Dragon's Egg (1)
The Surpuk Duke was hot-tempered and fiery as hell.
He'd ordered his men to fetch Owen, but he couldn't even wait for that—he issued another command.
"Bring me Count Bobert and that bastard Maroon."
He couldn't hold out until the report was finished, after all.
"Yes, my lord!"
Count Bobert, summoned at once, hurried over clutching his documents.
The duke clicked his tongue and jabbed a finger at him.
"Why don't you just bring me a damn book while you're at it? What the hell's taking so long with that report?"
"My lord, Maroon is an imperial noble. To prove his guilt, we must be meticulous..."
"Enough. In the East, I am the law!"
It was arrogant, but not entirely wrong.
Realizing further argument was pointless, Count Bobert handed over the report.
In the meantime, Baron Maroon was dragged in and forced to his knees before the duke.
"My lord! Spare me! Please, just one more chance!"
Maroon begged desperately, but the duke didn't spare him a glance.
He silently flipped through the report, then nodded.
"No getting out of this one. Maroon! I always knew your conduct was rotten."
"My lord! Please!"
"Shut your mouth! I overlooked it because your skills were useful, but you've finally crossed the line. Guards! Beat this pig until he can't yap anymore!"
At the duke's command, burly soldiers as hulking as orcs seized Maroon.
Sensing what was coming, he collapsed in terror, unable even to stand.
"M-my lord!"
"Still flapping your jaws? Guards, if he opens his mouth again, you're the ones getting executed!"
"Understood!"
The soldiers pummeled Maroon mercilessly.
"Gaaahhh!"
His screams echoed everywhere.
The duke grimaced and tossed the report aside.
Just then, a servant approached with a message.
"Sir Owen Leire requests an audience."
"He's here. Send him in!"
Owen soon arrived, and the duke nodded.
"Wait there for a moment."
"Yes, my lord."
The duke decided to deal with Maroon first.
"We'll make this pig look the part! Cut off his snout right now!"
"Yes, sir!"
The soldiers drew wicked knives and sliced off Maroon's bulbous nose.
"Gaaahhh!"
Blood poured down to his chin.
His nose was so huge they had to hack at it several times before it came free. When it dangled loosely, one soldier simply ripped it off.
"Aaaagh!"
Writhing in agony, Maroon clutched his face with both hands.
The sight only enraged the duke further.
"Look at this pig trying to hide his ugly mug! Guards, hack off both his arms too!"
The duke had both hands severed, ensuring Maroon couldn't cover his face.
Only then did he seem satisfied, adding almost magnanimously,
"Cauterize the stumps to stop the bleeding."
"Yes, sir!"
"Count Bobert, set up a pole in Bris Square. Hang this scum at the top—until he dies. Let every citizen see what happens to corrupt officials."
It was utterly merciless.
Then a newcomer arrived: Count Russell, one of the duke's famed Four Swords.
He approached calmly, bowing to the duke. Long-haired and pallid as a corpse, the middle-aged man had likely been strikingly handsome in his youth, but years of intrigue had aged him beyond his years.
He glanced at Owen but ignored him with no change in expression, greeting the duke instead.
"You summoned me?"
"Ah, good—you're here. Our esteemed bureaucrat pulled off quite the stunt, so I called you to witness. What do you think of that mess?"
Even faced with the gruesome scene, Russell replied in a languid, emotionless tone.
"Reminds me of a hog at the slaughterhouse..."
Dressed in black with that deadpan delivery, he sounded like a whispering corpse.
The duke, accustomed to it, laughed without a care.
"Hahaha! Exactly why I like you, Russell."
"......"
"I've got something to discuss—wait a bit. I'll finish with the Leire boy first."
"As you wish."
The duke beckoned Owen over.
Then he got straight to it.
"I told you to tend dragons, and you topple a baron."
"He was interfering with my duties, as per your orders, my lord."
"I know—from the report. This guy."
He'd said it to intimidate, but Owen didn't flinch. The duke was secretly pleased.
"You handled it well. Especially driving off that medium dragon with fire tactics. Impressive, honestly."
"You're too kind."
"No need for false modesty. Makes that son of Russell's look like a joke. Hahaha!"
The duke mocked the stoic Russell, referencing how Austin of House Russell had been humiliated by Owen in a duel not long ago.
Russell's face remained impassive.
"Hmph, boring bastard. Keep it up, and I'll leave your daughter rotting in the dungeon longer."
"It matters not... If she comes to her senses there, all the better."
"Damn it, watch your mouth. You'd not bat an eye if your own son died."
Grumbling at Russell, the duke turned to Owen.
"My way of handling people is simple: Punish overreach, reward merit. Easy in theory, hard in practice—life isn't always black and white."
"Wise words, my lord."
"But I've always kept it clear. That's why I've succeeded. I'll overlook your overstep this time—with a reward. So, Owen Leire, what do you want?"
Owen had anticipated this on his way over.
"Two things."
"Greedy punk. But you've earned it. Speak."
"First, a dragon from the 5th Dragon Stable."
"Hm? Which one?"
"A Murish dragon."
Owen had spotted a high-potential Murish dragon in the stable before.
He'd planned to claim it someday; this was perfect timing.
"What? Why that one?"
"I've made enemies in this mess. I need it for protection."
"Hmph... No reason not to. You can take dragons outside the city anyway. Fine."
The duke figured a Murish wasn't valuable enough to deny.
"Done. It's yours now."
Had he known its potential, he wouldn't have agreed so easily.
"What's next?"
"Increase the 5th Dragon Stable's budget. Too many sick dragons there. The current funds aren't enough for treatment."
"Hmm..."
The duke stroked his goatee, deep in thought.
Budgets were tricky—even for such a bold lord.
Count Bobert chimed in.
"That might be difficult. Stable budgets are set annually based on prior performance. Keep up the good work, and you'll get more next cycle."
"Count Bobert, I'm not talking regular budget. Allocate a special one."
"Special budget?"
"The 5th is full of sickly dragons. Unless we're abandoning them, we need extra funds."
"Hmm..."
Bobert hummed skeptically.
The sick dragons in the 5th were indeed Bris's headache.
Treatment cost a fortune—one most couldn't fathom.
Yet mercy-killing valuable dragons wasn't an option.
So they lingered, barely sustained.
"Some recover naturally, but most won't last years. It's time to decide: cull or cure."
The listening duke nodded.
"The boy's right."
Bobert agreed but shook his head.
"True, but securing funds is impossible. I once calculated the cost myself."
"How much?"
"At least 1,500 gold coins."
A staggering sum.
As the duke scowled, Owen quickly added,
"Far cheaper than buying and raising new ones. My lord, and with the eastern orcs crowning a new great chieftain, every dragon counts."
Owen's words swayed the duke's resolve.
Besides, wasn't he defying the emperor to rebuild the dragon knights?
To him, the orcs on the Eastern Plains were a bigger threat than the nagging emperor.
"That settles it."
"What do you mean, my lord?"
Pointing to the bloodstains on the floor, the duke replied to Bobert's question.
"That pig Maroon's got plenty stashed away. Give it to Owen."
"Hm... clever, but still short. We owe three months' pay to the garrisons at the eastern forts. Even the eldest prince is hounding me by letter."
"Damn it all! Everyone's after my coin like my pockets have holes!"
"Hm... 1,500 is too much, but 500 might work."
The duke made his call.
"Hear that, Owen? 500 gold. That's the special budget limit. Handle the rest yourself. Heh, dig into your own pockets if you want—no objections."
"What money does a poor farm boy have? I'll make do with what you've given."
"Hmph! Damn punk. Won't spend a dime of his own!"
As the duke snorted, Owen asked,
"My lord, may I invest the 500 gold as I see fit to stretch the budget?"
"What, gambling? Usury? Fool around, and you'll end up on that pole like Maroon."
"No plans yet. But 500 won't solve the root problem. I'd like to find a way."
Bobert, listening, advised using the 500 wisely for stabilization.
The duke pondered, then set terms.
"Bobert's got a point. But I won't stop you. Just know I hate wasting funds. The tightwad in front of you won't bleed a drop if pricked—that's Bobert. You've taken his money."
"I won't squander it."
"Keep that promise. Succeed, and I'll praise you. Fail, and prepare to die. Still want to try?"
The duke growled like a lion.
Owen bowed calmly.
"Of course."
"Ha! Look at him—brushing off the Eastern Overlord's threat."
"A threat? I took it as generous advice..."
"Shut it, you impudent brat. Starting to creep me out. Now get back to that stinking stable of yours. You've got six months. No results? Ponder a painless death."
"Thank you, my lord!"
"Hmph! Headache of a kid. Just like his old man!"
As Owen left beaming, the duke bellowed at his servants.
"Bring wine!"
The silent Russell finally spoke.
"You sure about this? He's a green country boy. Handing him 500 gold? He'll blow it on bad investments."
Objective and cold, but the duke smirked slyly.
"Russell, your tongue's wagging—feeling anxious?"
"...How can you say that?"
"Liar. That hick just crushed your heir and earned big merits. Gotta sting. No need to deny—I know you. Beneath that icy mask burns hotter than anyone's."
"......"
Russell fell silent. The duke just cackled and guzzled wine.
That night.
Back at his palace, Russell quietly summoned someone.
"You wanted me?"
The visitor, sneaking in under cover of night, was Knight Albert, manager of the 2nd Dragon Stable.
Not public knowledge, but Albert had been Russell's protégé since youth—practically family.
Russell eyed his loyal hound.
"I've got a job for you."
"What is it?"
"...One cocky bastard needs dealing with."