A Shitty Day in the North
Every breath he exhaled turned into a puff of white vapor that scattered into the air. Thud thud thud thud. The ground-shaking rumble assaulted his ears chaotically. Far in the distance, a seething mass of monsters swarmed like a dark tide. They were too far away to make out clearly, reduced to murky green blobs, but he knew every single one was an orc. It wasn't common for orcs to come charging in such massive hordes, but it wasn't unheard of either.
This was the North—the Empire's front line. A harsh land where summers were short, winters dragged on forever, and the soil was unforgiving. Here, they relied on the colossal Great Wall encircling the region to hold back the monsters that invaded like clockwork every month.
"Your Grace. Your orders?"
"Hold."
Through the visor of the knight's helmet, a steely gaze filled with unwavering trust flickered briefly. He'd been tangled up with the monsters infesting this godforsaken land for over twenty years now—a span so long that his previous life as a modern-day historian felt like a hazy dream. He had no idea why he'd reincarnated into a romance fantasy novel only to end up playing a tower defense game, but what could he do? It was the duty of the Northern Grand Duke of the Berg Grand Duchy.
Grand Duke in name only; in practice, he was little more than a margrave guarding the border. Still, between reincarnating as the North's sub-male lead in a romance fantasy and getting dragged off to grad school for a history PhD only to end up an unemployed degree holder—neither path was easy. No choice had been offered; the game had simply chosen tower defense for him. To keep the monsters from breaching the wall and turning his territory to rubble, he'd give it everything he had.
His superhuman senses instinctively gauged the distance to the oncoming orcs. Five hundred paces ahead. Now four hundred. A bit closer... three hundred. Now.
He raised his hand wordlessly. The knight beside him bellowed the command in a voice that echoed off the stones.
"Volley fire!"
The instant the order dropped, the soldiers lining the battlements unleashed their crossbows. A standard crossbow would be out of effective range, but these weren't standard. These were the artifacts he'd invested a fortune in.
Pfsssh! The bolts sliced through the frigid northern air, piercing the headwind battering the wall. Low-grade artifacts infused with mana, but artifacts nonetheless.
"Kwaaagh!"
"Kieeeek!"
Mixed faintly into the howling gale came the orcs' dying shrieks. A normal human force would have broken after one such salvo, but these were monsters. They didn't speak human tongues, barely grasped concepts like fear or morale. He'd cut them down enough times to know.
As the orcs trampled their own dead and pressed on relentlessly, his hand drifted to the sword at his hip. The initial volley was done; now came independent fire. Arrows rained down sporadically from all along the wall, and his operations staff officer stepped up to report.
"Your Grace. The northwest bastion is projected as this battle's weak point."
"Northwest bastion?"
"Repairs on the damaged wall section from the day before yesterday aren't complete. We have reserves on standby—when shall we commit them?"
"No reserves needed. I'll handle the northwest bastion myself. The rest of you, as always, follow your on-site commanders' discretion."
"Understood! Your Grace, good fortune in battle!"
Returning the staff officer's salute, he strode toward the northwest bastion. Clang! His sword cleared its sheath with a sharp ring, a bluish aura beginning to coalesce along the blade. The armies of this world were straight out of a medieval history book—pre-modern concepts like staff officers and NCOs hadn't even taken root yet.
'That's why I went through all that hell to reform them.'
Standardized logistics for supply chains. Introducing the General Staff system. Prussian-style mission command. Formalizing what had been ad hoc NCO roles. The works.
"His Grace approaches!"
Lost in thought, he arrived at the northwest bastion to eyes gleaming with fervor.
"Your Grace! Your orders, please!"
"Give us the command!"
He raised a hand to quiet them, then addressed the knight snapping a salute.
"Senior commander here?"
"Yes, Your Grace. Maximilian of the Iron Fang Knights, 3rd Battalion."
"Sir Maximilian, command remains yours. I'm just filling in for the reserves—no need to hand over authority. Clear?"
"Yes, Your Grace. So you'll be taking the reserves' place...?"
"Not enough with just me?"
"As if."
A grin flashed through Maximilian's visor. He clapped his shoulder, then slowly raised his aura-clad sword. The orcs had pushed through the arrow storm and clustered at the wall's base, now clambering up like swarming ants.
"Let's go, then."
He murmured it low, then leaped from the battlements, sword held high.
Just another ordinary, shitty day in the North.
With a graceful slash, he whipped the sword through the air, orc blood—vile green ichor—dripping from the blade. A few more droplets splattered onto the snow already slick with it. A mere wrist flick couldn't shake it all off, so he burned the rest away with aura. A Sword Master who couldn't manage that? Fair point. But his skills were self-taught hacks, far from orthodox.
The battle was over. Orcs usually routed after losing a third, but these didn't have morale to crack. Only a handful had fled; the rest lay buried in the snow. He'd carved through the orcs, smashed the trolls, dodged the ogres. Somehow, his second life had been nonstop brawling since he'd grown up. Impressive, in a twisted way.
"Your Grace! Any injuries?"
"None."
Battle done. The blood splattered on his armor felt grimy. He doffed the sweat-soaked helmet, now heavier than ever. The North's chill air cooled his overheated skin—refreshing for a fleeting moment before turning into a bone-numbing freeze. This shitty northern weather. How was this even habitable? At least they could grow spring wheat. Small mercies. Otherwise, they'd have retreated south and rebuilt the wall long ago.
"Your Grace."
Instead of answering, he handed his helmet to the attendant. Armor later. Striding into the keep, he asked the shadow-like staffer trailing him.
"Casualties?"
"Still tallying, but fatalities are near zero. The few we have are mostly falls."
"Winter walls are slippery. Can't be helped. Wounded?"
"Orcs barely reached the top, and knights handled those that did. Injuries minimal."
"A crushing victory. No surprise."
"As Your Grace says."
He waved the staffer off. Saluted away, the man departed. Entering the inner keep, attendants fumbled to strip his armor while he pondered.
'How'd it come to this?'
He knew this was the world from that romance novel he'd read in his past life. Had known for a while. Normally, he'd never touch romance fantasy, but this was different—his sister's book. He'd devoured it just to tease her. Not his taste; zero fun.
'One of love's feverish symptoms, blinding people like this. Just like now.'
'Ugh, you psycho! Cut it out!'
But every time he'd quote the male lead, she'd lose it. Faded memory now, as attendants peeled off the armor. Lighter without it, he tousled his sweat-matted hair and headed to his office. He wasn't some knight; as lord of the territory, rest wasn't an option post-battle.
Sinking into the plush chair, chin propped on his hand, old memories resurfaced.
'Sis.'
'What?'
'So, I get what the Northern Grand Duke does. Total margrave vibes. You know, like the Margraviate of Brandenburg.'
'What's that?'
'They teamed up with the Teutonic Knights later, secularized, formed the Prussian League. Anyway, got a question from reading.'
'What? Is the Grand Duke main or sub?'
'Nah. He's the monster-blocker with the northern wall.'
'Yup.'
'So why's he stuck in the capital? What about his territory? Shouldn't he be busy, not flirting with the heroine?'
'Drama, duh. It's romance fantasy.'
'Fair.'
Romance was about the leads' love story; world-building was secondary. He'd shrugged it off back then. Now, lifting his head from that ancient recollection, paperwork stared back. This was his reality.
"Never thought I'd live it."
A wry smile as he picked up the quill. One thing was crystal clear: as the actual Northern Grand Duke, romance took a backseat. Get distracted like in the novel, and he'd lose the whole territory.