Birthday Gift -2-
"Hurry."
A firm command rang out, accompanied by the thunder of dozens of hooves climbing the mountain. From knights in full plate armor to those with pauldrons gleaming. The lion emblem symbolizing House Histania fluttered midway up the slope. Leading them was Rowen, his face etched with deep unease.
This wasn't a battle against a formidable foe. Not a clash with the Demon King's army. Not suppressing rebels. Yet Rowen's lips were drier than they'd ever been.
"Nothing's happened, Father. You know our youngest is a scaredy-cat. She wouldn't risk her life on something like this."
The eldest son's consolation laced with mockery.
"Yeah, she'll probably hole up in an inn like last time and come slinking back. Bet she'll be barricaded in her room by the time we get home."
The second son's irritated agreement followed, but none of it reached Rowen's ears.
Save me... I don't want to die like this...
Only one thing filled Rowen's mind now. The final image of his youngest daughter shown in the blue window.
It must've been a hallucination.
His baby girl dying gruesomely to orcs. Clutching a bloodied sword, calling for her father. The scene was still vivid. Too real for a mere illusion, her voice calling to him sharp and clear.
Hanna dying? Impossible. A daughter of House Histania to some lowly orcs...?
His vision darkened. Rowen threw his head back, shaking off the intrusive thoughts.
The eldest said something weird, that's all. The situation lined up and tricked my mind.
I've been overworking lately.
Like the second son said, she's timid. She'll be safe at home. When we get back, I'll make her quit the sword for good.
A whirlwind of excuses swirled in his head, but deep down, Rowen knew. That vision wasn't born of mere fatigue.
He didn't know why it appeared. Punishment for his harshness toward her? Some prophetic dream like the seers spoke of? One thing was certain: it wasn't a hallucination or magic. It felt like a real memory.
A Sword Master at the peak of physical perfection, felled by mental magic? Impossible. No way to fall victim to it.
If it were possible, the empire would be crawling with mages.
Just baseless anxiety.
Rowen chided himself. He didn't hate his youngest. She just never caught his eye like the others. He'd done well enough as a father. His own sire had been far worse.
But why the lingering regret? If she died as in that vision—searching for him until her last breath under an orc's greatsword. If he found her cold corpse... what would become of him?
Would he rage at the daughter who tarnished Histania's name? Or collapse weeping on the spot?
Rowen recoiled from the thought. A frail old man clutching her body, regretting too late. Pathetic. No point lamenting the past.
If he was going to do it right, he should've from the start. A knight knows death is always near. At least a knight...
"Halt... halt!"
A lead knight pointed to the dense underbrush, palm raised toward the approaching group. A female knight spoke up.
"There's a body."
Her gaze pierced the foliage, where a cold corpse lay.
Rowen's heart seemed to stop. Dark thoughts writhed within, cold sweat slicking the reins in his grip.
A pale hand visible through the bushes. Long hair. A sword about a meter long. It evoked someone he knew all too well.
Rowen dismounted swiftly.
No. This can't happen.
His sons would laugh if they saw. The Knight Commander losing composure, scrambling off his horse. The very behavior he despised most. A bitter smile twisted his lips, but his mind couldn't spare it.
Rowen bolted toward the brush. The knight crouched, examining the body, then lifted a small metal tag.
Rowen's body stiffened.
Please.
Not her.
That was just an illusion. Don't panic, Rowen.
In that moment, he despised himself.
I did good eavesdropping when Brother and Father talked. Father built his strength hunting orcs in the Hamel Mountains as a kid...
He pictured Hanna, eyes bright with anticipation, climbing the mountain after overhearing his tale to the eldest.
And then.
Dad... Dad would've fought without fear. Maybe he'll praise me if I catch one.
Trembling as she raised her sword against an orc four times her size.
Rowen's eyes squeezed shut.
God, please...
Who'd have thought he'd pray? The Pope would chuckle.
The knight rummaging the mangled corpse held up an adventurer's tag.
"Age 51. A-rank adventurer."
Color returned to Rowen's ashen face.
"From now on, I move alone. Knights, split into five squads and search orc habitats primarily."
"Yes, sir!"
The thunderous reply ended, Rowen commanded coldly.
"Make haste."
"Like this."
Atop the Hamel Mountains' orc colony. A pink picnic blanket lay neatly spread. Hanna poured green tea beside sandwiches and potato salad, looking enlightened as she glanced at me.
"How am I supposed to do that?!"
"Simple. Swing your sword at the carotid—whoosh—and it drops. Easy, right?"
"You can because you're the butler."
"No, you could too, Hanna."
I tilted my head at her.
"Probably?"
Orc corpses littered the blanket's edge. Red orcs rumored tough. Orc warriors, heads neatly severed from torsos, bidding farewell to the world.
Now Hanna's turn. I watched expectantly.
"You can handle this much, right?"
"No way!"
We'd claimed the spot nearest the peak. Elite monsters fetched premium prices as rare variants. Same name, but "elite" meant 3-4x the power.
In the original story, Mikhail got stomped by elites often, so I vaguely recalled their habitats.
First, untouched by human hands. Profitable parts drew hunters, so elites clustered in remote spots.
Thus, Hanna and I picked the summit no one tread—and found plenty of elite orcs.
Too many, actually.
Too many corpses.
Adventurer bodies piled like towers. Veterans with good gear, unnaturally strewn about. Some human-inflicted wounds amid the orc work, but not worth dwelling on.
Hanna's growth mattered now.
I demonstrated on a decent orc, and she sighed, dissecting my stance step by step. Solid form.
"You've beheaded how many orcs by now? No need to freak. Don't worry."
"Those were regular orcs... This is my first elite."
"You'll be fine."
I believed in her. With me guarding, her skills could manage—just barely.
Orcs were slow. Lumbering with greatswords, banking on one big hit.
Hanna? Nimble, swift. Plenty agile to dodge a swing and counter.
She didn't know her talent was agility, but I was certain. In the original, lacking strength for fatal blows doomed her—but now?
Hanna rose, steadying on her knee.
"Fine. Let's try it. You'll help if things go south, right, Butler?"
"Of course."
Yeah, I'd cover her if needed.
Spotting a massive orc downhill, I grabbed a stone.
"Huh? Why reach that way...? There's a small one over there."
As I aimed, Hanna's awkward smile met mine. I flashed the provoking grin I'd learned from my lady.
Go big or go home.
"Ready."
"Wait, Butler—"
"Fire!"
-Crack! A dull thud echoed with the orc's roar.
-ROOOAAARRRR!!!
I ducked behind Hanna quick.
"You got this!"
Cheer included.
"Fuck...!"
Didn't know she swore like that.
Hanna took down the orc flawlessly. No critical wounds—just light cuts. Textbook finish.
"Good work."
"I know. I rocked it."
Her brazenness mirrored mine—refreshing. Humility gets you nowhere.
Handed her the water flask, beaming.
"Perfect. Especially stabbing between the ribs for the vitals—brilliant."
"Really?"
"Yes. Though a split-second slower and you'd be speed-dating the goddess."
"Tch... And?"
"Huh?"
Hanna flushed, peeking shyly before whipping her head away. Pure teenage girl.
"Nothing else? I thought... you had lots to praise today..."
Pfft.
"Why laugh?!"
"Just did."
Needs more praise, huh.
[Q. Tragic Short-Lived Extra 'Hanna']
1. Praise to boost self-esteem. (9/10)
2. Raise 'Favorability' to 40+. [Favorability: 51]
3. Defeat 'Elite Orc Swordsman'. (1/1)
I figured praising post-kill would wrap the quest, but she'd built tolerance. Not hard to dish out—and she earned it today.
No holding back.
If only for the uninvited guest.
"Customer's here?"
A mantis-faced man slunk from behind a tree. He'd stalked us hidden, emerging after Hanna tapped out.
Grinning at us. Dagger at his waist. Face fit for mantis fist. The unhygienic trio: sleazy look, ready to backstab.
Your standard bandit.
Just a particularly nasty one.
His rags sported adventurer tags like trophies, plastered crookedly on his armor. Warped.
I knew him well.
He didn't know me.
Only one guy dressed that tacky with that vibe in the novel.
Adventurer Hunter. Mid-story, he preyed on adventurers, joined the heretics, became a mad archbishop. Tricky magic and unique black magic scarred Ruin. No slouch.
Explains the excess corpses. Veterans who could've handled elite orcs.
Black magic circles on the ground. The grinning mantis. Unsettling.
I eyed him.
"Whoa. Villain."
The chuckling mantis. I continued my intro.
"I'm a villain too."