Chapter 114
Chapter 114
"Seems Vector's been teaching you well."
"That bastard clearly hasn't forgotten the past and is holding a grudge. He's tormenting me like a madman since he can't outright kill me, and on top of that, Laila keeps sticking her nose in where it doesn't belong—"
Logan had only spoken those words with an amused chuckle, but it was as if he'd pulled a trigger—a relentless stream of complaints and grievances came pouring out.
Clearly, the kid had been suffering quite a bit in his own way.
Logan smirked and cut off his tirade.
"I'll hand you the letters, so go deliver them. And I'll talk to Vector—take a few days off."
"Huh?"
"What? You don't want to?"
"N-no! It's not that I don't want to, but..."
"But?"
"Haha. Well, it's just that I've outgrown being a mere letter-delivery boy— Ow! J-just kidding! I'll do it, I'll do it!"
Logan pinched his cheek mercilessly, and only then did Rick seem to return to his usual self.
"These are important letters, so don't miss a single one. There should be a Nox branch in Bifrost Castle. To get there..."
Watching Rick rub his tearful, reddened cheek, Logan explained how to contact Nox.
"Tell them MacLaine is recruiting surviving knights from fallen houses. Relay the terms as they are, and if anyone's interested, have them come here to discuss further. Discreetly, of course."
"Got it! I'm writing it down! I'll deliver them properly!"
"Oh, and send these separately."
At the same time, he handed Rick dozens of additional letters.
"Wh-what are all these?"
"Letters, obviously."
"When did you even write these? Who are they for? Don't tell me you're cheating on Lady Ellen—"
Thwack!
"Gah!"
"Don't spout nonsense, you brat!"
"B-but still, this is just... inhuman..."
"They're all addressed to men. Stop imagining things and just deliver them."
"That's its own kind of danger— Aaah, I was kidding! Just kidding!"
Logan sighed faintly as he watched Rick scamper away, still making a fuss, before turning back.
Will they accept? Well... even if only a few respond, it's better than nothing. If not, there's nothing I can do.
The recipients of the letters were descendants of minor territories that had recently begun falling one by one, or knight trainees—soldiers, in other words.
Left alone, they'd end up wandering as mercenaries.
To others, they were just nobles or soldiers who hadn't even become proper knights—hardly prime recruitment targets.
But Logan needed them.
Not just because he knew most would eventually awaken as Force Users.
Some of those he valued most hadn't even awakened their Force in his "memories" decades later.
The Grandia Liberation Front. The ones who gave their lives for the country.
True independence fighters Logan, driven by personal vengeance, had struggled to befriend.
Patriots who had willingly sacrificed themselves to liberate their homeland.
In other words, they were allies he could trust absolutely in the coming war against the Empire.
It's a shame I don't remember all their family backgrounds or where they were at this point, but this much is already something.
Experience changes people.
Time turns saints into sinners and sinners into saints.
So at this moment, they might not yet be the noble figures Logan remembered.
But even in the worst-case scenario—
At least thirty or forty of them will definitely become knights in the future.
And the effort required? Just a few sleepless nights dredging up memories and writing letters.
There was no reason not to do it.
But those few nights of effort came with lingering aftereffects.
Dark, depressing memories he'd rather not recall.
With a distant expression, Logan reminisced about his noble comrades from his past life—so close yet so far away.
Damian Nadal was the second son of the minor Nadal barony in the southeastern region.
Neither he nor his family was anything remarkable—so obscure that even mentioning their name drew blank stares.
As such, he held little pride in his noble lineage.
No, these days, he resented his bloodline more than anything.
Seriously, just because my great-grandmother was the second daughter of House Calria, we get dragged into factional wars? No wonder our family was ruined.
Damian downed another mug of beer with a bitter sigh.
His house was undoubtedly among the first to collapse after the civil war began.
The little wealth they'd salvaged before their downfall was meager, but if he didn't drown his sorrows like this, he felt he'd collapse from sheer frustration.
Besides, this was his own private memorial for his family, who had left this world so abruptly.
What kind of memorial is this when I couldn't even retrieve their bodies and just ran away to drown myself in alcohol?
The excuse he'd concocted was so pathetic it made him laugh. He ordered another drink.
He hoped either his meager funds would run out or his miserable life would end before that happened.
If I somehow survive, maybe I'll brag about it? Three days and nights of drinking, and this stubborn life still won't end.
He chuckled darkly, imagining his future self—old and wretched—boasting among similarly pitiful old men.
Then a strange voice pierced his drunken haze, jolting him awake.
"Damian Nadal?"
Clatter!
"Wh-what? Pfft. Wh-who are you?!"
Damian scrambled backward in a panic, fumbling for the sword at his waist.
He wasn't even embarrassed by how many times he missed the hilt in his drunken state.
The thought that pursuers had found him sent his heart racing, but his vision swam so badly he couldn't even focus on the person before him.
Desperate to sober up, he slapped his own face hard enough to sting. The sharp taste of blood in his mouth helped slightly.
Finally, he could make out a middle-aged man with an unremarkable face scowling at him.
"Are you Damian Nadal?"
"Y-you're not... here to kill me, right? Why would anyone bother with someone like me—"
His sudden outburst trailed off into self-deprecation—typical of a drunk.
"Who are you? How do you know me?"
The middle-aged man, at least coherent enough to speak clearly, pulled a letter from his coat.
"I'm from the information guild. A client of ours asked me to deliver this to you."
"...What?"
Who would send me a letter?
No, more importantly, how did they know I'd be here?
A week ago, even I didn't know I'd end up here.
His muddled thoughts only worsened his drunken confusion.
But the stranger showed no consideration for his state.
"Well, here's the letter. As for the receipt... ugh. Never mind. Consider it delivered. I'll take my leave."
The man forced Damian's shaky hand to stamp a receipt before vanishing just as abruptly.
Dazed, Damian stared at the letter left in his palm.
"What the hell is this...?"
It felt almost surreal.
"Tsk tsk. Youngsters these days. Making such a fuss over a single letter. Just open it! Who knows? Maybe it's from a runaway lover looking for you."
A middle-aged drunk at the next table cackled, tossing out a crude joke.
Tch... Fine. I'll see for myself.
If this was some prank, he'd show the world just what a desperate, ruined drunk was capable of.
With that thought, Damian opened the letter.
And as he read, his expression grew increasingly rigid.
To Damian Nadal,
I am Logan, the eldest son of House MacLaine.
I was deeply moved by your poem, The Moon in Drunkenness, which you left at the academy in Grand.
I had already considered you a remarkable talent, and upon hearing of your recent misfortunes, I felt compelled to reach out.
In these troubled times, our growing house has need of someone like you.
If you are seeking a new place to settle, I hope you will consider MacLaine.
Logan MacLaine
"What kind of nonsense is this...?"
A poem I scribbled while drunk at the academy.
Yes, he was the author of that embarrassing poem, which had once been a topic of conversation in social circles.
But in this kingdom, poetry was merely a noble's hobby.
No noble would call a skilled poet a "remarkable talent" worth recruiting.
A second son from a no-name noble family getting a recruitment offer for writing decent poetry?
It was disgusting—like some sick joke.
"No, that's not the point. It's not like I'm in any position to refuse."
Even if it was a scam, all he had left was his own worthless body.
Even if the sender was a fraud, he had nothing left to lose.
"...Should I go?"
Unbeknownst to him, this was a pivotal moment in his future.
Damian Nadal, the genius behind the Grandia Liberation Front's cipher system and the man who managed intelligence networks across the region—the core of the independence movement—set out for MacLaine Territory the very next day.
Around the same time, dozens of letters bearing the same sender's name reached heirs and soldiers from minor houses devastated by the civil war.
And most of them couldn't help but be swayed by the fact that a lord remembered their personal history and praised them as "talented individuals."
Two months into the civil war.
While MacLaine's new recruits and militia were deep in training, visitors began trickling into MacLaine Town.
The territory was vast and still in need of people, so rumors had been deliberately spread to attract war refugees.
But the dozens who arrived recently were a cut above ordinary displaced folk.
"We heard you were seeking masterless knights, so we came."
Some were clearly well-equipped knights, but others—dressed in fine but tattered and dirtied clothes—looked like the idle sons of ruined nobles.
And every one of them came knocking at the town's gates with a letter from the Grand Prince.
The knights are one thing, but what's with these guys?
The knights and soldiers verifying the family seals could only stare in bewilderment before directing them to Logan.
"Damian... Nadal?"
"Yes. That's me. Unless...?"
"Welcome. I'm Logan MacLaine. Have a seat."
Though the man looked a few years younger than him, he was the acting lord.
Damian's shabby appearance and growling stomach made any discomfort at the informal address irrelevant.
Moreover, when Logan said his name, he sounded genuinely pleased, as if meeting an old friend.
Have I met this man before?
He briefly racked his brain but quickly dismissed the idea.
With his striking red hair and red eyes, Logan's appearance was unforgettable.
Yet Logan seemed to know him.
Well, he did say he read my poem.
He forced himself to accept the flimsy excuse.
Cautiously, he took the offered seat.
"So, you've accepted my offer?"
"Y-yes, but... what could I possibly do here? My only skills are writing poetry and a bit of scribbling. Are you sure you haven't mistaken me for someone else?"
"How could I? Talent in poetry means you have a keen understanding of context and conciseness—skills invaluable in administration and management."
Even I can tell this is complete nonsense.
What kind of bullshit is this?
Neither speaker nor listener realized their thoughts aligned perfectly in that moment.
Of course, Logan was spouting nonsense solely to recruit the unremarkable-looking young man.
Damian Nadal. A genius in cipher systems and information management.
His contributions were the backbone of the Grandia Liberation Front's twenty-year resistance, ensuring operatives' identities remained hidden.
Logan wasn't entirely sure how to utilize that talent in this intact(?) timeline, but he was certain Damian could handle administrative duties at least as well as anyone else.
And more importantly—
Damian Nadal lost his entire family in the civil war. Yet he fought for decades out of sheer patriotism, despite the hopeless odds. If I earn his loyalty, he's someone I can trust unconditionally.
Regardless of ability, people like him were invaluable.
So Logan could confidently say:
"Hmm. You studied administrative sciences at the academy, didn't you? That alone makes you reliable. I'll give you a position. You'll start as an assistant to our chief administrator, but if you prove yourself, I'll entrust you with managing an entire estate. The monthly salary... let's start at 300 gold."
"...Why are you going this far for me?"
"You don't want it?"
"N-no! Of course not!"
"Then just accept it. Why overthink things?"
"But wh-what if I'm a spy? Letting an enemy inside— Ah, no! That's not what I meant! I'm definitely not a spy!"
"Pfft. Hahaha. I know. Good. Then I'll arrange a room for you—start work tomorrow. Ah, first, you should meet your supervisor. Follow me."
"Ah. Y-yes."
The hiring and assignment process was lightning-fast.
Is... is this really okay?
Dumbfounded, Damian trailed after the young lord.
Logan, meanwhile, felt inexplicably satisfied.
Even that cold-blooded strategist was like this when he was young. Amusing. Truly amusing.
Among recent visitors, twenty-five were future Force Users, but securing Damian alone felt more rewarding than all of them combined.
If needed, I could even establish an information guild and put him in charge.
Relying on Nox or other information guilds forever wasn't feasible.
It might work while we're still a "minor" house, but in the future...
And when that time came—
Administrator Damian Nadal will become Intelligence Officer Damian Nadal. Until then, he'll just have to endure some hardship, even if it doesn't suit him.
With that thought, Logan introduced Damian to Dwain.
And then—
"Pfft—HAHAHA! Brilliant, my lord! That Philip and Damian are doing the work of ten men combined. Where did you even find these gems? Just three more like them, and I'd have nothing left to worry about!"
It took Damian only a week to earn the highest praise from MacLaine's most trusted retainer.