The Mercy of a Wandering Knight
When the werewolf had snatched Boriska and fled, even Johan had been, frankly, dumbfounded. He hadn't expected the monster to snap the man's neck.
But that thought didn't last long.
Actually, this works out well.
Johan had no intention of running around shouting Boriska's fraud from every rooftop. This was an event hosted by the Duke—an event tied to the Duke's prestige and honor.
Acting unilaterally at such an occasion was dangerous. The proper course was always to report to the Duke first.
And the Duke was a wise man who could read a situation; he would understand why Johan had come to him first, and see that justice was done in a fitting way.
Johan's goal was not to expose a dishonorable knight and pass judgment. It was enough to succeed at the hunt and win the Duke's trust.
"I don't know much about House Peteo, but if they hired mercenaries on top of the knights already traveling with them, they must be fairly wealthy."
Feeding hired blades was one thing, but provisioning the knights in their retinue as well? There was no way a house could manage that without deep coffers. Aclada nodded.
"They're quite a famous family, my lord."
"Well, this time it was their own fraud, so they hardly have the nerve to make a fuss. But the human heart isn't so simple, is it? If we had killed them, they'd hold a grudge against us. You and I aren't exactly on good terms with most people."
"Haha. In truth, they'd be far more likely to hate me than you, my lord."
"But think of it this way—a monster killed the knight, and not only did we slay that monster, we brought back the knight's body with care. Who could hold a grudge over that? If anything, we'd deserve their thanks."
Aclada put on an intrigued expression at that. It was in moments like these that Johan's way of thinking diverged from the tribes beyond the Empire, where the world split cleanly into life and death, ally and enemy.
And even among knights, few could reach such a decision.
Of course, it was an honorable choice for a knight to make. But who could bring themselves to extend such generosity to a man they'd been fighting tooth and nail mere moments ago—an opponent who had cheated first, no less?
Johan asked, sounding puzzled.
"Is it really that strange?"
"Yes! Honestly, my lord, it's a bit strange—watching a man who hunted like that turn around and show mercy!"
"...That's a different matter entirely..."
Johan had no comeback for that. He had, admittedly, hunted like a complete lunatic this time.
Galambos tracked their quarry with everything he had. The tenacity of an Eastern Ranger with his life on the line was remarkable, and thanks to it, the party stayed hot on the Werewolf King's trail.
"My lord, something's wrong with it."
"What do you mean, wrong?"
"It's running away too much for a monster! It should have turned and attacked by now!"
"What would the likes of you know! My lord, there's no need to listen to this wretch—"
"No, I'll hear him out. Keep going, Ranger. What is it you're trying to say?"
"It seems... it seems to be frightened, my lord..."
"Since when does a werewolf get frightened? Leave this trash alone another moment and there'll be no end to his—"
"Quiet. Frightened, you say?"
"Yes, my lord..."
"Then what should we do about it?"
"From the looks of it, it won't fight until it's absolutely cornered. So rather than simply chasing its tail, I think it would be better to fan out and close in from all sides like a net. That way we can wear it down."
"But that thins the encirclement. If it does attack, it'll punch straight through."
"If it's truly frightened, I don't believe it will strike until it's driven to the wall..."
"Fine. Let's trust him for once."
The Werewolf King had apparently been trying to avoid the forest and sprint across the open grassland in search of another lair—a miscalculation. Because of it, the warriors scattered in every direction and began herding the beast in.
Galambos had judged correctly this time. The Werewolf King avoided combat with almost obsessive determination.
The chase that had begun when the moon began to sink didn't end until dawn was breaking. Horses and riders alike were exhausted, and the Werewolf King was utterly spent.
Only when the creature's movements began to slow did the centaurs finally draw their poison-tipped short bows, hoping to finish it off. Until then, the thing had been so unnervingly agile that none had dared to aim.
"Hold a moment, Aclada."
"What is it, my lord?"
"I don't pretend to know much about hunting, but doesn't an unmarked kill fetch several times the value?"
"Several dozen times, actually... but what exactly are you asking, my lord...?"
A hide's price changed depending on where the wounds fell, which was why a seasoned hunter paid close attention to where he struck.
"A beast that worn out ought to be taken without a blade at all, don't you think?"
"My lord, while I do enjoy your jokes..."
"■■■..."
"You see, my lord? Even Euclia is trying to stop you."
"■■."
"Have you lost your mind? Hey! What exactly is it that's going to work, huh?!"
"I don't quite follow, but thank you for the encouragement. Very well. Let's try it."
Euclia flushed red and nodded, her eyes brimming with a fervent hunger for blood and violence.
"If it gets dangerous, the centaurs will loose their arrows."
"...That's rather underhanded of you, my lord."
In the end, the centaurs never had the chance. Johan walked right up to the werewolf, knocked it flat, and strangled it to death with his bare hands.
The centaurs watching dropped their bows in shock.
"■■■■..."
"Now I understand how you killed that troll!"
"...And that is what happened, Your Grace."
At Johan's report, the Duke nodded with an expression mixing astonishment and understanding.
How disappointing.
Aclada grumbled inwardly. Even through all of this, the Duke hadn't let a single muscle in his face move. The man ought to have flinched, or flown into a rage, at least a little...
But contrary to Aclada's private thoughts, the Duke was genuinely shocked.
That anyone would dare commit such fraud at his event!
Whether it was audacity, sheer recklessness, or a mad death wish, he couldn't tell.
In a way, Boriska had been lucky. He had died at a monster's hands.
Had he returned alive, he would have been set bareback on a horse, paraded once around the city, and led straight to the gallows.
"Why did you not spread this news? The people outside believe Sir Boriska died an honorable death."
"Your Grace is the goddess of this event. How could a stranger from afar, such as myself, dare to pass judgment and mete out punishment? Such authority rightly belongs to you."
What a masterful flatterer this knight is, Aclada thought.
There were two kinds of flattery: the kind that fell flat even when it was recognized, and the kind that worked even when the target saw through it completely. This was the latter.
The Duke nodded.
With those words alone, his estimation of Johan climbed considerably.
Remarkable. To think a knight could be like this...
Valor in battle was one thing, but the political sensibility to weigh such considerations at so young an age—that was what truly astonished him.
Any other young knight would have cut off Boriska's head, spiked it on a pike, and gone around bellowing at everyone within earshot.
I want him.
The men who held posts and served around the Duke were either lesser nobles with long ties to House Bruduhet, or nobles whose families required political consideration. Johan, a foreigner with none of those ties, made the Duke want to entrust him with a position anyway.
Greed for his abilities was one thing...
But more than anything, the Duke was curious.
The curiosity of a lord who had governed men for decades—the curiosity of just how much talent this young knight, whom he had judged so carelessly before, actually possessed.
Having finished his deliberations, the Duke rose from his seat. He wore an expression of profound emotion, and tears even glistened at the corners of his eyes.
"Sir Johan. I thank you. Thank you!"
He embraced Johan outright. It wasn't any specially crafted gesture—just a performance worn into habit over long years.
That was how subordinates were: moved to the very depths of their hearts by a single teardrop, offering up their lives in return.
Why bother with anything else, when a method far cheaper—and far more effective—than gold or silver coins was right there?
Pfft.
Aclada had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Johan's expression was simply too bored. This knight truly never got old to be around.
When the embrace ended, the Duke took Johan by the shoulders.
"Your sincerity in safeguarding the honor and dignity of Bruduhet has moved me. I offer you my heartfelt thanks."
"You honor me too much, Your Grace."
"Ask for whatever you wish."
In that instant, Johan didn't miss the way the Duke's eyes glinted, searching him. Nor was he particularly surprised. This was a man who never stopped evaluating, never stopped passing judgment.
Nothing wrong with making a good impression.
"There is one favor I would ask."
"And that is?"
"Please show mercy to the knights and mercenaries who accompanied Sir Boriska."
"......"
The Duke was impressed. Mercy—not gold, not weapons.
Considering the insight Johan had displayed, this was clearly a decision born of political calculation, not simple goodwill.
But then why the mercenaries?
One thing, however, eluded his understanding. He could see why Johan might ask leniency for the knights—but the mercenaries?
They were no distinguished company, just worthless rabble anyone could scoop up cheap in any town. Sparing them bought him nothing.
The Duke hesitated, caught between impulses. He wanted to ask. But a Duke had his dignity to maintain. In the end, he swallowed the question and nodded.
"If I refused a request made so graciously, the name of Bruduhet would be shamed. Have no fear—mercy will be granted. I shall let the knights know who saved their lives. Now, setting aside such selfless requests, is there nothing more you desire?"
"No, Your Grace. I merely did what had to be done, and taking more would only be an embarrassment."
"And you, Sir Aclada?"
"The same, Your Grace. I have already enjoyed honor beyond my station."
Aclada answered quickly as well.
However quietly the Duke chose to settle matters, House Peteo could not escape punishment entirely. They would owe the Duke a hefty indemnity—and that money would flow straight back into the Duke's coffers.
The Duke manufactured tears once more.
"I must surely be blessed by the gods. To think knights of such exceeding worth would serve me."
"Not at all, Your Grace."
"Not at all. You flatter us, Your Grace."
The only one who didn't understand the theater unfolding here was the Duke himself. It never occurred to him that the two young knights were playing their roles with far colder precision than he was.
"We're invited to a meal, too?"
"Sounds delicious."
"...No, my lord."
Aclada's voice was flustered. That's his reaction to this?
"Is the food bad?"
"No... that's not it. I'm just surprised by how extravagant the reception is."
"Ah. Is that what you meant."
Simply being asked to dine at the Duke's own table, with no special occasion to justify it, was an enormous honor.
It meant, in effect, We think highly of you.
"Not surprising at all. I imagine they intend to win us over completely."
"Win us over, my lord?"
"Ah. Maybe that's not a common way of putting it. I mean—they mean to make us fall head over heels for them."
Aclada almost teased him—the way you made Euclia fall, my lord?—but stopped himself.
Come to think of it, the words didn't apply to Euclia alone.
Just as the quiet, taciturn Euclia had fallen head over heels, the other warriors too trusted and followed this knight from beyond the plains as if they had known him for years. Even Aclada himself.
It had been the same during the hunt. When Johan told them to scatter and encircle, not one of them had doubted him for a second.
Meanwhile, the Duke was meeting with the master of the hunt, hearing his account.
All the knights due back had returned or were returning now. All that remained was for the Duke to make his judgment and name the knight with the finest hunt.
"...How was this one taken?"
Damn it all!
Examining the quarry, the Duke had asked the obvious question.
The carcass of the Werewolf King—without a single wound!
Among the monster corpses, all of them slick with blood and riddled with gashes, the pristine white werewolf stood out starkly.
The master of the hunt heaved a sigh and prostrated himself.
"Your Grace! My skill was wanting... I simply cannot explain it. I beg your forgiveness for the shame I have brought upon you."
"Think nothing of it. Your competence, of course, I already knew."
The Duke even clapped the man on the shoulder. The master of the hunt was moved to tears.
I shall have to look for a new master of the hunt.
The Duke thought this to himself. He bore the man no personal grudge, but such incompetence could not be forgiven.
"The purveyor was boasting of some fine meat he acquired recently, so we shall use that. Shall I instruct the cooks to show off their skills?"
The Duke nodded at the chamberlain's words. Once the cooks began displaying their art, it would be the natural moment to broach delicate matters. Managing such small things was also the chamberlain's role.
"Summon the young Bruduhets as well. It would be a pity to make them deal only with the dregs."
"Yes, Your Grace."
The chamberlain nodded without letting his feelings show. Calling for his own children too—the Duke truly must have taken a liking to these guests.