How the Romance Fantasy Male Lead Avoids Flags (4)
Ban Climb was the second son of the Climb baron's family. He was twenty this year. But like so many second or third sons of noble houses, economic independence was a pipe dream. It was a common story. The Climb barony wasn't some illustrious noble lineage, nor did it hold a direct vassal contract with the emperor. Strictly speaking, they were retainers to a noble who had contracted with the Climb family—barely scraping the bottom rung of nobility. No table scraps for Ban, who wasn't the heir.
Aware of this from the start, Ban had set his sights on becoming a knight. Five years had passed since he'd begun as a squire, honing his skills, and now he was angling for formal knighting.
"……!"
In the capital ahead of the Founding Festival, Ban—who had come up after a long absence to attend—felt a shock slam into his soul like a hammer blow.
His father insisted that even a baron like Climb should read the papers. In one such paper, a short recruitment ad delivered a blow to Ban's head like a sledgehammer.
"A job ad……?"
Ban's gaze locked onto it, mesmerized. Dangerous conditions, bitter cold, endless monster waves, constant peril. Survival wasn't guaranteed.
But what seized his attention was what followed: honor and glory, and generous pay.
The moment his eyes reached those words, a jolt like electricity surged through his body.
Honor and glory to claim amid all those hardships. The pay is secondary.
"Estiang Berg…… Isn't that Grand Duke Berg himself?"
Ban's heart pounded wildly.
The lion of the north. Estiang Berg, the empire's youngest Sword Master, renowned as its strongest knight. He was recruiting those to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him, back-to-back in battle.
No calculations needed. High pay mattered, of course—even nobles needed funds to live with dignity. But what stirred Ban's blood was honor.
The honor of safeguarding the empire's north from monsters. The glory of swearing loyalty to the empire's mightiest knight and fighting at his side.
Ban stared blankly at the paper, then rose abruptly.
"……The north calls to me. That frigid blizzard, those endless battles, the hordes of monsters—they all call to me."
His eyes blazed. No time to waste. He had to find Estiang at once and pledge himself to the cause.
As Ban burst from his lodging in a rush, this phenomenon wasn't unique to him.
"Fetch my armor and sword!"
"A true man pledges loyalty to the one who recognizes him!"
"My single life will be nobly spent shielding the empire from monsters!"
"They pay well too—if I get knighted up north, I'll never worry about starving."
Some frothed with near-lethal doses of romanticism. Others chose pure pragmatism. Either way, the response was ecstatic.
To these naive medieval knight aspirants, Estiang's ad was an irresistible siren song. No surprise that romantics chasing chivalry wept rivers, crying "I've wasted half my life!" as they rushed to enlist in Berg Grand Duchy.
Around the same time, another crowd fixated on Estiang's recruitment ad.
"They pay a fortune?"
"But it's so dangerous……."
"That's for those pampered noble brats rampaging outside, right?"
"True. When have we ever wielded spears or swords? We're not even enlisting as foot soldiers."
Literate but not noble—these were wealthy merchants and skilled professionals. Artisans, traders, middle-class experts who formed the roots of the bourgeoisie.
They could live comfortably without trekking north. But this changed things.
"I'm heading north. My assets aren't much, but I'll liquidate everything."
"You sure? It's freezing up there. The ad screams danger."
"That's for combatants. The north always lacks manpower—the grand duke will pay top coin for my skills."
"Fair. You've already sold your workshop to pay debts. Just don't gamble up there. Look at the hell gambling debts put you through."
"Don't worry. If I blow my fortune gambling again, I'll chop my own hands off."
Those desperate for cash to rebuild their lives. Fighters they weren't, but their expertise tempted them with the promise of high wages. Northbound plans began forming.
Soon, throngs packed Estiang's interview hall.
* * *
"Hm……."
Estiang sat in the interview room, face sour. Outside, the clamor swelled.
He glanced at Roena beside him. "Lady Roena. How many applicants for today's interviews?"
"Hard to pin down exactly with more arriving, but already over three hundred, Your Grace."
"Far more than I expected."
Fine, he conceded. He'd underestimated medieval fervor.
That historic ad ran in the early 20th century's tail end of romanticism. He'd read how youths swept up in it joined World War I, only to shatter on the meat-grinder trenches.
Anyway, in this true medieval era where knightly romance breathed—dropping that ad was like unleashing a nuke.
He hadn't anticipated such frenzy. He'd figured a hundred or two at most—an overwhelming success already. But over three hundred and counting? A touch unnerving.
"We'll need stricter screening. Separate the wheat from the chaff thoroughly."
"Leave the vetting to us, Your Grace."
Maximilian and the accompanying knights grinned fiercely as they stood at attention.
"These are soft capital-bred young masters. We'll rigorously select only those fit for the Iron Fang Knights. We'll weed out the riffraff with utmost care—no worries."
"Entrust basic checks to you and the knights, Sir Maximilian. Focus on fitness and swordsmanship. Cut anyone below standard without mercy."
"Understood, Your Grace."
Maximilian replied like it was a given.
There were too many applicants -- he had no choice. With only a few, he'd do deep interviews. With this many? It was impossible.
The best bet would be to let his knights handle the fighters, while he took the non-combatants. He couldn't' ask knights to interview blacksmiths, weavers, bakers, or accountants.
Suddenly, a chat with his sister resurfaced.
'Hey, but did the middle class even exist in the medieval era?'
'Of course. They bulked up over time into bourgeoisie. Even chopped off a king's head once.'
'For real?'
'Totally. Met a French guy in a game once—teased him that England beat them to regicide, and he loved it.'
'What's that about…… So what did those middle-class folks do?'
'Tons. Guild artisans, university profs, accountants, notaries—professionals. Merchants too?'
'University profs? In medieval times?'
'Google when Bologna University was founded. You'll see how ignorant that question was.'
Now, mere fragments popped up unbidden. What came next? Her pestering for historical accuracy, them bickering.
Right—why adopt some unrelated girl as a foster daughter? Teased relatives would revolt with pitchforks for dereliction. Hero and heroine both love-at-first-sight types? She snapped about narrative plausibility.
Sentiments swirled anew.
They'd had those talks. Now here he was, in that novel, holding interviews.
Life's unpredictable, huh.
Watching Maximilian and the knights file out for checks—
"Milady! No! At least make an appointment first!"
"Butler, hush. I'm just here to see his face—what's the big deal?"
Commotion outside: haughty, sharp feminine voice; desperate, aged one pleading.
Wondering at the racket, he eyed the door. It flew open.
"Hm?"
Vivid crimson hair, saturation cranked to max. Beauty anyone would nod at—yet sharp cat-like eyes made her fierce. A perfect teardrop mole under one eye sealed it.
Her expensive dress screamed status. Their eyes met.
Silence stretched as they stared.
Her lips curved in satisfaction. She nodded approvingly.
"You're hired."
What? I'm the interviewer.