Retirement
Camera flashes crackled and flared across the dais.
Rodeban stood shaking hands with a man.
"So this is the hero of Winterfelt. An honor to meet you."
The man opposite him was none other than Grand Duke Crucias of the North.
Rodeban answered with a polite smile.
"Oh, Your Grace, the honor is entirely mine."
He had been touring the Empire under the banner of a victory parade. The long war against the magic beasts had left the Empire desperate for a symbol of triumph, and Rodeban—a commoner-born officer who had racked up staggering achievements on the battlefield—was today's star attraction.
God, I'm tired. Why are there so damn many of these nobles?
Rodeban stepped down from the platform, face drawn with exhaustion, and mentally sorted through the rest of his schedule.
That should be the last of the major events. Once I get back, I'm actually quitting this time. Working an injured man this hard…
He irritably adjusted the eyepatch over his left eye.
Up on the dais, the Grand Duke of the North—Crucias himself—was still mid-speech, silver hair catching the light as he spoke.
—The Empire has claimed victory once more. The Northern Knights and the Central Army shall now join forces…
Rodeban scanned the ballroom, looking for an exit strategy.
Is there nowhere I can crawl off and hide?
The moment the speech ended, he planned to head straight home. The hall was packed with nobles, and as a commoner he was already feeling lightheaded from the sheer density of them.
Just ease toward the entrance, bit by bit.
He hugged the walls as best he could, tugged his hat lower, and kept his head down, shuffling along like some timid soul who'd spent his childhood getting kicked around.
It was all completely useless.
—Oh my, Sir Rodeban. How is your injury faring?
Nobles began drifting toward him one by one.
Damn this red uniform.
Rodeban sighed inwardly. He was the only idiot in the entire ballroom who'd shown up in military dress. No matter where he went, he stuck out like a beacon.
—Sir Rodeban, our second daughter…
—Oh-ho-ho, surely you're of an age to start thinking about marriage…
Most of it was marriage talk. And why wouldn't it be? Had the Empire ever produced a commoner officer this successful? He'd been officially hailed as a hero. To the nobility, he was an irresistibly appetizing son-in-law.
Rodeban brushed them off with vague smiles and kept moving.
Twenty-nine is still young. Who are they calling a bachelor past his prime?
By Imperial standards, of course, he absolutely was. But Rodeban was a transmigrator. Twelve years had already passed since he'd woken up inside the game character named Rodeban.
Time to quit the military for good.
As far as he was concerned, the world had more or less settled into peace. The game he'd been dropped into was a JRPG about raising characters while beating back waves of magic beasts.
By the original story's timeline, they were somewhere in the mid-to-late stages now—but he'd saved and cultivated talent all over the map. Even without him, the world would keep holding the beasts at bay and sail smoothly into a peaceful, beautiful ending.
A happy ending.
So I get to rest now.
—The Empire shall be victorious!
With those final words, the Grand Duke stepped down from the dais. Applause thundered through the hall. Rodeban gave a single nod.
Good. Time to go home.
That was enough courtesy for one night. He made straight for the entrance, eyes fixed on the floor, striding out at a clip.
—Sir Rodeban!
—Ah, just one waltz…
Invitations to dance flew at him from every direction. Off to one side, the orchestra had just struck up a tune.
Not my problem…
Billowing gowns began drifting toward the center of the floor as dancers took their places. Rodeban ignored every request as if he'd gone deaf and kept pushing forward.
Screw this.
After roughly fifteen marriage proposals and twenty comments about his unmarried status, he finally escaped the ballroom. The waltz behind him sounded suspiciously like a marching anthem—or maybe that was just his imagination.
A sharp wind howled as he stepped outside. The cold of Tiliard, capital of the North, greeted him at once.
Rodeban exhaled hard.
"Not even one carriage. Those bastards. Is this how you treat a hero?"
For the record, he'd hitchhiked here in someone else's carriage, which meant hitchhiking home as well. It wasn't a walkable distance, and his body was one stiff breeze away from collapsing.
An engine purred. A white Ford rolled to a stop in front of him.
In this world, a car like that was a badge of extreme wealth—shorthand for someone very important sitting inside.
"…Ah."
The rear window slid down. Rodeban stared blankly for a second, then hastily bowed his head.
Oh, for fuck's sake.
It was the Grand Duke. He'd fled a room full of nobles only to run straight into their final boss.
"Your Grace."
An icy gale was blowing, yet a cold sweat traced a line down Rodeban's forehead. The aura rolling off the man was no joke. In this world's lore, bloodline was power.
The Grand Duke spoke.
"Rodeban. Should you ever find yourself with nowhere to go, come to the Knights."
"Hahaha, Your Grace is far too generous!"
Rodeban bobbed and bowed. He'd left the moment the speech ended—how had they crossed paths? He had no idea.
Another fierce gust tore past. When it died down, the Grand Duke continued.
"When you return, the Imperial Family will move against you. Your fame has grown too large. Of course, for a man like you it may be nothing much… but do you require assistance?"
Rodeban blinked, dazed.
"…Pardon?"
The Grand Duke had asked as if it were a trivial matter. To Rodeban, it most certainly was not. He was a powerless commoner.
A faint smile touched the Grand Duke's mouth.
"Hmph. Very well. I shall send someone shortly. Return to your post as usual. I will prepare a knight-commander's seat for you."
The engine roared, and the car pulled away before Rodeban could answer. He stood staring after the receding taillights.
…I was asking for clarification. He took it as acceptance. Well. Does it matter?
Actually, this was fine. Even a transmigrator would find it exhausting to weather Imperial pressure on his own.
Still—how long did the Imperial Family plan to hound him?
Rodeban shook his head.
In that instant, another engine snarled. A red car screeched to a halt in front of him. The design differed slightly from the Grand Duke's.
He narrowed his eyes.
This one's obscenely expensive too. Where have I seen it before…?
The rear door flew open—not the window this time. Inside sat a golden-haired beauty in a red uniform identical to his own.
"Hey. Get in."
The second he heard that voice, Rodeban scrambled into the car.
"…Yes, ma'am! Commander!"
She was Theresevan von Elise, commander of the Eastern 8th Front—and Rodeban's direct superior.
Elise was a mage who had reached the 7th tier at twenty-seven—exceptionally gifted, and consequently one of the strongest fighters in the entire military. On top of that, the Theresevan Count family was an old military dynasty rooted in the capital.
In short: entrenched power…!
As a lowly commoner officer, Rodeban could not dream of defying her orders. He bowed his head.
"Thank you."
Elise looked him over, then scowled hard enough to crease her brow.
"What, those bastards didn't even give you a carriage? Public Affairs, those sons of—"
Rodeban waved a hand.
"It's fine. I hitched a ride here too."
"With who?"
Suspicious eyes pinned him. Looking a little flustered, Rodeban confessed.
"W-with Lady Lucy of House Borea…"
Elise shook her head slowly. Why did this feel like a scolding?
"Rodeban. You really are hopeless at high society. Do you have any idea how loose that Lucy girl is… Ah, never mind. I should know better than to expect anything. I've been telling you for eight years and I'm sick of it."
He protested with an incredulous look.
"Look, if the army had just provided a carriage in the first place—"
"Quiet."
"Yes, ma'am."
He was good at following orders. Silence stretched for a moment.
Rodeban quietly shifted his gaze. Outside the window, the city blurred past at speed. Then, as if something had just occurred to him, he spoke.
"Ah—right. Commander. I'll be retiring now. As I mentioned before."
Elise nodded.
"Fine. What'll you do once you're out?"
"First I'm heading south to do absolutely nothing for about a month."
A southern month-long stay, as he liked to call it. He'd already bought the building.
"Yeah? And after that?"
"After that I need to get this injury treated."
As he spoke, Rodeban adjusted the black eyepatch over his left eye. Elise watched him.
"How's the Magic Eye?"
Beneath the patch sat what was called a Magic Eye—an ancient demon's eye embedded in the socket. It was the thing that had made him a hero, and the root of his injury. Through that abomination, Rodeban was the only human alive who could safely wield Magic Swords, weapons of terrifying power.
"Same as always. It nibbles away at my mana nonstop, so I'm constantly exhausted."
"Sounds rough. You've been through a lot."
"Well… at least they haven't locked me up."
"That's because you've killed more magic beasts than anyone else in the army."
"And what good does that do me? No money, health going to hell. Damn it, I should've quit ages ago…"
His eyes were already drifting shut. An irresistible fatigue pressed down on his lids—one of the Magic Eye's side effects.
Elise sighed.
"If you're sleepy, just sleep. That last battle made the injury worse, didn't it?"
"Probably."
A body that needed more sleep and tired out faster. If Elise hadn't picked him up, he might well have collapsed in the street. What kind of empire treated its heroes like this?
Damn this status…
Rodeban closed his eyes.
"I'll just rest them for a bit, then."
"Sure. I'll wake you when we get there."
He surrendered to the tide of drowsiness. Consciousness sank away as if someone had flipped a switch.
.
.
.
"…We're here. Get up."
Rodeban opened his eyes. Outside the window stood the officers' quarters—a shabby building reserved for commoner-born officers. He'd already submitted his discharge papers. A few more days here, and then he'd be gone.
South, ocean, wait for me. I'm coming.
With that nonsense floating through his head, he climbed out of the car and bowed to his former superior.
"Thank you for the ride."
"Don't mention it. It's nothing."
He reached to shut the door—and froze.
"……"
He stood at the fence, staring silently at the quarters. Rodeban's senses were unusually sharp; picking up the presence of people inside a building was trivial for him. Another effect of the Magic Eye.
Two strangers… three… Why are there so many?
Hostile figures were hidden throughout the building. Stepping inside felt like walking into a suicide. Then Elise's voice cut through from behind.
"Hey."
He turned. Through the open door, her face had gone hard.
"…Get back in."
"Yes, ma'am."
Rodeban obeyed without argument. The entrance to the quarters looked like the gates of hell.
The rear door shut, and the car pulled away at once.
Elise said flatly, "It's the Information Bureau."
The Information Bureau. An organization under the Imperial Family that monitored, checked, and eliminated nobles of the Empire.
Rodeban frowned. The Grand Duke's warning had become reality faster than expected.
"Hm. I'm not a noble, though."
"You're a quasi-noble. Where else do you find a commoner this famous? Congratulations."
"……"
Rodeban blinked twice.
Quasi-noble, my ass.
Elise had said it as a joke. Rodeban was deadly serious.
My money…!
In his mind's eye, the ocean was already receding into the far distance. …Though in truth, his personal safety mattered more than his savings right now. As a commoner, Rodeban was far more vulnerable to this kind of intrigue than any noble. Having no powerful backer cut deeper than he'd thought.
Elise went on.
"Probably the conservative ministers who never liked your Magic Eye throwing their weight around."
"I see."
"Stay at my estate for a while."
"…Understood."
Rodeban nodded with clear reluctance. He had no choice. Once the Information Bureau had its eye on you, you needed the protection of a powerful noble—and that powerful noble happened to be sitting right next to him. His former commanding officer.
Damn it.
Said former commanding officer glanced toward the front seat and gave a short order.
"Step on it. They're following."
"Yes, milady!"
The engine sang, bright and fierce, and the car shot down the boulevard.
The roar of acceleration filled the night.