Chapter 20
Chapter 20
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 20
Chapter Title: The War Hero Becomes the Baron's Young Lady's Butler (3)
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After my reincarnation into this fantasy world, my life can be divided into just two acts.
One.
From the moment I was born until I turned fifteen, living as the son of poor farmers.
It wasn't a particularly pleasant experience or set of memories.
In our hovel of a home, I'd get smacked upside the head just for trying to snag an extra potato, and those so-called blood kin would boast about their slave chains—who worked harder—to claim a less stale chunk of bread.
The thing that dramatically opened the second act of my life was, ironically, the Empire's war... and Princess Sylvia.
Because the Empire started the war, I was conscripted. It was Princess Sylvia who pulled a mere grunt like me and reassigned me as a knight promotion candidate.
My superior was the one who awakened mana in someone like me—who'd never even touched it before—and spared no support in helping me forge my aura.
If we're being precise, Princess Sylvia is my benefactor.
In modern terms, it's like a high school kid becoming a prosecutor thanks to a female teacher ten years his senior.
But does that mean I owe her marriage in repayment for her scholarship support back in high school, or for chasing off those needless blood relations blabbering about family ties?
People's views differ, but I think bringing peace to the continent and defending the Grates Kingdom is repayment enough.
Because she meticulously managed everyone around me, I was able to keep those parents and siblings—scattered by the war—from worming their way into the Wilhelm Count's household.
Well, that sort of thing happens, doesn't it?
You ignore them as a kid, but the moment you make something of yourself socially, relatives come crawling out of the woodwork.
In medieval society, blood siblings were pretty much the social boundary for those relatives, and the ones who'd stolen my potatoes and handed me stale bread were pounding on the Wilhelm Count household's front gates too.
So that's why, after twenty-seven years since reincarnating, I don't take the idea of family very seriously.
Even now, I think of my deceased parents from my previous life as my true parents—not the ones who sold me off as a conscript because I was the healthiest.
When the bloodline that bore a master named Hans Wilhelm got some royal treatment in some kingdom only to be wiped out by the Empire, I just offered a prayer in that direction and called it a day.
That's why Hans Wilhelm officially has no family at present.
'I've thought about inheritance issues for a while now. After all, I've been staking my life on the battlefield nonstop.'
When it comes to what happens to a noble's estate upon death, I'm more clued in than anyone.
To keep my assets from going to the potato thieves and moldy bread makers just because of "blood ties," I'd called in a court mage even before the war and arranged everything for after my death.
With Butler Robert, I made sure my estate's female staff received appropriate shares.
If the Wilhelm Count's death were officially recognized, ten billion in pension would go to Robert, and the rest to the women I'd kept by my side—the maids who'd warmed my nights—with that as my will.
Of course, if I'd died in the war against the Empire, the will wouldn't have mattered; they'd have swept it all away anyway.
But leaving that trace behind might mean those I'd saved would find my mansion and receive some pity or charity.
Not that it matters much now.
Anyway, the will lists the names, ages, appearances, and even how I met each woman I'd bequeathed my pension and assets to—no room for forgery there.
Since it details where and how we connected, any crazy woman claiming "I spent one night with Hans Wilhelm!" would be exposed on the spot.
Total chaos.
It'd sort itself out eventually, but the death of a noble with no blood kin or adoptees gets this messy.
How many self-proclaimed relatives or one-night-stand claimants would swarm to gobble up the inheritance?
'The royals will probably drag it out, acting like I'm not dead as long as possible.'
To avoid that chaos, the kingdom will keep insisting I'm missing.
Like I'm off on some secret mission—reason enough not to appear publicly—they'll deny my death outright.
Honestly, the royals don't matter.
As long as the Empire—no, the core powers in the Empire who could start a war—know for sure I'm alive, the confusion from my disappearance won't escalate to full war.
And so.
In this situation where the pot's on the verge of boiling over but not quite spilling, certain people are maneuvering for their own gain.
They're Trimien Baroness and her cronies, trying to swallow the Arsin Barony whole right now.
Against those sorts, all this one woman—Diela Arsin—can do is one thing.
Hire an amnesiac man as her butler.
She's that cornered—even resorting to employing me as a butler.
For instance.
"Is this how it's done?"
"...Your handwriting is elegant. At least we know you're not illiterate— that's a relief, actually."
Right here in the barony's office, scribbling replies to the barrage of marriage proposals flooding in.
The nations on the Europan continent all use the continental common tongue.
Long ago, each country supposedly had its own language, but the Gold Dragon 'Irdor' pitied the races who couldn't communicate and personally created one.
The common tongue took root across the continent.
Not just duchies, but even the Empire uses it, so while there are dialects and registers, everyone understands each other.
But speaking and listening is one thing—reading and writing another.
If language were essential for survival, they'd pay to learn it, but unfortunately, commoners see no need for literacy.
The Gold Dragon might lament their pitiful state foreseeing the future, but learning letters doesn't make more potatoes grow.
Those who learned to read, dug up more potatoes, got rich, and escaped commoner life long ago.
In short, illiteracy is a rough line between commoners and nobles.
Some commoners—like merchants dealing with nobles—pick up reading, but they don't master the lofty, refined words nobles use (which some might call pretentious nonsense).
In that sense, language is a fine way to gauge someone's status.
If a man with amnesia can still read and write—or remember the words— you can guess his pre-amnesia status and occupation to some degree.
In that vein, Diela handed the man—Yuri—the correspondence circulating among the nobles visiting the barony.
"We respectfully pray that peace abounds in your house, and cannot contain our concern for the well-being of your household. Amidst your busy duties..."
And she realized.
This man was noble-born.
Just hearing him fluently read words that would make a commoner go "What the hell kinda fancy crap is this?" proved it.
The problem was.
"Miss. Do I need to write something similar to send back?"
"Yes. Think you can give it a try?"
"......I could copy it verbatim, but I'm worried the recipients might take offense."
He could read noble script, but writing it was tricky.
Diela had a hunch.
No wonder butler didn't suit him—he was used to butlers serving him.
"You're saying you don't know how to phrase the content?"
"Impudent as it is, yes."
"No need to feel impudent. Yuri, you don't have to worry about that. Just do as I say."
At minimum, he was from a knightly house that saw action in the war—a noble with amnesia.
Like the recently missing Sir Hans Wilhelm; search for young nobles in their late twenties vanished from noble houses, and you'd pinpoint Yuri's identity.
"Then, sorry, but could you take down what I dictate?"
"Anything except 'sorry,' and I'll transcribe it faithfully. But Miss... by any chance...?"
"Oh, I can write, just not with a man's handwriting."
"A man's handwriting?"
"Yes. With only women in the house, and since it's for the house head to read—a woman writing it might seem improper to some."
"Aren't you acting as proxy house head?"
"...Yes. But not officially. Duchy law says the eldest child if there are any, or the legal wife if not..."
Diela pointed out the window with a complicated expression.
"Here they come, right on cue."
"Them...?"
"My sisters. Half-sisters, different mothers too."
Two women stepped down from a carriage gleaming like gilded gold.
Dressed for a party, but their faces and demeanor showed no noble grace.
Combined, their attitudes couldn't even match one side of Diela.
"Let me introduce them. The blonde is my eldest sister Jasmine, the black-haired one is my second sister Rosmarin—"
"Yaaaa! Diela!!"
From the garden, toward this office, the two sisters raised their voices.
"Get down here right now—"
"What's the matter?"
I opened the terrace door to the garden and looked down at them as I spoke.
"The miss is currently attending to official duties."
"Uh...."
With my aura flaring, I stared them down intently.
"Don't raise your voices like that."
For reference.
Hans Wilhelm's face might rank top three out of ten in this world, but it's no slouch anywhere.
"Uh...."
"Wh-what?"
The sisters glared up venomously at first, then blushed and turned away.
'Easy.'
Too easy—not even worth a yawn.
That's why.
'Women this easy to bed aren't fun anymore.'
I've embraced plenty without affection, purity, or love—time to head a different direction.
"Miss."
My life, Act Three.
"If there's anything you wish to say, tell me beforehand. I will be your lips."
From Hans Wilhelm's Act Two, filled only with war and eros, I'll infuse Act Three with romance.
'After twelve years as a grunt, I can't just skip dating and jump to marriage.'
Romance.