Three Days of Trash and a Vow of Revenge
It was the third day since the trash-picking mission had begun.
And at last, the kids started using their heads.
The first batter up: Ingrin.
For the record, I'd nicknamed her Bum-jaemi.
Short for Model Student, No-Fun Knight, you could say.
"Sir Rian! From last night straight through to this morning, I collected trash without a single break!"
"So that pile was your work, Bum-jaemi."
"Yes, sir!"
Sure enough, a mountain of trash stood there, built up over the course of a single night. Gathering that much alone would mean working without rest... Truly a model student. This was an unqualified—
"Fail!"
"Why? Did I not have enough luck?"
"No, you had plenty of luck. But you broke the rules."
"Rules?"
Yes, you committed a massive rule violation, kid.
You pulled an all-nighter.
Let people get the idea I made a twelve-year-old work through the night, and... You're trying to bury me socially, aren't you!
People of the neighborhood! I did nothing wrong!
That little brat did it entirely of her own free will!
I swear!
"For putting me in danger, I sentence you to six hours of sweet, glorious sleep! Go rest at the dormitory right now. If I catch you outside, your disciple candidacy is revoked."
"Th-th-this can't be!"
Leaving the devastated Bum-jaemi behind, I welcomed the second batter.
Emil, the future Mercenary King of the Biting Wind.
A thuggish air and a punchable face — I called this one Slimeball.
Why are you smirking?
Well? Feeling confident?
"Check this out. I took it from where the trash you picked up came from."
"Ohh? And how do you know that?"
"There was horse hair and straw in it. Obviously stable waste."
"And?"
"I did some asking around and found out you'd cleaned out the stable. That should be a pass, right?"
"Impressive."
For all his slouching swagger, sharp eyes, huh?
As expected of the next Mercenary King!
But here's the thing.
"So what do you want me to do about it?"
"Huh? Wh-what?"
"Fail. Barely any luck at all. Go collect more."
"My deduction was wrong? Then why?!"
Oh, you sweet summer child.
Stop arguing and get moving, chop chop.
I can't stand a clingy man.
"Grraaaagh, so it's a challenge, huh? Just you wait. I'll find exactly the trash you want!"
Slimeball thundered off the plate, and up came the cleanup third batter: Snoozelax.
Strutting to the plate with total confidence.
Can you even swing a bat?
What's your average — .000?
"Wanna go hooome~ zzz"
"Snoozelax! No sleeping standing up!"
I smacked his head with a paper fan.
Roused from dreamland with a satisfying thwack, the batter began to protest fiercely.
"Stop hitting me! And what even is a Snoozelax?"
"A lazy Snorlax."
"I get the lazy part, but what's a Snorlax? A blanket for heavy sleepers?"
"Sure. A creature so massive it throws megaton punches. Anyway, why are your hands empty?"
Snoozelax set his limp sack on the ground and spread both arms wide. Then, like a tribune addressing the assembly, he began to speak.
"The ancient sage once said that everything has a use. Even the most useless-seeming trash has a purpose. A block of wood can serve as firewood, an old cloth as a rag, a broken pot as a flowerpot. Even rotten food can be compost."
"Ohhh! Then why is your sack empty?"
Snoozelax's eyes glinted into slits.
When a slit-eyed guy opens his eyes wide, it means he's showing his true skill.
Or so?
"If trash has a use, then it is no longer trash! Therefore, trash does not exist in this world."
Wow. That tongue of his is unreal.
Quoting proverbs to try to persuade me.
His yap game is straight-up legendary.
"Truly wise words from the ancient sage. What a genuine lesson."
"And what does Uncle think of it?"
"My thoughts? Stop slacking and go gather some properly!"
Loophole-hunting, welcome. Full-on goldbricking, unforgivable. So you fail too.
"Aaagh! That hurts!"
"It's meant to hurt. Now get moving, can't you?"
"This is just cruel!"
Kicked in the rear, Snoozelax slunk away, dragging his feet.
Now I understand why Brother Bismarck always complained of headaches.
That kid is a genuine piece of work. Compared to the others, he put in not even one percent of the effort. How can a person be this lazy? It's like looking in a mirror. Shivers.
"No luck here either?"
The last one to come up for inspection, the cleanup fourth batter:
our Rabbitch.
Let's see.
What did you gather, child?
Oho~
Familiar clothes and bedding, is it?
Now where might I have seen these before?
"Aren't these the things from my room?"
"Yes. I brought all your clothes and blankets."
"Why is this trash? No — why did you bring it here?"
To my question, Rabbitch gave this answer.
"How else does one solve a problem without a fair premise? You should properly tell us which trash has luck in it."
"So you got pissed off and looted my room?"
"Correct."
Truly, Rabbitch.
Showing her true colors in only two days.
As expected of a heroine who's massacred countless people.
"How many sacks did you fill yesterday?"
"Exactly seventeen, packed full. Ten sacks of luckless trash, four with a little luck, and three with quite a lot."
"Good memory. And what do you suppose this is, then?"
"...How would I know?"
One word, offered to the girl rolling her red eyes.
"FAAAAIL!"
Rabbitch, having apparently expected it, shouldered her empty sack and trudged off down the road in silence.
Almost done now. Time to wrap this up?
The real reason I had given them this test.
Knights and candidates alike would think something along these lines:
Is he testing diligence and effort? Looking for the rationality of carrying out unreasonable orders without complaint? Perhaps hoping for the sense to read his true intentions? Or maybe he wants teamwork among peers?
The correct answer was all of the above.
Before they ever took up a weapon, I wanted to see them grow close to one another, throw themselves into the work earnestly, and show backbone and wit.
'What I wanted most of all, honestly, was observation. Just as you know nothing about me, I don't yet know the details of you.'
A person's character can be roughly inferred from their speech and their vibe, but above all, it comes out in their actions.
The single biggest reason I made trash-picking the first test:
collecting behavioral data on the kids.
'Their personalities are certainly distinct.'
The four disciple candidates had each tried to pass the test in their own way.
Bum-jaemi went head-on.
Slimeball got clever.
Snoozelax ran his mouth.
And Rabbitch vented her rage.
Perfectly in line with the first impressions I'd formed.
Show me exactly who you are.
Appeal to me with everything you've got.
The moment I've fully figured you out, the test will be completely... wait, isn't it almost over already?
"They're certainly quick. Faster than five years ago, too. Well, no shortage of hands this time, I suppose."
The trash the kids had gathered at their respective signposts had already been merged into a single pile. Judging by the mood, the cooperation phase was quietly kicking in.
Trash inside the estate is a finite resource, after all.
"I'll have to come up with a suitable excuse to call it off tomorrow."
I racked my brain over what pretext would satisfy the kids, who were by now brimming with poison — but really, the answer wrote itself.
'I was moved by your teamwork! Magnificent. Camaraderie among comrades is love of country!'
That might be the safest option.
Probably.
To Katrin, Limeberg Rian was
an absolute son of a bitch.
"Chomp chomp... This is the stuff!"
"Sir Rian, isn't it too spicy for you?"
"Nope! Nice and tangy — just right!"
Katrin's mother, Evelyn, hailed from the Nyahahou Tribe, an ethnic minority from the far eastern edge of the continent. In the Empire's eyes, the Nyahahou were specialists in the manufacture of poison.
Why?
Because they cook and eat viciously, viciously spicy food.
'Hardcore bastard. He's eating that raw, no water in sight?'
Sir Rian — no, Rian, that absolute son of a bitch — was skillfully working his chopsticks through the red vegetables. The madam gazed fondly upon the knight devouring his food without a hint of hesitation.
"We call that one red-leaf salad back home. It's usually rinsed in water before eating... are you quite all right?"
"This fresh salad? It's freakin' delicious!"
"And the stir-fried pork? Is it to your taste?"
"The pork? Absolute god-tier!!!"
And free cooking advice as a bonus.
"It'd be even better with squid in it. Finely dice some kraken tentacle and— oh! Spice Apple? I'd love a generous heap of that thrown in too."
"Goodness! Sir Rian handles spice better than a tribesman does!"
To the admiring madam, Rian scratched his head and replied.
"Spicy food was always the soul food of my hometown."
That remark set off Sir Dryupe.
"Rian, what on earth are you saying? Our Marcel cuisine would never be like that!"
"Haha. Sir Dryupe, I wasn't talking about Marcel. I meant the food of my soul's homeland."
"And where exactly is this soul's homeland?"
"The tiger of Asia — South Korea!"
"What country is that now? I've never heard of any such place!"
As Katrin watched the two chat away in perfect amiability, Falcom offered an explanation.
"Sir Dryupe is actually from Marcel himself, you see. He's a knight connected to Sir Rian by school ties, hometown ties, or blood ties — hometown ties, in this case."
"So that's why he never scolds him even when he keeps coming around."
"Same hometown, and his skills are outstanding on top of it."
The reason Limeberg Rian kept turning up at the house.
It all began when Katrin was eating her lunch during a break.
'Rabbitch. That looks tasty. Mind if I try a bite?'
'Go ahead.'
With the whole heart of drop dead, you bastard, Katrin handed over a sandwich with Spice Apple sauce that Anna had forgotten to leave out.
The knight took a bite — and suddenly his eyes brimmed with tears.
'Did it work, you jealous little brat... Huh?'
Then he started clapping like a seal.
Why on earth?
'Th-this taste! The taste of the hometown I've missed for thirty years? Who made this?'
'My mother did.'
'We're heading to your house for lunch right now!'
'I already ate, though?'
'Growing boys have to eat properly — that's the rule. A real meal at home, that's what's needed. And this is merely a home visit. Absolutely not an excuse to mooch a meal.'
From that day on, Rian shamelessly haunted Katrin's house, brazenly mooching breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Just like right now.
"Lady Evelyn, thank you for the wonderful meal."
"No, no. I'm the one who's grateful you enjoy my cooking so much."
"I was thinking of taking a walk to let it settle. Would you care to join me?"
"Oh my, truly? I'd love to!"
The reason Limeberg Rian was a true son of a bitch
was precisely that.
'Keep your hands off my mom!'
Lady Lisanne's gaze had been distinctly ominous these days. Oblivious Evelyn noticed nothing at all, but Katrin had long since deciphered the meaning in those eyes.
It plainly read: 'Who do you think you are, feeding my knight?' — a warning, crystal clear. So somehow, that walk between the two of them had to be stopped. Only then could she survive safely under the Count's roof.
"Mom, I'm still in the middle of my test. I have to be inspected."
"Is that so? Then it can't be helped."
To the sulking Evelyn, Rian said:
"The inspection will be quick. One moment, please."
And with that, he gave a cursory glance over the sacks the kids had gathered.
"Fail! All of you, go gather more. And I'll be away for an hour, so entertain yourselves. Lady Evelyn, shall we? Off we go!"
He seated Evelyn at the front of the horse—
and the delinquent knight vanished beyond the estate gates.
"That... that... that son of a bitch!"
Whatever illusions Katrin still harbored had already shattered to pieces. And the kids huddled together outside — their reaction?
"What do we do now?"
"Is he doing this on purpose just to mess with us?"
"I heard the same thing happened five years ago, too."
At those last words, every gaze converged on Randolph.
Randolph puffed out his chest.
"Back then, he supposedly made a hundred people dig at the ground for a solid week. Then he turned the pit into a pond and offered it up to the Count."
At that grim truth, Emil and Ingrin despaired.
"So we're stuck for four more days? God, I hate this."
"But Sir Rian ordered it, so we have no choice. There's not a scrap of trash left inside the estate, though. We're in trouble."
Then something snapped inside Katrin's head. It was the anger-management switch.
"Unforgivable. I will have my revenge."
Realizing that this could not go on, she
gathered her fellow candidates.
"I just remembered how to make trash. Everyone, listen up."