Gibraltar's Invitation (2)
Festivities would have been a fine topic to linger on, but time had grown late. Father had decided it was time for the couple's private moments, and I returned to my room without protest.
Creak.
The sound of the bed dragging across the floor echoed. Now, then—from this point on, it was time for the regressor. In front of Mother or Father, I'd played the role of a bright-minded child still held back by youth, exercising restraint. But this moment belonged to the traitor Grey.
Creak.
The bed shifted once more. With everyone asleep and the couple lost in their whispered affections, this was my time alone.
"Hoo—."
Sitting cross-legged on the bed, I steadied my breathing.
Accumulate mana.
I'd already shown Father that I could sense mana, but what came next was a cheat method.
The imperial mana cultivation technique.
The kingdom's fall was the fall of mana. Knights had dismissed the Empire, only to be felled by refined musket mana bullets, ending the age of knights.
—A knight cloaked in aura can't be hit by mana bullets? Then fire until their aura depletes. Concentrated shots accelerated the drain on their mana shroud.
—Mana shortage? Then accumulate it faster. Trade lifespan for more mana. Stuff mana herbs down your throat or guzzle monster blood like water.
And once the Empire amassed enough national power for overwhelming barrages...
—It's the Empire's way, but for Nostrum's revival, we must learn even from the enemy.
The princess and the kingdom revivalists had researched new mana cultivation methods.
—If they gather mana with every breath, so must we. No holds barred.
Where traditional methods let mana accumulate naturally, this crammed it in by any means necessary.
Imperial style, blended with the revolutionaries'.
Whether imperial or revolutionary, at this point, they were cheats.
Cheats can't beat the orthodox path, they say.
But if a cheat advances an era ahead of orthodoxy, the old way becomes a relic.
"Hoo—."
I drew a long breath, forcibly pulling ambient mana into my body.
Accumulate mana, no matter what.
As I exhaled, I seized the mana in the air escaping through my bronchi, throat, and mouth, forcing it to stay.
"...Krrk."
My throat rasped like it was clogged with phlegm. Nothing physically blocked it, but it seized up, breath faltering.
Mana bucked wildly, raging against confinement, rebelling against suppression and domination.
"......."
But with lips sealed and breath held...
30 seconds. One minute. One minute and fifteen seconds—
"...Pah—!"
Success if I held and absorbed it. Failure if I exhaled with the mana.
Thought I was a goner.
Luckily, it worked this time. Gibraltar's land must be blessed—the night air flowing through the window was pure and clear.
Good air means tame mana. Lucky.
Unlike the Empire's polluted haze, absorbing atmospheric mana here was straightforward.
By fifteen, it'd be effortless.
With a grown body, I'd accumulate mana effortlessly even breathing normally.
Wonder if even the Emperor struggles with this.
Even starting at ten with future distillation methods, the Emperor likely piled mana through cruder means: slaughter, slavery, drugs.
Purity be damned—stack it relentlessly. That tyrannical mindset ignored all limits to grow strong.
I had to match it. Knowing him better than anyone, I needed every preparation to counter him.
But.
If caught now, I'm exiled before I start.
Quietly, from the shadows. Not as bloody as his path, but my way.
In places unseen by kingdom, Empire, even Father.
For that, I needed hands and feet loyal only to me.
Sir Robert?
Too upright.
He was loyal.
I need moderately dirty players.
Tell him to walk paths of blood, slaughter, crime, corruption, and his loyalty would turn to denunciation.
Not a flaw. People vary; he thrives in the white zone.
Not like future me, stained in dark crimson murk and deep gray.
So, seek those types. Faces to front for me before adulthood.
A few flickered from memory. Vengeance against the inept king. Lifelong imperial loyalty. Or just amusement at the kingdom's fall.
Gray-zone folk, each with motives.
If even one shows...
Who knew if they'd come to this incorruptible land. But trying couldn't hurt.
Like the Empire using kingdom puppets to send "friendly" letters to Gibraltar, reaching out would draw responses.
If the pretext is solid.
A reason for the Empire to approach "Grey Gibraltar."
No better stage than the banquet hall for rumors.
I halted my breath. Rising, I gripped the wooden sword by the bed.
—Grey Margrave. Listen well.
The Emperor had said that when teaching me.
—When breathing, drinking, kissing a woman. In every moment, seize mana so your unconscious body accumulates it. Make mana flow naturally in daily life.
—Not mana lingering naturally in your body, but you plundering the world's mana. That's the true conqueror.
Plunder. Loot. Dominate. Oppress.
—That's my hegemony.
A mentor of sorts, but this life, I wouldn't follow his path.
Though I wouldn't deny its lessons.
No intent to walk the tyrant's road, but I saw what the strong's path entails.
I learned: the strong make themselves the center, acting proactively, shaping the board. Like Father at the orc horde's heart—the strong craft their environment and lead it.
I make the board.
Wooden sword raised, I swung lightly down.
"...Tch."
Breath ragged, palms aching like torn.
Grow stronger.
No matter how I schemed politically for power...
—Remember this, Grey Gibraltar.
He proved his words more than anyone.
So, like it or not, heed them.
—That true power is mighty force.
His creed.
—To that end, hesitate at no means.
The Empire's unimaginable acts to conquer the kingdom.
—To rule humans, become a monster beyond their grasp.
His resulting actions.
"Hoo."
Father, Mother, no one cared. But knowing the future, I questioned the obvious.
Three thousand orcs. Why head for the canyon?
Just routine monsters from the polluted zone?
Really?
No.
Monster attacks on canyons are common. But not this time.
Three thousand orcs seemed routine, but weren't.
What we took for granted might have deeper causes.
Everyone in Gibraltar, even Father, accepted it as normal—but it was ploy and tactic.
—Learn well, Margrave.
The Emperor once said.
—Mercy in battle is for fools.
He spared no means.
—Etiquette. Propriety. Humanity. Righteousness. Custom. Rules. All redefined before this word.
You know it well.
"Victory."
For victory, anything goes. History belongs to winners.
Kiiik.
The window creaked open.
Time's up.
A signal to stop thinking deep—or just sleep.
"Hoo—."
Night deepened; I slipped under the covers and closed my eyes.
The next morning, after breakfast, while Father and my sibling practiced swordsmanship in the training grounds, I headed to Mother's office.
"Grey. Is this classification sufficient?"
Mother held out letter envelopes before me, sorted into three piles, each stamped boldly with family names.
"This seems... fine. The sorting's adequate. It's the first time, after all."
"The first..."
"We must hold parties regularly. To draw nobles and scout suitable ones among them."
"You're really out to kill me."
"You must bear the responsibility."
"Fine. That's my duty as Countess Gibraltar."
Mother fiddled with her high-necked dress, catching her breath.
"But Grey, there's one issue."
"What is it?"
"No pretext for inviting them."
"Slaughtering three thousand orcs isn't pretext enough?"
"That's the public excuse for the party."
Mother shifted as if seizing the moment, like a teacher about to instruct.
"What do you think nobles hold parties for?"
"I'd need at least five pages of parchment."
"......."
"Just the conclusion. What's the problem?"
"No substantial pretext."
Mother sighed deeply.
"We need something plausible that even those coming to Gibraltar can grasp."
"To proclaim our marriage endures, that we're still passionately in love."
"If you're teasing, stop. I'm serious."
Mother's face hardened.
"Whether they come for that or not, we need a pretext to declare."
"Understood."
"You're really telling me to write that?"
She asked gravely.
"Invite this many just to propagandize that the capital scandal was an accident, our bond unbroken?"
"Of course not."
If it were mere boasting of marital bliss, I wouldn't have suggested a celebration.
"Mother, I see nobles' parties as investor pitches."
"When did you learn such terms?"
"I'm smarter than you think."
"...Fine."
Mother nodded, face sour.
"Lucky my son rivals Queen Carmen in genius. So, share your plan?"
"Nobles will bring gifts to impress—treasures, luxuries."
"To Gibraltar?"
"Even an incorruptible house gets tested. Fine teas, wines, say."
About three years since the last party. Nobles would gauge acceptable lines.
"Father prefers no give, no take."
"Leave the gift ledger, items, family records to you, Mother."
"...Yes. That's my role."
Good. In the future, I'd handled it; now, no need.
"I'll draft the invitation wording. You copy and send."
"...We're inviting over fifty families already?"
"You wouldn't have me write them all?"
"......."
Mother pouted.
I could mimic her handwriting, but she had hands, and no reason for me to.
"I provide the wording to pique curiosity. Namely..."
I shook an empty envelope.
"Building an orphanage—sound them out for donations."
"What?"
"Of course, lace it with political rhetoric."
"No, suddenly an orphanage...?"
"Yes. Not strictly necessary, but most 'efficient.'"
Not just seeming— it was.
"Nothing beats donation money, Mother."
From experience.
"Feed and house orphans with good intentions—who checks costs? Haha."
Obviously.
"Especially for parentless kids or those neglected by poor parents."
I knew from doing it.
And.
"Our darling youngest, Letar, gets playmates."
For my little sister, a big-brother gift.
A week later, Gibraltar's invitations went out across the kingdom.