036. Iron Bear, Silva 2
In front of Moden stood the three candidates for centurion: Silva, Willie, and Bin, kneeling side by side on one knee. Their postures were impeccably disciplined, without the slightest deviation. Eyes fixed on Moden, they pondered what mission might be assigned.
Soon, Moden addressed the trio.
"As you all know, the position of centurion cannot be held by strength alone. One must be able to command knights who each harbor their own thoughts."
The three candidates bowed their heads under Moden's grave gaze. From his emphasis on "command," Bin gleaned one thing: this centurion position wouldn't be decided by simple combat.
Moden scanned the focused candidates before adding, "In other words, one must excel in both civil and military affairs."
Civil and military. The term encompassed literary grace and martial strategy. Here, "literary" meant far more than mere elegant writing. The candidates mulled over the hidden implications of his words.
Satisfied that his point had sunk in, Moden got to the heart of it. "Then, I shall give the three candidates your first mission: Win the support of the serfs within Plentel Castle."
The unexpected task made their eyes flash. "……!"
They'd suspected it might not be a duel, but gaining the serfs' backing? It was utterly unforeseen.
Normally, the centurion role would be settled by combat. But Moden saw this as an exception. These were not mercenaries, but his own sons. He viewed them as the next generation to lead House Bascon—beyond centurion, even to heir.
Thus, he focused not on duels, but on swaying hearts.
As puzzlement flickered across their faces, Moden added one more line. "Even wolves gathered together are no better than dogs if they scheme separately."
His words struck like daggers into their chests. At last, they grasped the essence of the mission in a single word: leadership.
Their reactions varied. Silva nodded silently. The hearts of serfs... Not the Bascon way. A hint of regret stirred within him. No duel, where he excelled.
His disappointed gaze swept the others as he clenched his fist. I need to put these fools in their place soon.
Willie, meanwhile, couldn't hide his smile. Heh, this mission plays to my advantage.
He'd lived within the castle for the past three years—unlike Silva, who'd been outside. And at just fifteen, Bin seemed too young to sway the serfs. Objectively, the boy was at a disadvantage against two adults.
Silva and Willie naturally discounted Bin. But inwardly, Bin smirked. The hearts of serfs... This could be fun.
Moden, observing their responses, explained the rules. "Use any method you like. I'll give you one week. Bring back proof of the peasants' trust."
"Yes, Family Head!" the three chorused as his words ended.
* * *
Plentel Castle's A District. Under the blazing sun, the surrounding fields of golden rice and barley gleamed brighter. Amid the crops, serfs bent at the waist, laboring busily.
But the district's landlord berated the sweat-drenched workers sharply. "Hurry up! At this snail's pace, how do you expect to earn a crust? Dawdling like this, and you still take one percent of the harvest? Lazy parasites, all of you."
One serf, dripping sweat, spoke up. "Can't we rest just a moment? If we keep going like this, we'll collapse from dizziness."
His eyes pleaded desperately. Sweat soaked his face; his gaze was unfocused. But the landlord was notorious for his cruelty. No mercy there.
"People don't collapse that easily. It's a mindset issue. Fine, if you want to rest so badly, rest forever."
His tone was final—dismissal. The panicked serf knelt and begged. "P-Please, Landlord. I'm sorry. We live hand-to-mouth. Show some mercy."
His voice trembled; his hands rubbed together frantically. But the landlord merely snorted.
"Tch, mercy? No. You want to rest? I'll let you rest plenty."
He spoke with smug nonchalance, mocking the serf's desperation inwardly. The man's distress brought a twisted satisfaction.
"I have a family to feed. I can starve, but not my children. Please..."
The landlord's smile turned venomous. "Children? You incompetents breed like rabbits? Go on, say it again like before—nice and clear that you want to slack off. Huh? Huh!"
Slap!
His face flushed, the landlord backhanded the serf. As the man fell, the landlord stomped him viciously, bellowing.
Thud! Thud!
"How dare a lowly serf get cheeky! Say it again—say you want to rest!"
"Ugh... S-Sorry..."
"If you're sorry, don't do sorry things to begin with."
Not content with kicks, he snatched a wooden stick from nearby and raised it to strike. But then—
Crack!
A thick hand seized the stick. The startled landlord whirled around, face puffed in fury.
"Wh-Who dares...?"
His words died. Behind him loomed Silva's massive frame.
The landlord and serf gaped at the stoic Silva. "Si-Silva Young Master...?!"
"......"
Silva advanced wordlessly. Thud. Thud.
His expression betrayed his displeasure plainly.
He'd come here for one reason: to gauge and win the serfs' sentiment before showing them something.
The landlord instinctively stepped back at the sight. But fear didn't ebb. The approaching giant only amplified his dread—like a bear materializing before him.
To defuse it, he groveled. "Silva Young Master, how have you been? What brings you here?"
A sly dodge of his fault, but it wouldn't work. Silva's face darkened further.
"Bring it."
He yanked the stick free and stepped closer. Thud.
"Nothing beats the whip for handling people."
"......!"
With that barb, Silva glared at the landlord with beastly contempt—as if eyeing vermin.
He swung the stick mercilessly.
Crack! Crack! Crack...!
Blood sprayed from the landlord's body; bruises swelled. It bordered on lethal. Even a selfish wretch like him seemed pitiable.
As the stick arced toward the man's face—
Swish—thwack.
The air whistled; the blow halted. A bandaged hand gripped the stick.
Unfamiliar resistance made Silva pause. "......"
Before him appeared Bin, black hair neat and calm. "Silva Bascon, this hardly seems like Father's intent."
The trembling landlord and serf blinked in shock. "Young Master Bin and Young Master Silva..."
Small wonder. Two pureblood Bascon heirs were clashing.
The bear-like Silva faced Bin, greatsword on his back. A rare sight.
Codic, at Bin's belt, muttered. As expected of my lord. No hesitation even against a bear-framed brute.
Codic admired Bin's boldness amid Silva's bulk—but briefly.
Bin's intervention wasn't noble protection. He simply wanted to test something against this Super Nova, Silva Bascon.
Creak.
The purebloods locked eyes over the stick, unblinking. Through gazes and breaths, they gauged each other's level.
As tension simmered, Silva's fierce eyes flashed. "Insolent whelp. Bin Bascon!"
His high-pitched roar shook the air. His voice alone screamed fury.
Enraged, he glared; the fallen landlord finally breathed.
Silva's brow furrowed—he itched to smash Bin. No more decorum for Father's sake.
Bin Bascon, blocking the path of your future family head...
The youngest daring to obstruct him wounded his pride. He'd beat the defiance out of him for good.
Silva bellowed at Bin. "Challenging me with raw strength? I'll teach you how foolish that is."
Anyone could see the size gap. Silva dwarfed Bin two- or threefold. The physical disparity was undeniable.
Bin wasn't small—Silva was just abnormally huge. Yet Bin had felled monsters dwarfing even Silva. Size didn't faze him.
"Let's see if it's foolish."
Bin glared back, eyes fierce, lips curling confidently.
But that smirk only fueled Silva's rage. Arrogant bastard...
Silva shoved the stick with his thick arm. Veins bulged over exploding biceps and triceps.
Creak.
Overwhelmed, Bin was pushed back inch by inch, grip straining. "Ngh..."
"This is the difference between you and—"
Silva grinned at Bin's grimace. Then, anomaly: Bin's body refused to budge further.
"Hey, big guy. If you're not certain, shut your mouth."
Bin's gaze turned icy as he stared down Silva.