simply very different from what I know.”
My voice came out colder than I expected, surprising even me.
“The Nightmare of Orsia Hill. From what I’ve heard, the title wasn’t given for that reason. It has nothing to do with any glorious tale of valor. Lord Anak himself would know that, of course.”
The words came out more sarcastic than necessary. Yes, I was definitely drunk. At least my pronunciation wasn’t slurred—or so I thought—but I was undeniably intoxicated. Otherwise I wouldn’t have felt such revulsion at speaking of that day with my own mouth.
“That title wasn’t given by the enemies, nor does it refer to them. It was given by allies—by those who fought beside Lord Anak in that battle. It’s a title born from the fear they felt.”