The Army That Vanished
At long last, Hate, the Manager of the 2nd Legion, had returned to Bilkenos.
Though the number of Phantom Dullahans that had marched with her had thinned considerably, their achievement was monumental — they had slain the Second Brother and located the Northern God itself.
The Northern God's position was classified as top-secret intelligence, and it was the single most decisive card they held, one that could move the royal army now stationed in Bilkenos however they pleased. The Kingdom forces knew nothing whatsoever of the North's terrain or the geography of the Frost Field, leaving them with no choice but to rely on the Grand Duke's orders.
Bilkenos immediately convened an emergency council.
Those attending were the Grand Duke Jean Arskalt, Grand General Ganiro, the butler Godric, and one trusted general and one elder of the Grand Duke's choosing — five in total.
Simon was the Grand Duke's cherished disciple, but he was still an outsider, and the objections of the high-ranking officials kept him from joining them.
"Hello there~"
Simon was resting near a window of the castle when a woman approached him.
It was Grayson, the milkmaid — the very first person Simon had grown close to since arriving in the Northern Territory of Carlos.
"Ah. Hello, Grayson."
"Care for some milk?"
She thrust her milk churn toward him without preamble, wearing that easy, goofy smile of hers.
"Sounds like something's been weighing on you. Reindeer milk is the best cure for days like that."
"...It's a universal panacea, isn't it?"
"Hohoho! You bet it is!"
Simon had no confidence in draining that entire churn alone, so he'd fetched a cup. They each filled a cup to the brim, then drank while gazing out at the snowy northern landscape beyond the window.
Reindeer milk.
Its characteristically bitter aftertaste didn't quite suit Simon's palate, but faced with that goofy grin of Grayson's, he could never bring himself to say it tasted bad. He drank it with gusto.
"You know, I come to this castle every single day to deliver milk,"
she said.
"Maybe that's why I can feel the way the atmosphere in this place changes, deep in my bones."
"That's fascinating. How's it feeling today?"
She closed her eyes for a moment.
"War's coming soon."
'!'
"An atmosphere sharp as a blade. Whenever this mood settles over the castle, a great battle always follows. Not long ago, this same feeling hung in the air — and then came the war against the Three Brothers."
Even as Simon marveled, he noted how remarkably calm Grayson's expression was as she spoke of 'war.'
Was it simply that northern people lived each day as one battle after another?
"Are you going off to war too, Simon?"
Her question came out of nowhere, and Simon, who had been lost in thought, hurriedly gathered himself and answered.
"Yes, I expect so. I am the Grand Duke's disciple, after all."
"Then I'll pray you come home safe! Oh, and—"
She flashed her goofy smile, milk leaving a white smear around her mouth.
"Milk before a war is the best. Strong bones mean strong undead-slaying!"
And with that, she raised her mug. Simon chuckled softly and clinked his own against it.
"Thank you, Grayson."
When the emergency council concluded, the date of the campaign was set.
The Grand Duke had already declared publicly that she would settle things with the Northern God before Simon's stay in the North ended. The army would march in three days.
Until then, Simon had to raise his capabilities as a Legion Commander by any means necessary. He might not have the tens of thousands of undead troops the Grand Duke had boldly promised before her generals, but he was determined to play the role to its fullest.
Once the schedule was fixed, Simon wasted not a single hour of it.
He rose before dawn and ran along the roads for physical training, and once he entered the inner fortress, he threw himself into mirroring the Grand Duke's training routine as closely as he possibly could.
'...She's a monster.'
Of course, matching the training volume the Grand Duke had maintained for over a decade was impossible. If anything, Simon felt that his own limits were more baffling than the Grand Duke's vast command capacity.
The moment physical training ended, Legion Commander lessons began. With the loss of the Three Brothers, the Northern God had gathered every ounce of its forces into its own domain, the 'Abyss' — the undead incursions had ceased entirely, leaving no targets to practice on.
Left with no alternative, the Grand Duke trained him using her own undead.
A friendly drill between the 2nd Legion and the 7th.
[Kahaha! Don't you dare lose, boy! Sweep those 2nd Legion rabble aside!]
Pier roared, fired up by the competition. Simon stretched both arms out before him, sweat pouring down his face.
'Keep advancing!'
His skeletons clattered forward, charging into the enemy line. His force comprised eleven summon-type undead and thirty legion-type undead.
Soon they clashed with the Grand Duke's skeleton battalion.
Thwack!
Just then, a skeleton rider wheeled around behind him and thrust its spear at Simon's face. Simon's eyes flashed as he issued an order to a skeleton in the rear.
The rear skeleton caught the rider's thrust on its shield, then drove its own spear into the rider's chest, scattering the creature to pieces.
'Blocked it!'
"Not bad at all."
The Grand Duke approached with her arms crossed and a grin on her face.
"That makes twelve, doesn't it?"
"Ah — yes!"
Since arriving in the North, the maximum number of summon-type undead Simon could control had grown enormously. From nine to twelve.
'At this level, I could control a Bone Dragon too!'
Simon clenched his fist in delight.
The Grand Duke dismissed her troops and called a break, and the two sat down on a nearby boulder, gulping water from their canteens.
"..."
"..."
Ever since the victory celebration, the air between them had remained awkward.
At first the strangeness had been unbearable for Simon, but by now he'd more or less adapted, and it no longer felt uncomfortable. He supposed the sheer brutality of the training had something to do with it.
Then—
"Impudent brat."
For the first time in a long while, the Grand Duke spoke first.
"There is something I wish to ask."
And it was a question, no less.
Simon's eyes went wide as he looked at her.
"Ask away."
"Your father..."
She trailed off mid-mutter, then abruptly glanced away.
"Your father...!"
Then, with a short 'Ha,' of a sigh, she snatched up the helmet she'd set down beside her and put it on. Only once her body was hidden behind the armor did she seem to recover her composure, a fierce light gleaming through the visor's slit.
[Truly, then — is your father 'Yona'?]
"..."
Simon stared at her in silence for a moment, then rose to his feet.
Stepping close, Simon took the Grand Duke's helmet in both hands and carefully lifted it away. As the helmet rose, long hair spilled down like a waterfall, revealing cheeks flushed a deeper shade than before.
Simon smiled, soft and gentle.
"Yes. He is."
"!"
Her face burned hotter still.
"And haven't I told you over and over? Look me in the eye when we talk?"
"Y-you insolent—!"
The Grand Duke, helmet seized from her hands, flustered and edged away, shifting further to the side.
Realizing her gaze kept trying to slide sideways on its own, she mustered strength in her eyes and looked Simon straight on.
"I-is Yona alive?"
"Yes."
Joy bloomed across her face.
"And did he... did he marry?"
"Yes."
Simon smiled.
It was a fact he'd only learned recently from Pier, but he had already suspected she knew his father.
— Richard has been to the North before.
That had been Pier's answer when Simon lamented that his relationship with the Grand Duke never seemed to improve.
Hearing it, Simon had begun to wonder whether some connection existed between his father and the Grand Duke. Her earlier question — asking who his father was — had been another crucial hint.
"He married in a small country estate, and the two of them had me. They're both living well to this day."
"...I see."
Her trembling began, little by little, to still.
"So that's how it was."
The Grand Duke slowly exhaled a long breath.
It felt like a weight lifted.
The things that had gnawed at her, the questions she'd carried, the useless tangle of feelings she'd dragged around — at last, she felt she could set them all down in peace.
Her only regret was not having asked sooner.
"Did something happen between you and my father?"
Simon asked.
"It was nothing worth mentioning."
She gave a relieved smile.
"He blustered about as he pleased, then dumped his work on me and ran off."
The two of them traded story after story on their shared topic: Richard. When they found themselves in perfect agreement that Richard was an eccentric beyond compare, they both laughed out loud.
"Oh, absolutely — Mom scolded him every single day."
The fearsome Legion Commander who had obsessed over command drills like a madman was nowhere to be found. The Grand Duke simply watched in silence as Simon laughed and gossiped about his family like any boy his age.
"I see."
One thing remained for the Grand Duke.
She could not bring herself to ask who had married Yona.
But whoever it was had tamed the notoriously wild Yona and raised Simon — the boy who had inherited his blood in full measure — into someone so upright. She could only conclude that no ordinary woman could have done it.
"Enough idle chatter. Back to training."
"Yes, ma'am!"
Still, she thought to herself.
Just as Yona had once given her a chance, she would give his son the chance to grow even further.
A luxurious mansion in Bilkenos.
The North's Overseer — Count Boldmont — stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out the window.
Just then, a knock sounded from outside the room.
"Enter."
Creeeak.
The door opened, and a woman stepped inside. The Count glanced back, then turned around, a sly smile creeping across his face.
"I've been waiting for you."
The woman was none other than the merchant who hauled milk to the Grand Duke's castle every single day.
"Grayson."
The milkmaid, Grayson.
She approached with a face pale and haggard.
"I-I have come... to see the esteemed Count Boldmont."
"Good."
The Count spread his arms wide.
"Though you seem a bit short on decorum, don't you think? What did I tell you about showing proper respect in my presence?"
"..."
As she hesitated, the Count's eyes twisted in a peculiar way.
"We wouldn't want to cut off the reindeer farm your family has tended for generations, now would we? Ah — how is your elderly father faring these days?"
She bit down hard on her lip, trembling from head to toe. Then, slowly, she lowered herself to the floor.
"I... have come to see the esteemed Count Boldmont."
The Count's eyes gleamed with delight.
"Yes, yes! That's exactly it!"
He roared with laughter, clapped his hands, and strutted about his chamber.
"You know what I feel! Every time a northerner grovels before me, a most curious pleasure washes over me!"
He said, gripping his own shoulders.
"Northerners are nothing but untamed savages, aren't they? The ones who call me a weakling the moment they see me and pick fights, who try to dump beer over my head — and there they are, bowing their heads before me, before my power, before my wealth!"
He strode over in his excitement, seized Grayson's chin, and lifted her face.
A face drenched in sorrow looked back at him.
"This is how it should be! This is the natural order! In the south, anyone of high birth or wealth commands bowed knees and lowered heads! Only you northerners refuse to follow this most basic of rules!"
He released her chin and paced grandly around the room.
"My dream is to forge a new North! When the war ends, I shall teach the northerners refinement! To put it a bit crudely — yes, one might call it 'domestication'! And naturally, they must also be taught to obey their masters!"
He turned to look at Grayson, eyes slick and gleaming.
"Every last northerner will grovel at my feet! And you shall be the beginning!"
"..."
"My faithful servant Grayson — did you obtain the intelligence?"
Trembling, she held out a slip of paper with her fingertips.
Written upon it, in meticulous detail, was everything discussed in the North's council.
"Your ability never ceases to amaze me."
He ran his tongue over his lips.
"The power to command birds. Why do the northerners fail to appreciate such a rare gift? Unless it aids them in battle, they dismiss it as something base. Isn't that right? I am the only one who truly sees your worth!"
He unfolded the note and read it as reverently as if it were a royal decree.
"Khh!"
As he read, the corners of his mouth curled upward.
"Hahahahahahahaha!"
Shoulders shaking with laughter, he rose from his seat.
"Your farm is free. Your father will recover from his illness soon enough."
"Thank... you..."
Tears of guilt dripped down her cheeks. The Count smiled with satisfaction.
"Think nothing of it. Your submission is merely the first drop in the bucket. I promise you — I will build, with these two hands, a North where you need feel no guilt at all. Everyone will end up just like you."
He rose from his seat and strode across the room.
"Butler."
"Yes, sir!"
The head butler who had been waiting outside the door hurried in.
The Count smiled darkly.
"I must see Commander Romario and Sir Chronos at once."
Early the next morning.
Rumble, rumble—
Northern merchants pushed their carts laden with vegetables and cuts of meat.
Their destination was the royal army's camp.
"Damn it all, why in the world do we have to hand over our meat too? Good food, wasted."
"You're telling me."
The merchants spat curses as they walked side by side.
On paper, the royal army was relief the King himself had sent for the North's sake — if even basic provisions weren't provided, the complaints afterward would write themselves.
It was plain as day that the central nobles would gather every grievance about how the relief forces had been treated and shriek about insult to His Majesty, about treason.
"Politics is filthy, but that's politics for you. We just have to stomach it."
"Don't even get me started."
The northern merchants passed through an alley and arrived at the barracks where the royal army was encamped.
"Well, I never."
Royal soldiers milled about the barracks in a daze, hollow-faced. They were the same as ever. Vacant eyes, slack faces, even a zombie-like shuffle in their steps.
"A man walks right up and they don't even pretend to notice."
"Let it go. Here's today's provisions! Take them!"
The merchant bellowed, but the royal army showed no reaction whatsoever.
"I said take them!"
"Ah, just leave it. Looks like Chronos put some deafness curse on the poor bastards, eh?"
"..."
Just then, one merchant's eyes sharpened, and he swept his gaze across the encampment.
Through the biting cold, he saw the royal army's banners — fluttering in the wrong direction.
"Hold on. Something's not right here."
Relations between the two camps had grown so hostile that orders had come down forbidding anyone from approaching the royal army, but the merchant set off toward the encampment at a brisk pace.
"I say! If you get any closer—!"
The merchant shook off his companion and kept walking.
"Look at it however you like — doesn't something seem off?"
"What are you on about?"
"The wind's blowing the wrong way."
A northwesterly was howling at that very moment, yet the flags and tents before them billowed the opposite way entirely.
The merchants walked on, but the royal soldiers didn't even bother to feign stopping them — they simply stood there, vacant.
The instant they passed the soldiers and reached the camp proper—
"Huh?"
Like a stone dropped into a lake sending ripples across the water, the empty air shuddered, and everything around them changed.
The merchants who had followed behind stood frozen, eyes round as saucers.
"Wh-what—?"
Something.
Something had gone very, very wrong.
Vmmm-hmmmm—
The camp where the royal army should have been stood utterly empty.
Not a soul remained in the barracks. The men who had been milling about moments ago had vanished like ghosts. The merchants whipped their heads around in panic.
"Th-the royal army...!"
Their mouths fell open.
"The royal army is gone!"