The Grotesque and Absurd Morning Exercise (Evans' Basic Gymnastics) Concludes
The bizarre and utterly ridiculous morning calisthenics—courtesy of Evans—had finally wrapped up. Leaving the knights to collapse in place, their legs trembling and breaths ragged, I slowly surveyed the carnage that filled the gorge.
The acrid stench of blood and entrails twisted together. To an ordinary person, it would've been a slaughterhouse nightmarish enough to induce three straight days of vomiting. But through the filter of my rational, capitalistic K-worker gaze, this scene took on an entirely different meaning.
This is all worth how much?
The dire wolf pelts scattered across the ground were top-grade winter insulation material that the capital's noble ladies went mad for. And nestled in the hearts of the sprawled frost trolls were clusters of pricey mana cores. The spot where that emperor bastard had shoved us to die was, paradoxically, a massive treasure trove—a prime chance to inflate the ducal house's budget.
I immediately stuck a whistle in my mouth and blew a short blast. Peep!
"Alright, good work on the exercise, everyone! Bodies warmed up, so now we kick off the real work. Draw your daggers—all of you!"
At my command, the knights flinched and drew their weapons, faces taut with tension as if expecting some surviving monster to lunge out.
I jerked my chin toward the mountain of corpses.
"Peel the hides off those wolf pups over there nice and clean—no damage. Slice open the trolls' hearts and extract the cores. By end of day, scrape up every last spoil in this gorge and load it onto the wagons. Get to it!"
"……Pardon? You want us to butcher these corpses?"
The guy who looked like the knight commander's adjutant blinked back at me in stunned disbelief. These were the proud elite knights of House Astrea, the continent's finest—or so they boasted—yet here they were, being ordered to play butcher in a blood-soaked corpse field. Their pride was clearly bruised.
"Then who? Me? You see any slaughterhouse workers or porters in this camp?"
My fact-based smackdown sealed his lips tight. It was all because Reina had stubbornly insisted on coming alone with just me(?), ditching all the extra troops and support staff as "burdensome." We ended up with this freakishly small expedition: a handful of escort knights and mages. No way we had manpower to haul this mountain of loot.
I smirked and lightly kicked the adjutant's shin.
To my 37-year-old reincarnated soul, with its paltry old-man mentality, these hulking knights all looked like green kids. So my kicks and casual speech carried zero hesitation.
Of course, these noble blades from the ducal house hadn't meekly accepted my arrogant attitude from an obscure baron's bloodline right off the bat. Back in the day, when some knights had picked fights over my "impertinence," I'd barely stopped Reina from crushing them with her merciless gravity magic in that traumatic incident. Ever since, they treated me like the perfect lord—the true power behind House Astrea.
That suffocating trauma was etched deep into their bones.
"Shoulda piped up back in the capital, told the lady to bring more hands! You lot just stood there like mute honey-eaters, too scared to lose your heads."
I jabbed at him, tactfully calling her "the lady" to nod at our nominal status gap. His face turned the color of dirt.
"Not only do I have to deal with the imperial dogs' half-assed traps, now I gotta cover the budget shortfalls too? If you're pissed, you become the ducal treasurer. No more yapping—peel 'em clean. Anything below A-grade, and you'll starve at dinner."
Under my cold, pragmatic threat, the noble elites finally hunkered down by the corpse pile with bitter resignation, slitting open monster bellies amid the blood.
I was admiring the workers pitifully scavenging scraps (spoils) in the gore when—
"Cadel, you call for me?"
A cool, lavender scent wafted from behind. I turned to see Reina, who'd ditched her stuffy plate armor for a light, flowing outing dress. The grotesque contrast of her sparkling silver hair in the morning sun against the blood-soaked hellscape was as eye-searingly unadaptable as ever.
My gaze dropped to the massive sword in her gloved hands.
The legendary blade that the Holy Kingdom's Pope had personally "bestowed"—scratch that, seized—as the "light to exterminate demons and save the continent." On the surface, a gracious gift, but if memory served, the Pope's face that day looked less like he'd seen salvation and more like apocalypse incarnate.
Anyway, this mighty Hesperos, which could incinerate lesser monsters to ash with its radiating holy power alone, was in her grasp.
The issue? Piled demurely on its broad blade—spotless, not a drop of blood—were the finest frost troll mana cores, gleaming like jewels.
"Look at these. You like shiny things, Cadel, so I picked the biggest, prettiest ones from that fat monster's body."
Reina beamed innocently, cradling the terrifying holy sword horizontally like a restaurant serving tray, careful not to let any cores tumble.
Her bright expression, gripping the hilt with both hands to guard against drops, was so absurdly cute that a chuckle escaped me.
You madwoman... If the Holy See geezers saw their legendary sword used as a damn tray, they'd all keel over foaming at the mouth.
I inwardly tsked at the talent wasted on such use of the great artifact she'd practically stolen from the Holy Kingdom. But what could I do? This munchkin beast wagging her tail for praise was indeed praiseworthy, and my capitalist slave hands were already scooping up her premium cores into my pocket.
"Yeah. Good picks—nice and pretty. Good job."
"I did great, right? Praise me more."
Like a big dog awaiting treats, she bent at the waist, shoving her head toward me. The hands that had mercilessly swung for cores moments ago were now demurely clasped behind her.
Whew, high-maintenance pup. I sighed shortly, raising a hand to lightly stroke her soft silver hair.
"Hnng..."
Reina purred contentedly, nuzzling deep into my palm like she'd been waiting for it.
Ugh.
The instant her warmth and silky skin transmitted through my palm, my vigorous 17-year-old hormones flared again, blaring alarms. My gut tightened hotly; electric tingles raced up my spine. My 37-year-old mentality desperately clung to reason—"It's just puppy affection"—but my uncontrollable, blood-boiling body thrashed wildly.
Before my heartbeat could spike further, I yanked my hand away and activated ironclad homeroom teacher mode.
"Alright, petting time's over. Go eat your holy sword—or better, wash your hands. Don't get blood on your clothes."
"Aw... Fine."
As Reina pouted and turned away—
Fwoosh! A cold blue flicker of mana flame erupted from one side of the camp.
Moments later, one of our expedition mages came panting up, offering me a parchment with both hands.
"C-Cadel, sir. Reply from the palace."
He held a reception-only magic scroll that mages always carried for long-range comms. Freshly transcribed, faint blue mana glow still lingered over its ornate runes.
It was the palace's official response to the cheeky taunt-report I'd sent last night.
I propped my chin and leisurely unrolled the scroll, scanning the text.
We are profoundly impressed by Lady Astrea's astonishingly swift handling of affairs. The report of her subjugating the monster horde in that treacherous gorge mere days after departure is a miracle beyond belief. The Imperial House cannot contain its admiration for the lady's feats in safeguarding the Empire, and we earnestly hope this great achievement is unexaggerated truth without a shred of falsehood. Should there be any deception of the throne, it would be an unpardonable crime under imperial law; yet as it bears the ducal house's honor, we gladly accept it without doubt. Your safe return is truly the Empire's blessing.
I'd penned the subjugation report, but not a single mention of Baron Evans or my name anywhere. The thorough, blatant transparent-man treatment since the emperor's edict.
Far from bruised pride, I was humming contentedly. Nothing beat being perfectly ignored by the higher-ups for prime work-life balance, after all.
More than that, the petty malice lurking behind the flowery text was crystal clear to my savvy 10-year K-worker reading comprehension.
Translated: 'Wiped out that insane monster swarm in days? You're cowards who bailed and faked the report, right? If even one beast remains when we check, it's all heads for imperial deception!'
I could vividly picture the emperor and his cronies in denial, clutching their necks and vomiting blood: 'How the hell did these monster freaks smash our perfect trap in a day?!'
A delighted chuckle burst out—pfft—but it faded slightly at the final line.
To celebrate your great merits and safe return, the Imperial House shall host a grand banquet (the Imperial Ball) on the upcoming full moon. We earnestly request your attendance to grace the occasion.
An invitation.
I tapped the scroll, flashing a sly fox grin. The palace's intentions were transparently obvious.
They'd realized no "physical trap" they cooked up could kill this 18-year-old munchkin beast. So they'd pivoted: drag us into the glittering heart of high society, where blades were useless, and socially bury us in a "political trap."
Cunning calculus, sure. Reina, who'd only ever rolled in blood-drenched battlefields with zero social graces, would find the noble world's hypocrisy and mind games a worst nightmare—even her holy sword would stay sheathed.
"Cadel, why the grin? What'd the bearded emperor grandpa say?"
"Huh? Says he'll throw us a party back in the capital for our hard work."
Reina snorted dismissively, feigning disinterest. Anywhere crawling with humans besides me was just an annoying bug swarm to her.
But I chuckled, rising to my feet. Zero fear. If anything, my blood was pumping.
This fantasy world's melee of swords and spells was all Reina, but the battlefield of politics and social jousting? Different story.
'You think petty etiquette and wordplay can faze a 10-year vet hardened by suffocating PTA stare-downs, principal old-man politics, and parents from hell? Pups nipping at a tiger.'
"Move it, you slugs! Sweep every spoil into the wagons! We're heading back to the ducal house!"
I bellowed at the knights hunched over mana cores. The capital's nobles, hiding sharp blades under frilly dresses—I'd shove a taste of K-worker ruthlessness right in their faces. My steps felt lighter than ever.