"The Prince Has Arrived?" "First Prince Ash...!?"
The nobles gathered in Roden Territory stared in shock.
To them, there was no "hope" left. They were already considering "surrender." But if Prince Ash was here, maybe they still had a fighting chance. And to survive the Worm Pest plague that had swept through the army camp? That was nothing short of a miracle from the gods.
The nobles began racking their brains on how to spin his tale of adventure.
"Can we muster more soldiers?"
"If we raid other territories or forcibly conscript the refugees around us, we could secure not just troops but even funds for the war..."
They scrambled for a path to "victory." But it was all in vain. He might look the part of a prince, but he wasn't the man to deliver triumph.
"How did the prince arrive?"
At one noble's question, the soldier who had just reported looked flustered.
"Well... he came with a strange group."
"A strange group? Soldiers?"
They wouldn't call soldiers a "strange group."
"No... strange monsters..."
The soldier trailed off vaguely.
"Monsters?"
The nobles tilted their heads in confusion.
Following the soldier's lead, the nobles climbed to the ramparts above the territory's gates. Prince Ash and his band of refugees stood before Roden Territory's gates, while the nobles peered down from above.
They harbored faint hopes of what sort of force Ash might have brought, but those hopes quickly soured to disappointment.
To their eyes, they were literally "monsters."
The weary, filth-streaked refugees could be overlooked, but who were those in black armor with beast-bone helmets?
"Not content with losing over a thousand troops, he drags in these unidentified freaks...!"
"And look at that! They're refugees, aren't they? I doubt they could even wield a proper spear."
"One decent soldier's worth more than ten of those useless refugees...!"
They clicked their tongues and shook their heads.
"And the prince requested something."
"A request?"
The soldier nodded.
"He asked us to prepare a banquet."
"A banquet?"
At a time like this? Supplies were already scarce enough without throwing a feast...!
"Still... they don't look entirely useless, do they?"
At one noble's words, the others on the wall glanced at the Berserk Warriors. To them, the Berserkers looked not just intimidating but capable of real prowess.
"Mercenaries, perhaps?"
"Who knows. They might be worth something. Since it's the prince's order... prepare the banquet! But keep it small and modest!"
The gates swung open.
Soldiers lined up in formation, and the territory's folk gathered around them. The people cheered Prince Ash's return, chanting his name.
"Long live First Prince!"
"Glory to eastern Ronia!"
The folk reached out through the gaps in the soldiers' lines, shouting cheers to the prince. Ironically, amid the bright and festive mood, their faces were awkward and grim.
Loki closed his eyes and listened closely. Beneath the cheers, faint voices leaked through.
"Damn it, when the hell is this war going to end...?"
"I thought it was over when that cursed prince died!"
"...Now we'll just be used as cannon fodder."
"They took our food, our money, and now they want us to cheer? Cheer for the bastard who starved us to death... insane fools!"
"......"
The people were merely "complying" under orders. No doubt the eastern Ronia nobles' doing.
"The people's hearts here are in poor shape too."
"So it seems."
Aum nodded with a chuckle.
"But that's good news. It means First Prince never had the people's support to begin with."
The procession entered the castle. The refugees were led elsewhere on Ash's orders, while Loki's group and the Berserk Warriors were ushered to the banquet hall.
Ash hurried his steps. His face was filthy and exhausted, but joy lit his features. He rushed to meet the nobles without even freshening up, but they beat him to it.
They schooled their expressions at the sight of him, spreading their arms wide in effusive praise.
"Oh! You're alive, Your Highness!"
"How majestic you look! You've suffered greatly, I'm sure."
"We heard you encountered the plague! But... what of the soldiers?"
The nobles cut to the vital point: troops. Ash's thousand-strong force under his command included not just the prince but key nobles from eastern Ronia's lines. If even a few survived, it would aid in rallying more men.
Ash's face hardened at their questions. Noticing, the nobles narrowed their eyes.
"...All wiped out."
"...I see. But Your Highness's survival is a blessing!"
"Thanks to Azelan Constellation's grace! Now that you've returned, we must prepare our counterattack!"
They said as much, but their true thoughts differed.
...Drags away our forces forcibly, takes central nobles along... and total annihilation? Useless trash.
Any other noble would face accountability, but we can't blame the prince at a time like this.
This is maddening.
The nobles shook their heads inwardly. But grasping at straws, they spoke up.
"You seemed to arrive with others... who might they be?"
"Your direct retinue, perhaps?"
"...Direct retinue?"
They entertained the absurd hope of replacement troops among the refugees.
The nobles tried to cling to optimism, but Ash's response only deepened their dismay.
"Nothing like that."
As expected.
I was a fool to trust First Prince. Should've sided with the other prince...
They sighed openly, even before the prince.
"Hah, but I brought good folk! Ones with mighty power!"
"...Mighty power?"
The nobles recalled the odd group accompanying Ash.
"Them?"
"Who are they?"
Ash smiled and declared,
"Our hope!"
"Hope?"
"Those?"
"...He's finally lost it."
Someone muttered under their breath. Ash startled, searching for the voice, but found only the nobles' smiles—exaggerated, frozen masks.
"I see! What sort of folk are they?"
"Uh? Ah, well..."
Ash glanced at the nobles, bewildered. Their smiles held no expectation—just rote formality. They acknowledged his status and nothing more. Valuing humans by bloodline alone, not merit.
Ash fell silent. Then, with a faint smile, he forced the words out.
"They're... um..."
His confidence ebbed. Anxiety gripped him—what if even these men turned him away?
"...Nords."
"Nords...?"
"...About a hundred of them. All of them?"
Ash nodded uncertainly. The nobles' faces lit up.
"Nords!"
"That warrior clan?"
"Ha! Nords are rare these days... and they show up in force like this!"
"I've heard one Nord can match two well-trained knights."
"That's a formidable force!"
Ash's face brightened at their hopeful tones.
"Y-yes! And their skills surpass ordinary Nords! They hail from the new nation of Asgard..."
"Then we must recruit them."
"Indeed. Hire them?"
"How much coin will it take?"
"A band like that must have a leader."
"Win him over. Coin, titles—offer appropriately."
Suddenly sidelining Ash, the nobles chattered eagerly. But the talk veered strangely off course.
Ash, unease stirring, cautiously interjected.
"...W-wait a moment!"
"...?"
All eyes turned to him, leaving Ash at a loss for words. Their terrifying might, the mysterious nation treating them as citizens. He'd witnessed their feats firsthand, but knew nothing of the country behind them. Would his words even convey it? And even if he explained, would they believe?
No. Then...
"Wh-why not meet them first? Decide after."
Nothing for it but to let them face the Nords directly.
The nobles exchanged glances and nodded.
"Very well."
"Rushing might backfire..."
Ash sighed in relief.
"Then... to the banquet hall."
"Yes. But first..."
"...?"
The nobles pointed at Ash's attire.
"Best tidy up a bit."
"...Quite."
Ash nodded heavily and turned away. No entourage followed the prince. Servants and maids alike merely sneered at his back. Not one attended him.
Such was the fate of a prince denied recognition.
"I had hopes for this banquet..."
"What is this...?"
The Berserk Warriors, entering the castle, arrived at the so-called banquet hall. But the wide table bore only meager fare. And the "wine"? Cheap tavern ale at best.
That was it. Even a lowborn noble's child's birthday would feature lavish decorations, fine cuisine, dancers, musicians, poets as standard. This was just rations dressed up prettily.
Hardly a "banquet."
The Berserk Warriors smacked their lips and removed their helmets.
"Don't complain so much."
At Aum's words, they turned to him.
"Sure, these dishes are trash compared to what I make..."
...Isn't it the other way around?
The Berserkers all thought the same but held their tongues.
"But they went to the trouble. Enjoy it. Or shall I cook? I brought some ingredients..."
"...We'll enjoy this banquet."
...Or so we say...
The Berserkers glanced at Loki. Healer Hoon. Second only to the Constellation in power. Unofficially dubbed king of the Nords by the elders.
That was their view of him. How could they act carelessly before such a man? More importantly, was it right to serve their king such wretched food?
As the Berserkers fretted, Loki reached for the food. Some pieces were meant for hand-eating, but most required knife and fork—especially the sauced steak.
Loki grabbed a steak barehanded and lifted it. Shoved it in his mouth. One bite, two, three—gorging wolfishly, chewing with loud crunches, swallowing. He even licked the sauce from his fingers clean.
"Hm, edible. But too rich. I prefer spicy fare."
Undignified. For a nation's ruler, his eating was utterly ordinary.
But seeing it lightened the Berserk Warriors' hearts. He hadn't said it outright, but they caught the message: lighten up and enjoy.
"Then..."
"Let's eat!"
"Drink up!"
"Cheers!"
Glasses clinked all around.