Chapter 171
Chapter 171
The recruitment notice seeking administrators for MacLaine Territory had been posted across all castles barely ten days prior.
Yet, even before the originally planned one-month deadline arrived, the government office in MacLaine Town was already swarming with applicants.
"Line up, line up! Form a line!"
"G-good heavens, people who want to become officials should at least maintain some order—ah, for crying out loud!"
"You there! Keep cutting in line, and I'll deduct points from your interview score!"
Despite the notice stating only thirty positions were available, over three hundred applicants had shown up just that day.
A dozen soldiers were sweating bullets trying to control the crowd while Dwain, Rupen, and Feran—the three rotund pillars of MacLaine's administration—looked like they had already lost half their body weight from stress.
The sight of MacLaine's three portly officials undergoing forced weight loss in real time.
Finally, Feran—his cheeks visibly deflated—flung the stack of documents he had been holding onto the ground.
"W-what the hell is this?! There's so many that we can't even get our actual work done!"
"Shut up, Feran. You think you're the only one suffering here?"
"But still—"
"Both. Of. You. Shut. Up."
Dwain's voice, dark as the shadows under his eyes, silenced his subordinates instantly.
His unkempt hair and beard, untouched for days, had reached a level of disarray that defied any attempt at grooming—and that only made him more terrifying.
Rupen hunched his shoulders and went back to skimming through resumes.
Damn it. They're all nobles.
While many applicants were mediocre, quite a few had impressive credentials.
The problem?
Most of those with decent qualifications were nobles with titles.
Even if they were minor nobles without inheritance rights or baronets, Rupen himself was just a commoner. Having them as subordinates meant he'd have to treat them with deference—effectively increasing the number of people he'd have to bow to.
Fine, I get the ones from Calria Territory, but how the hell did people from Douglas and Walterheim even hear about this? We didn't post notices there! This is insane.
For some inexplicable reason, lower-ranking officials from ruined great territories had flocked here en masse.
The internal conflict in his mind had already reached its limit.
Honestly, the stress from this dilemma was worse than the fatigue from handling both work and interviews.
He couldn't tell what Dwain was thinking, but at least Feran's expression mirrored his own.
He let out a deep sigh, but nothing changed.
The final decision wasn't theirs to make anyway.
"Send all applicants from major territories to the second round of interviews. His Lordship will decide their fate himself."
"Sir Dwain, but that means we'll suddenly have superiors we have to defer to..."
"Enough. The territory's affairs come first—not our pride."
"Dwai—no, Brother! Then what about us—?!"
"Quiet. They'll hear you outside. Besides, His Lordship will take care of us."
Though Dwain spoke calmly, Rupen still wore a disgruntled expression.
"But still..."
"The rewards we got after the war alone are enough to live comfortably for the rest of our lives. Rupen, let's not be greedy."
"Haah... Brother, you're truly a loyal vassal. Meanwhile, I'm just a petty man."
"My stomach hurts too, you idiot."
"Fine, fine. I'm the only bad one here. Just me."
As Rupen grumbled, Feran chimed in.
"Stress makes you lose weight. Might as well just sleep."
"Shut up, Feran! You fat pig! What the hell are you eating in the middle of all this—?"
"Ah, enough! Both of you, stop!!"
Despite their bickering, Rupen and Feran ultimately followed Dwain's lead.
The bearded financial administrator, who had served MacLaine Territory for twenty years, gazed bitterly at the applicants waiting outside.
It's all thanks to how well our territory has prospered. Yeah, let's think positively.
Yet, for some reason, the sight didn't bring him much joy.
"How are the preparations for Tesron Castle's harvest season?"
"Already placed on your desk, Administrator."
"What about the town wall construction?"
"The documents are on the right side of your desk."
"Next is... hmm..."
"The road construction plans from Tesron to Silvan and Vifros. Still being organized. You should have them by tomorrow morning."
"Take your time, Fabian... sir."
"Not at all, Sir Dwain. I must prove my worth to His Lordship, who selected me."
Dwain could only nod at Fabian's words—a young, lanky administrator who was his polar opposite.
There was nothing wrong with what he said.
In just a few days, Fabian had neatly organized documents and handled tasks with remarkable speed.
His work was flawless.
Was he from Douglas?
Only after hearing Fabian's explanation did Dwain realize that the recruitment notice, originally intended only for MacLaine Territory, had somehow spread to the capital and across the entire kingdom without their knowledge.
Thanks to that, MacLaine easily secured the administrative personnel it desperately needed—but Dwain couldn't wholeheartedly celebrate.
The biggest reason?
The two highest-rated applicants—Fabian and the middle-aged gentleman Locke—were both baronets.
In other words:
Damn it. I'll have to address my subordinates formally.
The only silver lining was that they, too, addressed him with respect—but what made it even harder was...
"Ah, I've corrected a few errors in the documents you reviewed earlier. Please take another look."
"Errors?"
"There were minor miscalculations in the budget. If you cross-verify using the Rohiter method..."
Their ability to casually reference theories he'd never even heard of and apply them to practical work.
Their competence filled him with self-loathing.
The sense of inadequacy had been gnawing at him for days.
After much deliberation, Dwain finally reached a conclusion.
Thud!
"Yeah. That's right."
"Sir Dwain?"
"Where are you going?!"
Ignoring the voices calling after him, Dwain strode away briskly—yet his footsteps felt strangely heavy.
Thud.
"Approval documents, Your Grace."
"Leave them there. You're getting faster."
Logan glanced at the sun's position outside the window and smirked as he looked up at Dwain.
"Yes. Most of the newly hired administrators are pulling their weight. Especially Sir Fabian and Sir Locke—they're better than me."
"Oh? That good?"
At Logan's quizzical expression, Dwain's face stiffened slightly.
But he didn't forget what he had come to say.
His feelings and his duty were separate matters.
"Yes. They're truly exceptional. If we keep recruiting, with just a few more talents like them, the volume of documents requiring Your Grace's attention will decrease significantly."
"Ah, good news. Let's normalize operations quickly so I don't have to lift a finger. Good work. You may go now."
"But, Your Grace."
"Hmm?"
The sudden shift in atmosphere made Logan raise an eyebrow.
"I came to tell you that... well..."
"What is it? Spit it out."
"I... wish to resign."
"Huh? You've been working hard lately. Take a few days off. Vacation—"
"Not a vacation. I wish to retire, Your Grace."
"...What?"
Stunned, Logan stared blankly at Dwain.
"Why all of a sudden? Did I do something to upset you?"
"No."
"Then why?"
"I no longer see a need for me to be here."
"What kind of nonsense is that?"
"Truthfully, I've been thinking about this ever since Sir Heinkel mentioned retiring. Maybe I should step down too."
"Sir Heinkel retired but became a training consultant. You know that, right?"
"That's irrelevant. I've simply reached my limits."
"What limits?"
"The new administrators are better at their jobs than I am. Having a commoner like me as their superior isn't efficient for the organization."
"Haah..."
Logan couldn't immediately refute Dwain's firm words.
Though exhaustion still marked his face, Dwain's resolute gaze made it clear this wasn't about fatigue.
"Haah... This is insane."
"My apologies, Grand Prince."
"No, I'm sorry for not realizing you felt this way. Wait, let's think this through together."
"Your Grace..."
Logan stood up and paced, racking his brain for a solution to this sudden crisis.
Then, after a long while—just as the shadows under Dwain's tired eyes darkened further—
"Fine! Then I'll make you a noble too! Problem solved!"
Logan blurted out the most absurd solution.
"...Excuse me?"
Dwain's stoic expression crumbled into disbelief.
...Since when could anyone just become a noble if they wanted?
For a moment, his common sense reeled.
But Logan was already charging ahead.
"Now that I think about it, Father and I have been neglectful. Wars aren't fought by knights and soldiers alone—yet we never considered granting titles to the loyal civil officials who supported us from the rear. A grave oversight."
His tone suggested he could bestow a noble title on the spot, forcing Dwain to hastily regain his composure.
"Uh, Your Grace? I believe you've already exhausted the peerage-granting authority bestowed by His Majesty."
"Ah, don't worry. If I ask, one barony shouldn't be a problem. Surely His Majesty wouldn't refuse my request."
"Your Grace? Abusing power like this could—"
"It's fine, it's fine. A little criticism won't kill me. Better to be a lord who takes care of his loyal vassals than one who's stingy with honors."
"It might not stop at just criticism. What if it strains your relationship with His Majesty—?"
"This much is fine. Worst case, I'll prostrate myself and beg His Majesty's forgiveness."
The sheer determination in Logan's voice left Dwain gaping wordlessly, unable to protest further.
Above all else—
He's going this far... for me?
Watching Logan sprint toward the communications room, Dwain felt a lump rise in his throat, as if he might burst into tears at any moment.
Meanwhile, in the capital of Gran, a major scandal had rocked the noble district.
The fugitive Count Kairan Ulvus had resurfaced.
One of the border lords who had vanished during the MacLaine battle.
While all other border lords had been executed—their families either killed or hunted down—Kairan Ulvus had suddenly appeared in the capital.
"I offer all the hidden wealth of House Ulvus. I beg forgiveness for my past sins. Spare only my life."
No one knew where he had come from, but Kairan Ulvus had prostrated himself in the palace courtyard one day.
Soldiers kept watch, awaiting the king's orders—but for over three days, no command came from the palace.
Left exposed in the courtyard, Kairan Ulvus withered without even a drop of water.
A cruel fate, even for a mid-tier Force user.
His Majesty wants Kairan Ulvus to wither away and die.
The fact that the wanted traitor wasn't executed but left to rot in the palace courtyard soon made rumors spread like wildfire.
Hearing the news belatedly, the Sword Duke headed to the palace.
Allowing ominous rumors to fester in a newly established kingdom was unwise.
Kairan. You've played your cards well.
Before entering the palace, the Sword Duke recalled Kairan Ulvus's parched face.
The war was over, and all loose ends had been tied up.
Yet stability remained elusive.
At a time when the royal family needed both influence and funds, a noble from one of the kingdom's top three merchant families for nearly three centuries was offering hidden wealth in exchange for his life?
From the crown's perspective, it was a deal too good to refuse.
The only question was suspicion.
If he really had that wealth, he could've just fled to another country and lived comfortably...
Though he'd have to worry about the kingdom's assassins for life.
Had he chosen impoverished freedom over a life of gilded fear?
Or—
He must have another scheme. That's why His Majesty left him there.
Whatever the case, the Sword Duke only needed to convey his opinion—while probing the king's intentions behind leaving Kairan untouched for three days.
"The Sword Duke, Grand Duke Felix Esperanza, requests an audience."
—Enter.
Creeeak.
The familiar voice ushered him in, revealing the king's face.
The king's study was spacious enough to host ministerial meetings—yet only department heads were permitted inside.
Seated at the head of this grand space, the king was reviewing documents.
The Sword Duke smiled approvingly—until he noticed the small bottle placed at the king's right hand.
Alcohol?
The king's flushed face suggested intoxication.
An unimaginable sight in the palace's grand hall at midday.
The Sword Duke's eyebrow twitched.
"Ah, Sword Duke. Come in."
"...Yes, Your Majesty. But that alcohol in broad daylight—?"
"Ah, our strict Royal Tutor is about to scold me again. Haha. Don't be so rigid. This is a drink of solace."
"Solace...?"
"A memorial for my brothers, who died meaninglessly. And perhaps a libation for my stifling, suffocating past."
"..."
"All my life, I struggled in their shadows. Now that I'm finally free, can't I enjoy myself a little?"
"Your Majesty..."
"Don't look at me like that. It won't last long. Now, what brings the Royal Tutor here today?"
"Well, it's..."
Just as the Sword Duke steeled himself to broach the subject—
—Your Majesty, we have brought the items you requested.
A booming voice from outside the hall interrupted him.