Roy's True Master
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.”
Arthur gently stroked Roy's neck.
If you're scared, you don't have to stay here. I'll buy you.
There was one tradition on the Asgard Continent.
When the first person to ride a newborn foal expressed intent to purchase it, they were given priority.
It wasn't absolute, but the story went that a horse ridden by its first rider would follow that person better—and the owner would cherish the horse more as well.
Roy's a headache for the territory army right now.
He could buy it for a song.
You're really going to take me with you?
I'll take you as soon as I can.
Roy nuzzled against Arthur happily.
Soon after, Bros approached, looking baffled at what was happening.
“Wh-what the...”
He glanced at Colos.
Colos wore a stunned expression too.
“What a magnificent, beautiful horse. And so docile too.”
“Th-this beast is docile?”
Bros was dumbfounded.
This mad Roy, docile?
Wondering if he'd misjudged the horse all this time, Bros tried mounting it.
Arthur whispered inwardly to Roy.
Throw him off.
I hate that guy too!
Neighhh!
Roy reared up on its front legs.
“Gah!”
Bros tumbled off.
Arthur smirked.
Now the back legs...
Thwack!
Roy lashed out with its hind legs, sending Bros sprawling backward.
Horses were expensive.
The horse Roy had seen killed was probably old or sick.
They wouldn't handle Roy carelessly.
And yet, they knew no one but Arthur could ride it!
“Urgh...”
Bros trembled in rage.
The territory soldiers chimed in.
“Roy's true master is Arthur!”
“He found his real owner!”
Roy nuzzled Arthur again, and Arthur stroked its head softly with a small smile.
Soon the soldiers led Roy away.
The horse turned back, snorting as if pleading for Arthur to hurry and fetch it.
Just wait a little longer.
With that, Arthur turned around.
He caught Colos hastily masking his shocked expression.
Results were usually announced the same day.
Anyone who hadn't been kicked out of the territory army training camp could consider themselves passed.
“Arthur, Carman, Colton.”
“Yes!”
“You passed. Report for duty two weeks from now, 8 a.m. sharp.”
Arthur passed with flying colors.
No matter Colos's position as Knight Captain, he had no grounds to fail Arthur.
Everyone had aced it.
And the sight of Arthur riding Roy around the training camp was burned into the soldiers' minds.
Failing him now would raise suspicions among the troops.
This won't be the end of it for him.
Arthur knew.
Colos would squeeze him some other way.
He'd wait patiently.
And when the moment came, he'd devour the bastard in one gulp.
Helen had waited anxiously.
She rushed to Arthur as he entered.
“H-how was the exam? No injuries?”
She checked him over carefully.
Thankfully, no wounds.
“I did great on the exam. Passed...”
Bang!
“He passed!”
Before Arthur could finish, Hans burst in, finishing for him.
Helen sighed in relief, and Hans, flushed with excitement, called out.
“Everyone, come see! The young master passed!”
The butler, servants, and maids poured out.
“He passed?”
“Yay!”
“Knew the young master could do it.”
Cheers echoed everywhere.
But Hans wasn't done—he pressed a finger to his lips.
Everyone fell silent.
“And the most amazing part...”
“The most amazing?”
The butler gulped.
Normally he'd call it exaggeration, but this was joyous news—no time for that.
“Young master Arthur aced everything! I have a friend in the army—he said Arthur was faster than a three-eyed cheetah in the race, and his archery was elf-level!”
“For real?”
“Really?!”
All eyes turned to Arthur.
Three-eyed cheetah, huh...
What an over-the-top exaggeration.
The three-eyed cheetah was the fastest mammal on the Asgard Continent.
“And that's not all—in sparring, he laid out a soldier!”
“Laid him out?”
They hung on Hans's every word like an epic tale.
“He told that mad steppe man-eater Roy, 'Carry me, you!' and it obeyed, galloping like the wind!”
“Hmm...”
“Hm...”
Murmurs of skepticism.
Hans was known for hyperbole.
Arthur clutched his sides laughing.
“Pfft haha. What're you saying, Hans? 'Mad steppe man-eater'? Roy was a very docile horse.”
“That's what I heard... A-ny-way!”
Everyone looked at Arthur again.
“The young master passed! Woo!”
Hans raised his arms triumphantly, and all the servants and maids followed suit.
For the first time in ages, Arthur felt a genuine laugh bubbling up, courtesy of Hans.
It hurt his stomach, his cheeks ached.
“It wasn't that impressive. Just...”
As Arthur gave his real account, they listened intently.
“I aced everything.”
Arthur wasn't one to lie.
Applause erupted.
Clap clap clap clap
“Awesome!”
“Woo-hoo!”
Genuine cheers for him.
Arthur smiled warmly.
He spent the next three days in routine normalcy.
Quests as usual, no more Important Information View.
It seemed to appear randomly.
After dinner, Arthur returned to his room and sat on the bed.
Then—
Whoosh!
The Specialized Lord Nurturing Device in his pocket erupted in golden light.
Seeing the golden glow scatter around, Arthur's expression calmed.
It's starting...
The summoning to the Asgard Continent.
The Monarch Game was about to begin.
As the blinding light engulfed him, Arthur closed his eyes calmly, unperturbed.
If my guess is right...
Arthur had theorized based on the quests from his Specialized Lord Nurturing Device and his rising stats.
When he opened his eyes, a crowd of diverse, murmuring people surrounded him.
“Wh-where are we?”
“What the hell!”
“I was just eating dinner...”
The training camp.
Where apprentice lords were trained.
People summoned willy-nilly, dragged here.
Their lingering bodies in reality would act normally, and this pattern would continue.
It was so seamless, no one noticed.
Back in reality, memories would implant, and due to the camp's special power, two months here equaled just two days on the Asgard Continent.
Arthur immediately tested his theory.
Status Window.
Just as I thought...
Arthur couldn't help but cheer inwardly.
His hunch was correct.
Monarch Game participants naturally grew stronger than regular people.
But with restrictions.
Lords' powers couldn't be used in reality.
Back home, they lived with only their real-world strength.
And the Lord Nurturing Device didn't exist in reality.
But Arthur had the Specialized version with him—and his stats matched.
What did that mean?
The power I gain in the Monarch Game becomes my real-world power...
His fist clenched involuntarily.
Confirmed, Arthur surveyed his surroundings.
“What is this place...”
Nobles looked around in confusion, eyes darting.
Spotting knight-like figures, one haughtily called out.
“Knights, where exactly is this?”
Instructors strode forward.
Oof.
Arthur frowned.
This wasn't a kind place.
“Qu-quickly tell us wh-where...”
Thwack!
“Guh?!”
An instructor smashed his fist into the noble's face without mercy.
The others silently stomped him.
Silent beatings were the scariest.
They trampled the noble ruthlessly until one instructor said coldly.
“Next time, call us 'Instructor', not 'knight'. Got it?”
“H-how dare mere knights... Guh!”
More clubbing.
This was to show: origin and title meant nothing here.
“What is the meaning of this outrage? Beating a noble like this?!”
Stepping up gets you nowhere. This place has its own rules.
Arthur clicked his tongue.
A knight who seemed somewhat prominent blocked the instructors, ready for a fight.
“Thank you. I am Count Ollos... To you...”
“Are you alright?”
As the knight tried to help him—
An instructor kicked him flying.
“Guh?!”
The knight looked shocked.
Why had such a crude kick sent him flying?
Obviously.
The training camp had an invisible barrier equalizing everyone's stats.
Except Arthur had twisted that rule with his Specialized Lord Nurturing Device.
“Wh-what the hell is this place...”
A man beside Arthur looked bewildered.
First time seeing a noble treated like this, apparently.
He seemed flustered but habitually offered Arthur his overcoat.
“Take that and follow.”
“...”
Arthur chuckled and let it slide to the floor.
The man's eyes widened at the discarded coat.
“Y-you brat...! Do you know what that means? I am Grand Duke Freight. I'll have your head—”
“Screw off.”
“...”
Grand duke, marquis, count, baron—even emperor or crown prince.
It didn't matter here.
Arthur joined the fearful crowd obeying the instructors.
In the vast auditorium, the head instructor spoke.
You have been selected for the Monarch Game.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
“Why the hell do I have to join this insane game?!”
The noble who spat that was grabbed by the collar, dragged out, and clubbed publicly.
Silence fell.
Basic lord training for two months, pass the qualification exam, then govern your territory.
An instructor patrolling the lined-up apprentices spotted Arthur and frowned.
“Apprentice.”
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“...Strange.”
Arthur looked about thirteen at a glance.
A bit older than expected, but the Monarch Game was for nineteen and up.
Old enough for basic reasoning.
“Sudden entry into the Monarch Game leaves many dissatisfied. So, let's talk rewards.”
Rewards?
For the first time, everyone perked up.