War Weapons (2)
In terms of experience and statistics, the pinnacle of embezzlement lies in military supplies. Who would dare obstruct the stockpiling of resources for war preparation? When many Nostrum families engage in corruption, they primarily target military provisions. For instance, filling wheat sacks meant for granaries with sand and siphoning off the real grain for personal gain. Or requisitioning funds for medical consumables under the guise of purchases, then forcing soldiers to make do with existing stock under the banner of "military spirit." Or, like what I'm planning now, using only a portion of the allocated materials and diverting the rest.
Of course, publicly, it can be framed as "strategic utilization." The capital might send the bare minimum of rebar, claiming it's all that's needed—but if the actual requirement is far less? Returning the surplus? Loading it back onto wagons and shipping it to the capital would be foolish. Gibraltar stands at the forefront, clashing directly with the Empire. Repurposing excess resources right on the front lines is the epitome of rationality and efficiency.
"As expected, Father knows nothing about this sort of thing."
Father is far too honest in these matters. And because generations of such upright individuals have held the margrave title, the people working in the family lean toward incorruptibility. Those inclined toward corruption don't even consider coming to Gibraltar in the first place. Bribes don't work here, and they outright refuse lavish entertainment.
Until now, that is.
"No need to pretend and coax Father into corruption. I can just do it myself."
Corruption, embezzlement, misappropriation, smuggling, tax evasion, and all manner of other misdeeds. Everything that has never happened in Gibraltar will now come to pass through me, Grey.
-Grey Gibraltar, unlike his upright father, is no ordinary wastrel.
Rumors will spread, and those who hear them will slip one by one into the shadows around me. My surroundings will teem with con artists, corruption experts, embezzlers, and traitors.
"Traitor Grey, the king-seller and sycophant. Rewriting Gibraltar's history. Sounds good."
So this is preparation to welcome them.
"Once it's all over, line them up and shoot them down in one go."
I held the practice wooden sword like a musket and aimed at the empty air.
"Bang."
No teeth? Use the gums. It was just a wooden sword, but the stance came out decently similar.
I'd hoped to get my hands on the "Empire weapons" Father kept in his study, but that regrettably failed.
"Tch..."
I'm familiar with handling firearms, but without regular practice, the skill rusts.
I need to fire one myself to get the feel back.
My mind remembered the operations perfectly, but my hand muscles were still clumsy.
"......"
I gripped the wooden sword's handle with both hands, musket-style.
"Ha."
It came naturally—far more familiar than a gun. The Gibraltar family's hereditary sword stance emerged instinctively.
Whoosh.
A light downward slash. The trajectory I'd swung nearly ten thousand times a day before regression unfolded before me.
"......"
Once was enough. This body had never held a sword before now, and it would need countless efforts to temper itself going forward. To grow as strong as Father.
Matching Father's combat power with the sword alone might be impossible, but I still needed to reach that level.
Because of the Emperor.
No one knew. The true strength of the current crown prince, who hadn't even ascended the throne yet—that monster.
The continent's strongest.
Every master in the kingdom, save Father, had been slain by the Emperor. Fortunately, this was still ten years before the war.
The Empire's army is weak now, but in ten years, it will be strong.
The Empire had hoarded national power for decades to dominate the kingdom.
To breach Gibraltar Canyon, which none had ever crossed.
Realizing they couldn't match Nostrum—the nation of knights—with chivalry alone, they plunged into magitech research to close the gap. They armed fresh conscripts with muskets firing magic missiles. Trained soldiers attached bayonets to muskets for "Imperial bayonet techniques." Talented elites were formally trained at officer academies to duel kingdom knights.
"......"
I was alone in the room. No one would notice even if I practiced swordsmanship with the wooden sword here.
The only potential witness was Father...
"......"
I closed my eyes and focused all my senses on hearing—to confirm if it was safe to check my martial skills now.
Creeeak.
"...Phew, good."
He seemed preoccupied with Mother right now.
It's kinda funny that I only practice this during their couple time.
But this couldn't be discovered, no matter what.
Shiiiing!
I lightly gripped the sword, drew it from the scabbard at my waist, and swung wide. A cleaner arc than before. Invisible to the eye, but in my vision, the afterimage curved like a crescent moon.
"Ha."
My fingers ached. Just one swing, and the hand muscles already screamed.
"Looks like I need to train diligently alongside the embezzlement."
Time was plentiful. Ten years might seem short, but how one compressed and used it would change everything.
"Alright, then. Time to get into character."
To become the king of traitors, I first needed to craft an image.
"There's time until the rebar arrives from Morgania."
Morning, family breakfast time with everyone gathered. Father and Mother ate in their usual long clothes despite the heat, while my two younger siblings eyed each other warily, picking at their bread.
Clink.
Only the sound of utensils filled the silent table—no chewing noises even.
"Father."
The whole family flinched as I spoke. Even Father—for him, it was probably tension over "what's that brat about to say now."
"I need a tutor."
"...Good. That's a relief."
"Pardon?"
"No. Nothing."
Father exchanged glances with Mother and cleared his throat.
They look like they discussed me after their deed last night.
They must have seriously debated how to handle their suddenly changed son.
-Dear, Grey has changed too much.
-Yes. Overnight, he's turned into an old soul in a child's body. Like he skipped puberty straight to adulthood.
Sharing that common ground, while hiding elements like "partners in treason" and "secret oaths," they'd had a deep noble-parent conversation.
"A tutor. Excellent. Your siblings are already studying."
So my request for something standard like a tutor must have eased their minds.
"Want to join their lessons?"
Mother asked with subtle hope. Home education was her domain, after all.
"I'll speak to Madam Mirdin. She can prepare problems suited to your level."
She seemed to hope I'd bond with my siblings through shared classes—but
"I want to learn martial arts."
If it were that, she'd have called Mother from the start.
"Martial arts?"
"Yes. Ideally from a master-level expert. Not you, Father."
"......Hmmm."
A bold, arrogant demand. And one with low feasibility.
"Shall we invite Grand Duke Morgania?"
"No. His chances of coming are slim."
"Then?"
"Does it have to be a kingdom master?"
Twitch.
Mother paled, Father closed his eyes.
Complicated feelings, huh.
They'd likely caught on that this was laying groundwork for treason: "Grey, the Empire's bird." But it might sting their pride too.
"I'll teach you myself."
"No thank you."
"......."
"I've seen you train the knights. That's violence."
"True combat sparring is the essence of training—"
"Yes. Lions hunt rabbits at full strength too. That's why no."
I'd already been beaten to death under that guise in my past life.
"Rest assured. This is all for the future, ten years from now."
"......."
They knew. But permission wasn't coming easily. Gibraltar fathers and sons had always been master and disciple.
In the future, Father had been my master.
-Take up the sword. Unleash the Gibraltar blood I passed to you, my son.
And as he taught me, he finally acknowledged me not as "Charlotte's son," but as "Crimson Gibraltar's son."
Our father-son talks had all been sword dialogues. This life was for treason and betrayal—no more sword talks.
Frankly, I didn't want to get beaten under the pretext of sword training. My body was precious.
"A shame. I even prepared wooden swords."
Father clicked his tongue, regret thick in his voice. Even retreating now, he'd try persuading later.
If you want to try being a father teaching swordsmanship to his child...
"If you want to teach swordsmanship yourself, how about Noir?"
"Brother?!"
Noir, who'd been holding his breath, yelped in surprise.
"Wh-what are you saying all of a sudden...?!"
"Noir's seven now. Too early to wield a sword, but perfect to start preparing."
"Hmmm..."
Father closed his eyes.
"Indeed. Noir."
"Y-yes!"
"After breakfast, come to the training grounds."
"......Pardon?"
"And Grey."
Father fixed me with a piercing gaze, gripping his knife.
"Find your own martial arts master. I'll write a letter of introduction."
Petty revenge toward me, but exactly what I wanted.
"Yes, Father."
I already had someone in mind.
"Nationality doesn't matter?"
"It doesn't. For a tutor, origin or status is irrelevant."
Because he'd resolved to treason? Or was he goading, "Let's see what grand master you summon"?
Either way, scratched his itch.
I'd won.
"Noir."
"Uh, y-yeah...?"
"You have more sword talent than me. You'll surely follow Father as a Sword Master."
"Huh...?"
I beamed at Noir.
"Train hard. Got it?"
"Ah..."
Noir Gibraltar. My three-years-younger brother, Gibraltar's second son.
"Y-yeah...! I'll do my best...!"
A Gibraltar through and through, he'd reached Sword Master. Though his end was messy, the talent was real.
"Enjoy your time with Father."
To become a true traitor.
"It'll be tough, though."
You have to sell out family too.
That day. Afternoon. A seven-year-old running the training grounds until his eyes glazed over was witnessed—but since it wasn't me, no big issue.
A Sword Master is a weapon of war in human form.
"Sir Robert. How many soldiers does one Sword Master equate to?"
"Is this a history quiz, young master?"
Sir Robert, summoned by me, thumped his chest as if it were obvious.
"Obviously, ten thousand elite troops!"
"One man equals ten thousand?"
"Yes. History proves it."
Sir Robert tapped the Gibraltar insignia on his uniform.
"Two hundred years ago, Margrave Cardian Gibraltar went down with ten thousand Imperial soldiers alone."
"Indeed."
1 Sword Master = 10,000 Imperial troops. An official figure in the histories.
The Empire sent tens of thousands to breach the canyon as always, only for one Gibraltar margrave to inflict ten thousand deaths. Not casualties—fatalities.
"So, do you think raising national power means training one knight, or elevating individual soldiers like the Empire?"
"Hmm... If you can produce one master, that's far more profitable, right?"
As Robert said.
"Magitech they're developing might end the era of swords and spears someday, as they claim. But not now."
"Right. I think so too. At least... three hundred years."
No matter how easily magitech rifles turned farmers into soldiers.
"Even I could cut down a hundred musket fodder easily. With resolve to die, two hundred—no, five hundred to the afterlife."
"The numbers jumped. Quite the exaggeration."
"Means I'm that skilled. Haha."
In the end, if they just spammed magic missiles, not even Sword Masters—just aura-wielding knights—would slaughter them all.
"Yes. Invest twenty years to raise one master, and that's your ultimate weapon."
"Indeed. That's why the margrave is training young Master Noir so harshly..."
"He won't become a master getting beaten like that. Better not."
"Uh, well..."
Sir Robert's eyes wavered.
"Sir."
"Yes, young master."
"Even if I die and resurrect, I won't become a Sword Master."
"......."
Sword Master.
"Young master... Sob, it's fine! I'll serve you well!"
"Huh?"
"No matter what happens later, you're the eldest son!"
"No, that's—"
Oh.
"Sir Robert."
"Yes, young master!"
"Thanks to you, I just thought of something fun."
"...Pardon?"
"Yes. Where there's light, there's shadow."
Under the blazing training grounds sun, Noir lay sprawled like the character for "big." Father approached, forcibly hauled him up, and shoved a sword into his hands.
"Man, truly glad to have such a talented brother. Heh heh heh."
Someone to be Father's disciple in my stead—sincerely a relief.