Children of the Gorge (1)
It was a bright, sunny day. The sky was perfectly clear without a single cloud, and a cool breeze whispered through the air.
"Huff... huff... huff!"
On the Gibraltar training grounds, boys and girls around ten years old ran in light training clothes. Their hair was soaked with sweat, and their breaths probably reeked of ammonia. Some had eyes spinning in exhaustion, but none stopped. Even when running grew unbearable, they refused to give up. Stopping meant surrender.
Even without me watching from the fourth-floor window of the mansion, even without the knights glaring at them from the sidelines, they would keep moving their legs. They had to, if they wanted any hope of rising above their station.
"What exactly is status, anyway?"
I moved a chess piece and asked my opponent across the board.
"Status is power, privilege, ability." My father, the Gibraltar Margrave, slid his piece forward. "It's something you're born with. If that's unfair, then hone your talents and become a noble."
My black pieces already had his king cornered, but Father kept maneuvering his knight, picking off my pawns one by one.
"Father, did you know the Empire lets anyone rise to high office, regardless of birth?"
"......!"
While he captured my knight and bishop, one of my pawns—the lowly foot soldier—had raced straight to the heart of his territory.
"Promotion."
"...To what?"
"Depends on the pawn's talents, I suppose."
A piece that could become a knight, bishop, rook—or even a queen, depending on the situation. The brutal condition: infiltrate the enemy lines and reach the far end. But hardship brings its rewards.
"So, what will it be?"
"You're asking the obvious. A queen, naturally."
"........"
Father scowled. My king already had one queen standing tall beside it, having devoured several of his pieces.
"Personally, I see the queen as the Sword Master of chess. She dominates the board."
And now a second queen appearing in the enemy's midst? That was pure catastrophe.
"But Father." I pointed to the spare pieces beside the board. "No extras? How can anyone dream of queenship like this?"
"The Gibraltar battlefield allows no more than two queens."
Father didn't budge from his chair.
"Shall I slice some pudding and plop it on top? 'This is a queen now'?"
"Don't sully the game."
"Last time you dismissed a plain queen as 'just a pawn' and refused it."
"I'm not so petty. Even if you're better at chess than I..."
"Enough. Checkmate."
Clack. I tapped the queen beside his king.
"......Damn."
Only then did Father realize: no matter what the promoted pawn became, the space behind it was already dominated by my queen's blade, poised to strike.
"Pawns are Sword Master bait on the battlefield. But raise them right, and one in eight might promote. Heh."
"...Indeed. Well played."
Father picked up an unpromoted pawn, his face impassive.
"But that's chess. People aren't so simple."
"......."
"Do any of those kids out there strike you as talented?"
We turned our gaze outside. The children kept running, too exhausted even to change their sweat-soaked shirts. Leading them was a ten-year-old boy in better shape than most—but without his pride, he'd have collapsed long ago.
Our eyes met. I waved lightly to my dear brother, Noir.
"Good thing at least he can become a master."
"Yes. I feel the same. Among the orphanage kids, the ones with master potential..."
"None."
I swept the pawns into their box.
"Disappointing. I thought we'd snag at least one."
"With this batch, we'll hit exactly a hundred. If none here either, it's a failed plan."
"Masters aren't some lottery prize—one in a hundred orphans."
I openly chided Father, who seemed annoyed by the kids.
"What? Don't like them calling Mother 'godmother'?"
"......."
"The ones behind Noir will be knights, at minimum low-rank ones who can handle mana. We screened for that."
Only knight-potential kids from the orphanage joined training.
"Twelve so far. We've taken in ninety from the orphanage."
Those without sword talent never set foot on the grounds.
"Twelve with guaranteed low-rank potential. Not bad, right?"
"But the oldest still needs three more years to adulthood."
"Yes. Father's ten-year limit leaves seven now. By then, most will enter the academy with Noir—or just graduate."
Three years had passed since then.
"It's fine. The orphanage runs on donations, and I manage it transparently and fairly."
"Transparently? Fairly?"
"Of course. Integrity is Gibraltar's foundation, isn't it?"
"...Says the boy who siphoned gate-repair rebar for an underground orphanage level, where kids line his pockets."
"Haha. Father, we're not running a charity."
The orphanage was a business, not some humanitarian front.
"Rest easy. Every child there will become Gibraltar's strength. I'll make sure of it."
"...If it even works."
"No doubts. Who knows? One orphan might be the hero who saves the kingdom."
"...A hero."
Father scoffed.
"I hope so. Pray he clears our path—not blocks it, dragging out that damned clown."
"Yes."
Three years since the incompetent king mocked Mother, dooming Father to treason and betrayal. Many kids had passed through the orphanage; ninety were officially enrolled. Not one master potential. Except Noir, born with it.
Whoosh!
I swung the staff. Add a spearhead, and it became a proper spear; for now, I gripped the shaft with both hands and thrust lightly.
Clang!
"Too slow."
"Ngh...!"
This wasn't the public training ground. It was a private facility near the mansion, off-limits to outsiders.
"You might get away with it in front of the kids, but give up already?"
"Raaah!"
Noir charged, eyes bloodshot, wooden sword clutched tight.
'Good form.'
He bellowed like a blind rush, but he closed into my staff's range faster than I could swing—deliberately.
I tilted the staff sideways, twisted my body—
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Guh?!"
I pinned the staff one-handed to the ground, then backhanded his temple and head with my free fist.
Smack!
Noir tumbled, sword flying.
"Spar over."
I'd struck his temple, not cheek; he lay sprawled, unable to rise. Not dead. But his pride was shattered—too embarrassed to stand.
"Heard you told the orphanage kids you could always beat me?"
Noir flinched.
"Good form. Keep at it. Though the kids overstepping, challenging me—"
"I-I'll handle them!!"
Noir sprang up, yelling.
"I'll keep them in line—no backtalk!"
"Good. Do that."
I set the staff aside and approached.
"Anytime, anywhere—"
Whoosh!
"Never give up."
"Kuh?!"
Noir thrust suddenly, but I sidestepped wide, yanking his collar.
"Nice try. Still a ways off."
I looked down at ten-year-old Noir. Taller than I was at ten, but I'd grown plenty in three years.
"If you catch them off-guard, stab the heart. Ruthlessly enough for praise, remember?"
"Coward...!"
"Exactly. Toss Nostrum chivalry to the dogs."
They bowed, handkerchiefs out, clashing blades to gauge, stabbing just shy of lethal.
"Real combat ignores that. Got it?"
"Y-Yeah...."
"Good. Keep it up."
I patted the spot I'd hit, then stepped back.
"Ice the swelling, shower, then greet Mother. Shower first. Mandatory."
"O-Okay... got it...."
Noir slunk out, dragging his feet, shooting me a glance. I smiled, thumbs-up.
'The nerve.'
Future academy-honed Noir might challenge me, but not this ten-year-old version.
'You're ten. I'm thirteen. For now.'
After twenty, a year's gap means little. In growth spurts, it's worlds apart.
'Kid hasn't even hit puberty.'
Mine was kicking in; my frame was filling out.
'He'll grow more, sure.'
Eat well, sleep well, train well. From regression day one, I'd optimized child nutrition via Empire science.
'Too early for heavy muscle, but bones are broadening.'
At thirteen before? About Noir's height now, I think.
'So much has changed.'
My body, the mansion—Gibraltar had transformed beyond past intel, in just three years.
'Too many shifts to list.'
One: The gorge. Cloud bridge repaired. Elevator feasibility approved—major budget incoming.
Two: Orphanage. Four above-ground floors plus three below: seven total. Housed up to a hundred residents, thirty staff.
Three: The children. Twelve talents for Noir's guard knights. Others? Plans pending ripeness.
And four: The mansion. Biggest change for House Gibraltar. Even compared to before regression, a massive divergence.
Clunk!
"Onii-chan—!"
A white-haired girl in a frilly dress burst in, purple-blue eyes sparkling red-rimmed.
"No running. No hugging."
"Whyyy?"
"Sweaty. You belong by Mother's side."
"Hmph...."
Without my warning, this tomboyish sister would've tackled me.
Letar Gibraltar (7).
"How's Mother?"
"Lying in bed!"
"...The youngest?"
"K-Kicking inside?!"
She wasn't youngest anymore.
"Dad said the baby can hear everything inside!"
"Probably. Won't remember, though."
I tossed the staff aside, wiped sweat with a handkerchief, and patted Letar's head as she beamed up.
"Heehee...."
"You don't do this to Noir."
"Noir's Noir. Brother's Brother."
"......."
Before regression, she favored Noir. Post-betrayal, I thought they'd bond more—but the shock barely fazed her. Four years old then?
'Time changed, but innate traits endure.'
Blood might not scare Letar much.
Grey, Noir, Letar: Pre-regression, who'd I call cruelest? Letar, no contest.
'What'll she become?'
Left alone: demanding whips and candles? Or this innocently eerie countess's daughter?
'She'll figure it out.'
Child-rearing's for parents—Mother especially. But as blood kin and Gibraltar, basic family love? Sure.
"Letar."
"Yeah?"
"Don't hate the new baby, okay?"
"Duh! I'm not Noir!"
"......."
History might shift after all.
"Oh right! Brother, forgot—the garden kids arrived."
"Kids?"
"Yeah! The new batch."
"Ah... possible final recruits."
Orphanage newbies. Father declared: hundred max, no more "waste."
"Wish we could take more...."
"You like the 'Children of the Gorge'?"
"Yup! All friends now! Heehee!"
"Friends, huh."
Letar socializing with them: good sign. But Father and I knew—we couldn't feed this money pit forever.
"Shame if they're the last...."
"Who knows. Proven effective? Might build another."
Laugh? Cry?
History changes, fate's bullshit—but some bad blood feels inevitable.
"Brother. That one's staring at me."
"......."
Disheveled platinum hair. Beneath: fleeting deep purple eyes.
"B-Brother...?"
"Yeah. Love at first sight with you, maybe."
The future.
"Abandoned wolf pup."
The boy who'd torture Letar to death after her tormenting him had arrived.
"...Heh."
Bloody White, future hero who slew Letar Gibraltar—delighting in torturing fallen kingdom knights.
"Interesting."
A master talent.