Today's Protagonist Is the Sword Master (2)
The rescue team's mission to save Iona had ended in success.
Yet due to unavoidable circumstances, the very heroes of that mission—the rescue team, now reclassified as a subjugation force—had still not returned.
And so the role of protagonist for this banquet fell to the other central figure of the rescue.
Mercenary Sword Master Gordon.
A man whose past everyone was dying to know: why on earth had someone of his caliber spent his life as a mere sellsword?
But no matter how terrifying that hidden past might have been, it no longer mattered in the slightest.
"Wheeeeeeeee—!"
"For an even stronger Iceland!"
The grand hall was a cauldron of pure frenzy. Even the nobles, who would normally have clung to the bare minimum of dignity, now mixed freely with the chieftains and commoners they had once quietly looked down upon, slamming their cups, leaping to their feet in applause, and bellowing cheers at the top of their lungs.
"Tsk. They are being absurdly loud. Louder than Winter-Ascend, if you ask me."
"Uh, Lady Atanita… are these gatherings always this noisy?"
"Hm?"
"Well, I mean… aren't they?"
Of course the atmosphere of any event depended on its purpose. A memorial service for the dead proceeded with solemn gravity (though some places threw festivals instead, figuring the departed were already in a foul mood and might as well enjoy the road ahead). A celebration was no different.
Frankly, when this many people gathered it would have been stranger if the place were quiet. Still, Karem could not help wondering whether things were supposed to go quite like this.
Wasn't this an official occasion? Shouldn't there be some solemn, dignified air hanging over everything?
"Wasn't this supposed to be an official occasion?"
"The Duke of Iceland himself is bestowing a title in person rather than through a proxy. If that is not official, what is?"
"And yet it is this loud?"
"Well, usually these things are quieter. But every so often you get a hall full of people who simply cannot keep their mouths shut."
Catherine nodded as she accepted the apricot slice Mary offered her.
"Think simply, kid. This is Iceland."
"Yes… and?"
"Who in their right mind would dare question the Felwinter family?"
No one, of course. Karem had not even spent a full year here, yet that had been more than enough time to grasp the local atmosphere.
"There is no one with guts that big—no, not even a person. No one at all."
"Exactly. Even if someone is not a native, we are talking about a duke. A duke. More to the point, ceremonies like this exist so the host can display power and authority for all to see."
Catherine straightened her head and jerked her chin toward the center of the hall. Every time a particularly loud roar erupted, Gordon flinched, yet the knights in their resplendent ceremonial armor, Alfred, and Iona continued the proceedings with expressions of perfect unconcern, as though they heard nothing.
"In other words, there are times when one needs to show off that power and authority."
She tilted her head slightly to glance at Karem beside her, then brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
"'My strength is still this great. So do not even dream of foolish ideas.' It is the noble way of delivering a threat."
"That is one expensive threat."
"Well, when the coffers are full it is still cheaper than actually drawing steel."
"That is an insanely expensive threat."
"Indeed. If the extravagance goes too far, an entire nation's yearly budget can go up in flames."
Karem shook his head with a sigh; Catherine nodded as if he had hit the nail on the head.
"Iceland, on the other hand, has no such worries."
"Because loyalty is rock-solid?"
"Loyalty is the foundation. On top of that there is power, there is history, and now the contractor's contractor has even driven famine out of Iceland."
"So you do not even need to boast, 'Look how great our house is'?"
Mary, peeling an apple, nodded in agreement.
"A lineage that has ruled longer than the kingdom itself has existed, a record of protecting people and vassals, of holding back the Demon King's hordes—who would dare raise an objection?"
"And now you have the added feat that no one in Iceland starves to death."
"If the contractor's contractor ever raised a rebellion against the kingdom, the whole of Iceland would simply snap off and go with him."
Mary's deadpan delivery made the claim sound entirely plausible, yet Karem still thought, Come on, people live here too—surely not that far?
"Kid, hide your face. I can read every thought on it. Tsk."
"But still… that cannot be right. Or can it?"
"Even the firmest loyalty and faith can produce the occasional traitor. But think about it."
Catherine clicked her tongue and drummed her fingers on the table in boredom.
"Do you really believe the people around that traitor would simply stand by and watch?"
"Ah."
"From farmers he has never met to the maidservants who have brought him cold medicine for ten years—every last one of them would come for his head."
"Now that you put it that way, I cannot argue. Logically airtight."
It felt as though the very will of Iceland whispered in Karem's ear: Congratulations, would-be traitors! Thanks to your rash little stunt, you and your entire house have just made an enemy of all Iceland. Best of luck. Now die!
"Anyway, the ceremony is nearly finished."
"Oh, finally?!"
"Look around the hall."
"…Huh."
The same people who moments earlier had been roaring with cheers fell silent as though a switch had been flipped the instant Iona appeared carrying a longsword.
It was a distinctive yet simple blade without a crossguard. Karem wondered what it was—until Alfred took hold of it and drew it free, and every thought revised itself on the spot.
A brilliant azure hilt bloomed from either side of the gauntleted grip; a single straight line of the same blue light raced along the fuller all the way to the tip. The heat of the crowd vanished; the grand hall turned ice-cold in an instant.
Even from the high seats the three distinct lights and the sudden drop in temperature were unmistakable. Catherine let out a soft breath of white vapor in admiration.
"Ho. So because a Sword Master is present, they brought out the treasured blade."
"Treasured blade?"
"Yes. The Felwinter family's heirloom sword—Winter's Herd."
Quiet now.
Catherine pressed a finger to her lips. Karem clamped his own mouth shut and fixed his eyes on the center of the hall.
Every gaze in the room converged. Alfred lightly touched the tip of Winter's Herd to Gordon's head and both shoulders.
"—In the name of the Mistress of Winter, the Ascended One, and the Nameless Traveler, I who reign over Iceland declare: Mercenary Gordon, rise."
Gordon, clad in ornate plate over the absurdly flamboyant peacock-patterned quilted armor that was nothing like his old gear, stood up with awkward, half-crouched movements as though the whole outfit still felt alien.
"Will you fulfill all that you have sworn?"
"I will fulfill it, my lord."
"Then, Gordon Stark—present your cheek."
Cheek? Out of nowhere? Why?
Karem thought he must have misheard. He had not.
Gordon stepped forward and bowed his head, offering his cheek toward Alfred.
And then—
CRACK!
"From this moment you are Baron of Bolton!"
"Guh—hk?!"
Alfred's gauntlet connected with Gordon's cheek in a full-powered swing.
"Glory to an ever-stronger Iceland! Glory to Felwinter!"
"I know that slap! I've taken the Duke's hand myself—it stings like hell!"
"A toast to Iceland's newest Sword Master!"
The entire crowd that had watched the painful spectacle erupted as though the previous silence had been a lie. They were cheering their new knight—or perhaps simply cheering the sight of a Sword Master getting slapped across the face.
A perfect handprint of purple bruise bloomed on Gordon's right cheek. He straightened his rumpled clothes.
"Augh, good gods. Could you have hit a little softer?"
"Think of it as receiving every region's 'initiation' all at once."
"Still, Your Grace, that hand strength is no joke."
"Of course it is not."
"As expected—"
"Well then, the investiture is complete!"
Alfred cut him off, clapped Gordon on the shoulder, and shoved the newborn Sword Master noble straight into the waiting throng of vassals who were already eyeing him with intense interest. Then he swept the hall with his gaze and bellowed:
"Let the banquet begin!"
It was a day of great meaning: the investiture of a Sword Master. Though the preparation period had been short, the banquet—if not quite on the scale of Winter-Ascend—was vast and splendid enough to satisfy every guest and live up to the name of a ducal house.
Those who had attended the previous Winter-Ascend marveled at dishes they had never seen even then. Those who had missed that festival for personal reasons were stunned. First-time invitees simply went slack-jawed.
Watching every single person abandon dignity and heap plate after plate high with food brought a smile to the face of Karem, who had helped prepare so much of it.
"Karem. Can I really not have just one slice of that?"
"No, Young Master Godwin. Before the meal begins—"
"Yes, yes, I know. I am only allowed the dishes in front of me and within arm's reach. But look at that thing over there!"
Godwin, unable to contain his amazement, jabbed a finger vigorously toward the general seating below the high table.
"A porchetta that enormous! How am I supposed to endure it?!"
"Ah, Jigmeser had one hell of a time making those."
The larger a cut of meat, the more difficult it is to cook. Every table therefore held an enormous platter: a bed of crackling pork rinds arranged like French fries, and upon it a porchetta the size of a full-grown adult. The difficulty had been beyond imagination.
A whole pig had been deboned, shaped, slathered in butter, stuffed with ingredients and spices, rolled tight, and deep-fried. Inspired by the flood of cooking oil now pouring into Coldon from Fungusby, Jigmeser had worked as though possessed, frying batch after batch all day long. The result possessed a visual impact and destructive power that even Karem, in his previous life, had never witnessed outside of video. It was a dish that struck straight to the heart of every man present. Small wonder Godwin, appetite thoroughly awakened, could not sit still.
"Still, the dishes right in front of you look delicious too, do they not?"
"True. The aromas, the appearances—every last one of them sparks curiosity and stirs the appetite. I will give you that."
"I developed them solely for you, Young Master Godwin."
"Karem, I acknowledge your efforts. However."
Godwin glanced down at the spread before him.
A pot in which the tenderest leaves of cabbage had been layered alternately with paper-thin raw beef until a great rose bloomed in the center, its pistil and stamen fashioned from mushrooms. Various cuts of chicken and pork, brushed with a dark sauce and roasted until they glowed a deep mahogany, releasing a thick, salty-sweet fragrance. Thinly sliced vegetables arranged in rainbow layers and steamed in a wide pan, their unique savory scent rising; a salad of cheese and tomato stacked high and drizzled with balsamic dressing. Alongside them sat oat rice and a host of other dishes whose names Godwin did not even know, mixed among the familiar ones.
From either side drifted the rich smells of oil and sugar. Godwin turned his head without thinking.
Elizabeth was spreading whipped cream over castella while Alfred sliced a massive porterhouse with the bone still attached; the two chatted amiably. Next to them sat Iona, stripping meat from a crisp roast suckling pig and chewing the scraps left on the bones, and Catherine, who was enjoying fried seafood under Mary's attentive service.
The seat beyond that belonged to today's true guest of honor—Baron of Bolton and new head of House Stark—but it currently stood empty. Gordon was trapped in the center of the hall, half-drowned in forced toasts by the guests.
Godwin looked the other way.
"You little pig, eat more neatly."
"I am eating far better than Robin, who pecks like a bird…!"
"You are holding a bone in each hand. Are you an orc?"
"Hmph. There are people down there eating exactly the same way!"
"Unlike them, you are a girl. Shall I tell Lady Poppins?"
"Th-that is not allowed!"
Godwin skipped past the bickering youngest, Alicia, and the former youngest, Robin. Second son William, cheeks stuffed round with seasoned chicken, noticed Godwin staring and grinned, offering a casual salute with the half-eaten drumstick still in his hand. At that idiotic sight Godwin turned back toward the general seating.
The same dishes that sat before him also appeared at regular intervals on the lower tables—except for the oat rice.
"All right, fine, the oat rice I can understand. But compared to those things over there, these are just too—"
"Healthy-smelling?"
"Exactly. You read my mind. Every single one of them smells far too healthy. And there is not even dessert. Must it really be this strict?"
Godwin fixed Karem with a desperate look.
"Of course."
Karem steeled himself and answered firmly.
Godwin sighed.
"If you are truly dissatisfied, I can switch you to the Duchess's diet—"
"Hahahaha! This dark grilled meat looks absolutely delicious!"
"I take it you have no such desire."
"Compared to those other dishes, this is a feast!"
Elizabeth's sharp gaze stabbed from the side; Godwin waved it off lightly and hurriedly piled his plate with the appetizing black-grilled chicken and pork.
He first speared a piece of the chicken. He had expected balsamic vinegar, yet the scent was nothing of the sort. Instead it was a sweet-and-salty aroma completely removed from balsamic.
"Well, it certainly looks better than boiled meat with salt on it."
"Oh-ho. Comparing the two is already an insult."
Godwin agreed and popped the chicken into his mouth.
— Attached Materials —
Millefeuille Nabe
Teriyaki Barbecue
Caprese Salad
Porterhouse Steak (T-Bone Steak)
Seasoned Chicken
Pictures drawn by ChatGPT.