Preparation (1)
“Ironheart..., Seolhwa von Ironheart...”
He rolled the name around in his mouth over and over, as if savoring it. Among the kingdom's three great dukes, it was the house that had wielded the most formidable power. That was why news of their defeat in a territorial war against Sachsen had set the entire continent abuzz for quite some time.
“Damn, that's good. Everything's coming up roses.”
Jepeto pulled a cigar box from his desk drawer. Expecting a refusal out of habit, he offered one to Seolhwa anyway—and this time, it was accepted. Once the smoke had thickened enough to veil their faces just right, Jepeto spoke up.
“You being the heir to Ironheart? Wanting revenge on Sachsen? From my standpoint, there's nothing bad about any of it. Who the hell likes that fox anyway? But here's the thing.”
At the center of Jepeto's rusty axe-like eyes, Seolhwa came into sharp focus.
“Can you prove it?”
Smoke slithered between them like serpents, obscuring the corners of their mouths.
“Can you prove you're Seolhwa von Ironheart?”
In lieu of an answer, Seolhwa reached into his coat.
Back when Seolhwa was a boy. The one and only gift from his father: a dagger. Its pommel gleamed with black obsidian that shimmered purple. He had no idea what ore it was forged from, but from hilt to blade, it was an unrelenting jet-black that permitted no light to escape.
Longing, resentment, rage, love-hate, regret. All those emotions tangled into a sticky, heavy gaze as Seolhwa stared at the dagger—then drew it across his palm.
Drip, drip.
Like slaking a parched thirst, his blood greedily raced down the blade.
And the moment the droplets reached the tip...
“Hooh...”
Instead of falling to the floor, the blood was absorbed into the blade. A vivid inscription appeared alongside an eagle clutching a hammer and a magic stone, spreading its wings wide.
Ironheart Does Not Look Back
“A treasure granted only to Ironheart blood. It doesn't react to anyone outside the family line.”
“Hooh.”
Seolhwa handed the dagger to Jepeto, and soon enough, both the eagle and inscription vanished without a trace. Just to be sure, Jepeto sliced his own palm—but the blood merely trickled down the blade and soaked the floor uselessly.
“Other houses have similar heirlooms, though the form and mechanism differ.”
“Makes sense. This'll convince those blood-obsessed noble bastards, no problem.”
It wasn't so much that he'd doubted Seolhwa from the start; he'd just asked to avoid headaches down the line. Jepeto clenched his fist to staunch the bleeding and continued.
“Legitimacy. And proof of that legitimacy. Excellent. I'll admit you've cracked open this old man's heart a bit.”
Crackle! The dry logs fed the flames as the cigar burned down.
“Now, the last one.”
Jepeto exhaled the smoke that scarred his lungs in exchange for pleasure, then flashed Seolhwa a broad grin.
“Can I trust that riding with you will make my heart race again? Is there a war in Seolhwa von Ironheart's revenge that can thrill Jepeto Cervantes's chest?!”
He was sick to death of nobles whose only talent was being born to the right parents. All that whining about tarnished honor, duels, childish games. The unwritten golden rule: nobles don't kill nobles. Commanders and noble officers get captured for ransom. Those rotten bastards had tainted even war with their word games. Once victory seemed assured, they wouldn't press the enemy—deeming restraint a virtue. Pig-like theater that turned his stomach.
And when the tide turned just enough, those nobles would hurl down their swords and scream themselves hoarse.
'I'm the XX of ~! I acknowledge defeat and surrender as a prisoner of war!'
As if that would turn back time. Right beside some common foot soldier scooping up his spilled guts with a face twisted in agony and despair.
Straight-backed like bamboo, declaring their own defeat. Trash.
“Don't make me laugh! Soldiers' heads explode and they drop like flies, but nobles have all the leisure in the world. Know why?”
“The golden rule.”
“Exactly! The golden rule keeps that precious blood from spilling on some battlefield! That damned word game polluted my wars too!”
Most noble officers Jepeto had seen were like that.
“So be straight with me now, heir to the great noble house of Ironheart, Seolhwa von Ironheart! Don't dodge my eyes!”
A spark ignited in the withered ember of his heart. Jepeto, who had viewed the world through dead-fish eyes, now stared at Seolhwa like he wanted to tear into him right then.
“Can you promise me your war won't have that bullshit golden rule?”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
The answer snapped like a slack rubber band. Disappointment and fury etched deeper lines into Jepeto's wrinkles, traces of years gone by. Yet Seolhwa's face, puffing on his cigar, brimmed with calm.
“You know better than I do that no battlefield promise made at a desk means a damn thing. But!”
The interest Jepeto had tossed in the trash bin surged back up.
“All blood will flow equally. That's the only promise I can make.”
The fangs of the empire, Jepeto Cervantes's eyes, twisted in ecstasy.
“Ah, but that doesn't mean I won't take any prisoners at all.”
“Kehahaha! Why state the obvious? I'm no blood-mad dog, and prisoner exchanges are part of war—you can't be picky.”
“Ahh. My beloved Utopia family. As you all know, a few days ago, His Majesty's edict arrived at Utopia.”
Utopia's monthly report day. The grand hall, packed with nearly all guards and inmates, buzzed with people.
“Per the edict's contents, I, Jepeto Cervantes, hereby transfer the position of Utopia warden to Vice Warden Suhwa Romanov, effective immediately!”
Clap clap clap!
“Congratulations!”
“Give me some vacation, will ya!”
“No inaugural performance or anything!?”
Perhaps because he'd proven himself by dueling the mobile patrol captain upon his vice warden appointment? Guards and inmates alike accepted Suhwa's ascension to warden.
“Thank you, everyone. Honestly, I didn't expect to stand here so soon.”
The academy principal's graduation speech floated to mind. He couldn't even recall what the man had said.
“Drag this out on a day like this, and you'll curse me in your hearts, right? Hahaha. So, just one short word.”
Jepeto, knowing what was coming, covered his mouth to stifle a laugh. As all eyes fixed on Suhwa,
he pointed at the bearish mobile patrol captain, Boris Lesner.
“I too, per the edict, hereby transfer the Utopia warden position to Mobile Patrol Captain Boris Lesner over there, effective immediately!”
Boris's bewildered face. Silence blanketed Utopia's grand hall.
The one laughing was the culprit. Jepeto wore a smug, almost apologetic grin. After the double inauguration ceremony, he and Suhwa gathered in the warden's office.
“You could've at least told me, Warden?”
“You're the warden now.”
“General Jepeto!”
Desperation brought out his old military title.
“Keep this office as is, or furnish it to your taste and submit paperwork for reimbursement.”
“That's not the point right now.”
“I was always for telling you ahead of time.”
“Even now, I don't buy it from you, Vice Warden Suhwa.”
Suhwa's smooth interjection was shot down flat.
“One way or another, I always planned to hand the warden job to you someday. His Majesty just visited a bit early for inspection.”
“I lost to Vice Warden Suhwa fair and square.”
“That kid's not meant to rot as warden.”
“Pardon? What do you mean?”
“I got another edict. Mobile Patrol... no, Warden Boris.”
“Don't call me that—gives me chills. Drop the title.”
“Right. Anyway. Per that edict, I'm off on a long-term dispatch.”
“His Majesty knew about this warden handover?”
“Unless that seal's a fake, yeah.”
Two edicts lay open before Boris's eyes. One from Jepeto to Suhwa, the other from Suhwa to Boris—both authorizing the warden transfer by imperial decree.
“Hah...”
“It's time you led an organization. Honestly overdue. Would I have dragged you to Utopia if you weren't special?”
“Last drinking party, you said it was 'cause I'm a boring, womanless nerd you could trick into coming.”
“Ahem. No need for sour grapes.”
No matter how he inspected them, the edicts weren't forgeries. Jepeto was bold, but not the type to fake imperial seals just to ditch warden duty. The crisp imperial stamp grated on him all the more.
“Hate to admit it, but no choice. Just... help me out on the side. You know I'm shit at paperwork.”
“About that. I'm leaving with Vice Warden Suhwa.”
“What!?”
“Don't worry. You think I'd hand off without prep? I've got full handover ready for everything.”
“For real? No way.”
“Hey!”
“So where is it? The handover doc. I'll read it now.”
“Never said 'document.'”
“...?”
Boris's gaze—what the hell does that mean?—slowly turned the same way as Jepeto's. Jepeto pointed confidently at someone.
“Huh? Why's everyone suddenly staring at me...?”
At the fingertip's end: Jepeto's secretary, who'd been enjoying the banter between former warden, current warden, and warden-to-be—now looking flustered.
Knock knock!
The secretary seized the salvation and flung open the door. There stood Luthus Soros and Helena, arms full of wrapped gift boxes.
“Congratulations on your retirement, Duke Cervantes.”
“Just Jepeto's fine. Duke, my ass... Oho! The fishing gear I asked for! Thanks.”
“Congrats on your inauguration—and retirement—Vice Warden Suhwa.”
“Probably set records for youngest and shortest tenure. Thank you.”
“Heartfelt congratulations on your appointment, Sir Boris! Luthus Soros, vice head of the Dancing Whale Merchant Guild.”
“Uh, yeah! Thanks.”
A lineage that could confuse even those in the know, yet the merchant's savvy shone through—Luthus bowed with fluid grace.
“What brings you here?”
“Today's Utopia's regular supply delivery. Warden—er, Sir Jepeto.”
The secretary, habitually tacking on the title, corrected herself. Jepeto beamed at her fondly.
“See? With her knowing even external merchant schedules, warden duties'll be a breeze—like eating manna.”
“By the way, Luthus?”
“Yes, Vice Warden Suhwa.”
“Remember what you said at Palatium last time?”
“The scary request starting with 'anything'?”
"If there's anything you'd grant, there's a favor I'd like to ask."
Suhwa's words from their first meeting with Luthus.
“That's it. Seems the moment's come to cash it in.”
“What I want is...”
Luthus's eyes and ears gleamed with greedy focus on Suhwa's words.