Beyond the Great Wall (3)
Leading the ranger company were Maximilian and Billaine. They set out beyond the Great Wall. These were a handpicked handful of elites from the Grand Duchy's forces, chosen to handle any sudden contingencies. But honestly, I had no idea what lay beyond the wall. The original novel never described it.
In the story, Estiang had outsourced all defense to his subordinates and spent his time in the Imperial Capital chasing Aisha. I'd watched the court intrigues like a political drama, finding them somewhat engaging, but in the end, everything boiled down to Aisha's romance arc. This wall, reeking of fire-and-ice ballad vibes, was just set dressing—nothing more, nothing less.
"Mm..."
I let out a quiet groan. It was necessary, but it felt like tossing a child into the river—pure unease. Ignorance breeds anxiety. Everything I'd done so far relied on historical knowledge: This era works like that, so roughly follow this path, and it'll be fine. It's like someone who's only ever taken open-book exams suddenly facing one without notes. No matter how hard you studied, panic sets in. Still, I'd done everything possible, so now it was out of my hands. I forced myself to calm down that way.
I'd love to scout myself, but that's absolutely off-limits.
If we're splitting hairs, Berg resembles Sweden most, but considering our scale, calling it a low-population Burgundy isn't a stretch.
The Duchy of Burgundy. In terms of economy and weight class, comparing it to the Berg Grand Duchy made sense. And thinking of Burgundy's fate... me venturing beyond the wall for reconnaissance with a small force? No way.
Burgundy thrived under Duke Philip the Good, but the moment his son, Charles the Bold, fell at Nancy, it crumbled over succession issues. From Mary of Burgundy's marriage and inheritance rights to two centuries of tug-of-war between Habsburg and France, it all ended swallowed by France.
I can't be Charles the Bold.
I'm not even married, let alone engaged. If I drop dead, succession blows up. Tragic. Even if I grabbed my sword yelling I'd scout personally, my retainers would chase me down asking, "Your Grace, have you lost your mind?" Failing to stop me would be dereliction of duty. With great power comes great responsibility—but here, the position's inherent duties double it, canceling out any upside. I shook my head and shoved down the anxiety.
Instead, I started carving small marble pieces for miniatures that Roena had fetched at my request. The office soon filled with the gritty scrape of chisel on stone.
"Have you taken up sculpting as a hobby, Your Grace?"
"Not quite a hobby. More like an experiment."
"An experiment, you say?"
"Yeah. Something I'd been mulling over, but this seemed like a good chance to try it."
Roena tilted her head beside me. I shaped the rectangular marble bits: an archer with a bow, an orc with jutting tusks, a fiercer troll, an ogre with filthier eyes and meaner temper. Then a knight in armor and a spearman.
Watching, Roena remarked, "Remarkably precise."
"A chisel's still a blade at heart. Nothing in this world my sword can't handle."
I infused some pride as the youngest Sword Master. Martial arts tales say it: mastery unifies all. A light aura coating the chisel cuts marble like tofu—no need to control force precisely. No Michelangelo-level artistry required. Just enough to recognize the unit type or monster.
"...I've never seen Your Grace make sculptures before."
"First time making them, so you're seeing it right."
"What for?"
"Call it wargaming for now."
"Wargaming...?"
Roena tilted her head again. Wargame miniatures. Aiming for a Prussian-style army without wargames? That's gross negligence, near AWOL. "A kind of mock battle. Easier to grasp that way?"
"Mock battle... So these sculptures will be the pieces."
"Exactly. Once the rangers return with terrain recon and maps, we'll run simulations based on them."
Rules and factors galore, but wargames proved their worth from Prussia's Franco-Prussian War through the 21st century. Not perfect-scale maps, but workable for real terrain sims. That's wargaming: map-based hypotheticals, testing outcomes in scenarios, tweaking variables.
Just don't rig for 'Our chief of staff is genius! Navy strong!' or it's trash. Anyone pulling that gets the boot.
"If they bring maps, we can at least attempt it."
"Maps required?"
"No need for defense sims."
I shook my head at her question. Defense wargames? Unnecessary—defense is already near-perfect. Pure offense, pure attack scenarios only. I'd named it already: élan vital. Relentless assault pushing foes to the brink. Not French headbutting-dino style, of course.
Chatting with Roena nonstop, I finished a decent knight miniature.
"If you wish, I can fetch a sculptor."
"No need. Just killing spare time. And we don't need pro-level pieces in bulk yet."
"I see."
"As you said, a hobby for now."
Brushing off dust, Roena murmured, "Sculpting... sculpting, could it be...?"
Right—she'd mentioned wanting a silver camellia carving. Silver mining hasn't ramped up yet, but note to self. Casually, to her: "And didn't you say?"
"Y-yes? Your Grace, what did I...?"
"A silver camellia carving is gift enough from me."
"......"
"Practice for your gift."
"......"
Roena fell silent. Heavy quiet—did I mess up? Then, calmly: "Understood, Your Grace. I recall an unfinished matter; I'll step out briefly."
"Go ahead."
She bolted at permission. Urgent footsteps echoed down the hall outside.
...That urgent?
While awaiting the rangers, I wasn't just whittling miniatures like some old man in his office. Plenty else demanded attention. Prime example: Aisha Leste.
Impulsive hire, but the original heroine bet half her life following me north over her current hell. Plot's diverged light-years; original's not my problem anymore. Key there: her potential to mega-ultra-spirit mage in years. Here, staying at my mansion, she's socializing with staff—maids mostly, or Roena. Training to chat spirits without shrinking voice, stuttering, clamming up.
Surprisingly, my sister's romance novel tagged her "sunshine girl." I asked once.
'Sis, "sunshine girl" tag—what's that?'
'Oh? Heroine's super bright. Chatty, beaming smiles, y'know.'
'Those types usually fake it. Like haraguro.'
'Nah. Tags matter in romance; faking gets backlash. Ice bitches are "schemer"—sunshine's genuine.'
'Ice bitch?'
'Binggeure ssa—er, don't bug me writing. Allowance stops if you chat.'
'Got it.'
Author fiat: Aisha's sunshine. Bright, bubbly. Problem: zilch like that now. Gap from tags and sis's word, so I resolved: I brought her, I'll make her a useful spirit mage. Gotta reap benefits.
"Yeah, so I'm liking it more lately."
On the mansion terrace, bundled Aisha chatted with Sylph. "Wind too cold here? Nope, gotta toughen up. Back in ducal lands, you whined summers were too hot."
I watched her back, Sylph swirling translucently, then approached with footsteps. She whipped around, rabbit-wide eyes.
"Your Grace?"
"Lady Leste."
Voice shrinking post-confirmation, I said, "Mind sparing some time?"
"Y-yes? Time...?"
"Your time, yes."
Second interview time.