Uninvited Guest (3)
The border between the kingdom and the empire stretched long from north to south, with a canyon at its heart. Whether it had formed naturally or in the age of ancient dragons, in the era of humanity, it served as the frontier. The kingdom claimed the canyon's interior. Before the gates were built, there had been endless advances and retreats within its depths, but once the gates rose, the path between them fell firmly under kingdom control. The empire declared the lands beyond the canyon its own. This had occurred at the very birth of the Nostrum Kingdom—some five hundred years ago.
"Noir. Want a quick history lesson?"
"Wh-what...?"
"It's basic knowledge for anyone from Gibraltar. Family history. Oh, and something to drink."
I ordered black tea from a maid.
"What are you doing? Bring it."
"Ah, yes! I'll prepare it right away, young master."
The maid who'd received my order hurried off to boil water and fetch tea leaves, looking utterly flustered. A new hire from the past year, perhaps? She seemed tense, as if this were her first brush with such a situation.
A newly hired servant.
On the day Father declared the traitors, several maids had died. Naturally, their positions needed filling with fresh hires. The baron who suddenly slaughtered his own staff overnight must have terrified them—but
The ones who died weren't exactly model servants.
The victims slain in the dining hall had been of poor character anyway. And ironically, Father's usual demeanor worked in his favor.
—Those maids must have done something gravely wrong. Insulted the lady in front of the margrave, perhaps.
In truth, it had been something like that, so their deaths earned a measure of understanding—mitigating circumstances, of a sort.
For now, cleaning house among the family servants is more hassle than it's worth.
I could upend the whole lot in one fell swoop. After all, to achieve great things, one must first secure the home front.
"H-here you are."
"Mm."
Sorting the servants was a chore, but better that than suffer through bad food or bitter tea.
"Oh."
Not bad—the aroma was surprisingly fine.
"Newbie?"
"Y-yes! I'm Merrily, newly hired!"
"Hm. I see."
I hadn't asked her name, but if she could brew tea this well, she passed.
Maybe put off the servant purge for later.
It would have to happen eventually, but with Father around, there was no rush for now.
"Noir. You too. Letar... better skip the tea. Get her some warm milk."
"M-milk...?"
"Didn't bring any?"
"N-no, sir! I'll fetch it!"
She still had plenty of rough edges, but since I wasn't the one inconvenienced, it hardly mattered.
"Right... So, Noir. While I've been sipping my tea, you've been sitting there quietly."
"H-heek...!"
"I said let's study some history, remember? Simple question. The three thousand orcs Father killed—whose land did they die on?"
"Uh... th-the empire...?"
"Correct."
The orcs had fallen on imperial soil.
"Then, was that red wasteland empire territory five hundred years ago too?"
"Uh... um... You mean when the Nostrum Kingdom began...? Back then..."
"It wasn't the empire as we know it. Different name altogether."
The kingdom had carried the Nostrum bloodline for nearly five centuries, but the lands beyond the canyon had been a chaotic patchwork.
"If we're talking the empire's current territory, then yes—empire land."
"Right. Five hundred years ago, the one who unified the lands beyond the canyon—'the western continent'—became the empire."
The central border around the canyon hadn't shifted in five centuries.
"So, was it a red wasteland back then too?"
"Uh... um..."
"Answer's 'no.'"
Records said it had been lush green meadows.
"Until five hundred years ago, the far side wasn't this barren hellscape where nothing grows. What do you think turned it into that? Hm?"
"A l-lot... died?"
"Spot on!"
Noir was a Gibraltar through and through.
"Countless corpses piled up—where's the room for life to sprout? Thousands dying every decade."
The boy lacked book smarts, but he'd clearly inherited Father's knack for the 'arts of war,' unique to the Gibraltar line.
"Early on, when the empire lost the canyon, they tried recovering the bodies. Later, they just left them."
"Because our ancestors killed so many it was impossible...?"
"That too, but sometimes corpses become weapons themselves."
Corpses were tactically invaluable resources. Like when the empire catapaulted noble heads over city walls during sieges of the capital—nothing demoralized foes like that. Tossing bodies into an enemy's water supply to poison it. Spreading plague with rotting flesh.
That was how the empire subjugated the petty kingdoms and unified the western continent.
"Of course, our ancestors countered. Know how?"
"I-I do!"
Noir's eyes sparkled.
"They carved the canyon entrance with sword auras, directing the wind toward the empire!"
"Exactly."
The canyon had once allowed free winds.
"They left the base width intact but slashed the cliffs with auras, creating a one-way path for the air."
What had the empire's magitech engineers called it? They carved the canyon with swords to create pressure differentials, forcing the wind toward the empire.
It wasn't natural airflow. They'd reshaped the terrain so everything flowed their way.
"Now you know where those three thousand orc corpses went?"
"...They blew toward the empire!"
"Not rolling like tumbleweeds, but the blood-scent laced wind kept drifting that way."
By harnessing nature itself to forge that environment, they'd created the wasteland we saw today.
"And the empire couldn't just let it lie."
The stench of rotting flesh drifted across the wasteland, inevitably reaching imperial lands.
"Dragging out even Marquis Claydoll for a show of force like this—they must be serious this time."
"Th-then real battle...!"
"We'll see."
I wet my throat with slightly cooled black tea, eyeing the enemy troops visible through the projection stone. Two possibilities.
"Father... he'll be okay, right...? Even up on the gate, that old guy's got this fierce vibe..."
"One of the empire's boasted generals. Gruff personality, savage and ferocious—like a wild boar of a veteran."
"Heek...!"
One scenario was what Noir feared: all-out war.
Every century or so, they get serious about crossing—throwing tens of thousands at it a few times.
Five thousand wasn't much, but bringing a master along wasn't unreasonable.
"Ha."
"B-bro. Aren't you... worried? About Father...?"
"Worried? No chance."
My real worry wasn't the canyon—it was here, in the castle.
"Noir. If I were the empire, I wouldn't send just one master against Father."
"Th-then...?"
"Simple show of force."
The second possibility—the truly 'imperial' strategy.
"Lure Father to the canyon, then roll out some other scheme."
"What other scheme...?"
"Figure it—"
I wouldn't tell him.
"Think on it yourself."
Were they angling to negotiate corpse retrieval costs with Father? Planning to seize Gate 1 as a foothold if he didn't show? Appeasing imperial citizens' outrage over the rolling bodies—public opinion management?
That's the empire's own play.
If the future emperor—the current crown prince—meddled here.
If I could intervene from the empire's side in this battlefield.
"Sir Robert?"
"Yes, young master!"
Sir Robert, standing behind me, answered promptly.
"Any nobles who left something behind at the mansion or suddenly returned there? Among the banquet guests."
"None."
"Now?"
"...None before I entered here. Shall I check?"
"Hm."
I'd expected at least one.
"Nah. Just wondering. Thought some lunatic might flop down in the hall to watch Father's fight."
I lifted my cup again.
"Still, if one shows, let me know. Entertaining them's my job, for now."
Not imperial tactics.
If it bore the crown prince's scheme—
* * *
At that moment.
At the edge of Gibraltar baronial lands, on a forest road.
Thud!
A massive jolt, and the carriage toppled sideways.
Neigh!
"Argh!"
The horses whinnied in panic, while the passenger inside screamed in pain.
"What the hell!"
A middle-aged man—Baron Ervant Langir—pushed up his bowler hat and clambered out the upturned door.
"I was already pissed about missing the battle show, and now you have to ruin my day too, Marcel..."
The baron trailed off.
Pffft.
A hissing sound, like air escaping.
The servant who should have been on the driver's seat—Marcel—slumped sideways, lifeless.
The loosened horses bolted in fright, and something fluttered before the baron.
"That's why I told you to ease up on the booze...! Ugh! That horse cost a fortune—"
The baron saw it.
"Huh?"
The rope end brushing past him wasn't frayed—it had been sliced clean.
"N-no way—"
Beyond the fallen Marcel stood figures cloaked head to toe in black, daggers in hand.
"H-heek?!"
"This the guy?"
A voice indistinguishable as man or woman.
"Ervant Langir. Confirmed."
The masked ones spoke plainly, emotionlessly—like the cold steel in their grips.
"Wh-who are you! I am a proud noble of great Nostrum, Baron Ervant Langir—"
Stab.
The dagger plunged into the baron's throat. He collapsed into the carriage, spurting blood, without another word.
"What a pain to clean up..."
"The kingdom dogs'll handle it. We just ditch this."
One masked figure hoisted the dead driver's corpse.
"Strip the baron for valuables."
"Robbing nobles as a servant ploy? It's not even cliché yet."
"That's why classics endure. Complaints? Take it up with [Grand Prince] who scripted this."
"Tch."
The figure grumbled and slipped into the carriage.
"Oh, right. No 'forgotten item' ploy?"
"Gibraltar won't bite on that."
"Then? Leave the castle be?"
"No."
Stab.
"Bury this, and we'll go ourselves."
"Us? Risky, no?"
"He said to use this if needed."
One pulled a white paper envelope from their bosom.
"If we're caught, it's over."
"We don't plan on getting caught."
"Fair. Help dig?"
"Less talk, more shovel."
Moments later.
"You first. I'll leave tracks, then follow."
"Flee like a ugly middle-aged driver who stabbed his master. Got it?"
"Says the pot."
The stark-naked driver tumbled into the deep pit.
Moments later.
A crow alighted on the shattered carriage window.
"Whoops. Sorry—looted it first?"
Something shiny darted out, vanishing into the trees.
Caw.
The crow turned from the drab, ungleaming remains and soared into the dark night sky.
* * *
As expected.
"Noir. Letar. Neither of you leaves this room until Father returns."
They'd slip someone in amid the banquet chaos.
Process didn't matter—success was all.
No tactic more effective than holding the enemy's family hostage.
Even a Sword Master was human, after all.
Especially Father.
Though few yet realized the mother held greater hostage value than the children.
Luckily, no infiltrators among the maids who entered.
Drug the tea with sleeping powder? Slip in poison?
Planting spies among new hires is their bread and butter.
Slurp.
Not yet, at least.
I drained even the dregs from the floor of the cup—no issues. Safe for now.
Creeeak.
The door opened.
"Ah!"
"Mama!"
"Welcome, Mother."
"...Yes."
Mother entered, weary-faced, escorted by several knights.
"Huh?"
And behind her.
"Lady Mente?"
A familiar face.
"What brings you here?"
"...Lord Gibraltar's orders."
She pouted, looking somewhat displeased.
"I said I'd go to the battlefield too, but he told me to guard here."
"........."
Father, indeed.
"I see. Mother, please, have a seat. Until Father returns, staying put here helps him most."
Mother nodded silently and sank into the sofa. I handed my empty cup to a maid.
"Another. And something to eat—a steak, grilled."
"Y-yes...?"
They all stared oddly.
Food, in this situation?
"What's the look? Gotta eat. Grill it well. Oh, and don't slice it up..."
I raised my empty hand as if gripping a knife.
"Bring a knife that can cut through tough sinew like cake."
I mimed a casual slash through the air.
"I'll cut it myself."