The Viscount's Scales
Marhal recalled the statue of the viscount standing before him. His title was Viscount. He couldn't remember the name. During the war, he'd earned merit as a civil official, becoming a noble and then a lord. Back then, this place had been just a cluster of small villages—nothing special. By squeezing the locals with high taxes, a family could live in luxury. But now, the spot where Marhal stood had clearly taken the shape of a city, small though it was. The man before him was the mastermind who'd turned villages into a city.
"It's not far away, and I hear news from the neighboring territory every day. Dozens of people gathering, right? And those carriages passing by just in time. Similar things have happened before. Each time, village youths vanished—anywhere from a dozen to several dozen."
"That's unfortunate."
"If it's legitimate business, I'll accept it all. But please refrain from having migrants pass through my territory."
Even just migrants marching nearby could shake people's resolve. Especially young men and families, sick of their repetitive lives, dreaming of something hotter, more special—they'd join the procession west. A few people vanishing from a big city was no issue, but in a small village, losing a handful of youths disrupted all sorts of village affairs. This city was the same. It was barely functioning as a city, with resources absolutely scarce across the board.
"How many knights do you employ? Given the soil, you probably didn't give them land to farm. You must pay their salaries from city taxes, right?"
"I can't disclose the number of knights. But yes, I do employ them."
"That must cost a fortune. And it's unsettling."
Give knights land and take rent as a lord—that was easy. Bad harvest or good, it was the knights' problem. Salaries were different. If something happened in the city and tax revenue dropped, you couldn't pay them. And a knight freed from contract became a bandit with brute strength.
Marhal pulled a small pouch from his bosom. He placed it on the table and slid it across; it glided down the long table to the far end. The viscount unfolded the pouch, and his eyes widened. For the first time facing Marhal, he failed to control his expression. The pouch brimmed with jewels and gold coins. The jewels weren't top quality, but they were jewels. And the gold was imperial coinage. His eyes twitched at the sight of this fortune he'd never touched before.
"This is...?"
"Slave knights are more convenient than ones requiring ongoing salaries, aren't they? Buy once, done."
Slave knights. Superhumans collared by magic. Unlike regular contracted knights, slave knights obeyed their master's orders even if death was certain. No salaries, no land grants needed. Just food, shelter, and gear—free labor. Convenience came at a price. Slave knights' convenience outstripped regular ones by far. Hence the expense. This money could buy one—maybe two if lucky. And the funds saved on salaries could go to city development. Or buy young slave laborers. Free labor was always right.
The viscount weighed two options: the gains from buying slaves with this money versus the losses from a few locals leaving with the migrants. The former overwhelmingly won. For a powerless noble, a loyal knight was a spare life. A bit of manpower versus a spare life. The scales tipped—shattered, even.
"Will you clear out an inn for us?"
"No. Just make sure no trouble when we pass through. We don't want to inconvenience each other, right?"
Marhal glanced at Alasil, who was blissfully devouring her food. If a church nun met misfortune on his land, it spelled headaches for the viscount. Best case, the church handled it quietly; worst, a letter bearing the Holy Empire's name arrived.
"Right. Ending this comfortably is best for both of us."
An unspoken agreement passed between them.
"Now we can eat in peace. These are dishes our head chef prepared since yesterday."
Marhal began eating too. He hadn't snacked since lunch and was famished.
Alasil asked in Holy Empire tongue.
Alasil shot Marhal a suspicious glance. That madman seemed capable of selling not just the church's name, but the Holy Empire's too. In truth, he'd used both—even her name—but Alasil, who didn't understand Pubguk tongue, let alone the silent promises exchanged, had no clue.
The candles had burned low; maids replaced them. In the room softly lit by candlelight, the feast continued.
"Do you know about this? A new hero's appeared in the duchy."
"A new hero?"
"Rumor has it he slices iron from ten paces away. Like the Hero, no?"
"Intriguing."
Iron-cutting knights couldn't slice what their swords didn't touch. Within sword range, they were apostles of death; beyond, they resorted to throwing weapons or arrows. Their superior physiques made those deadly, but for long range, there were cannons and mages. But a knight who cut untouched iron? The Hero had demonstrated that possibility. Before him, rank, weapon—meaningless. Within his sword's reach, everything severed. And only he could block that reach. Some demons had parried and countered the Hero's blade, but Marhal had never seen a human block or dodge it. A monster like that emerging was truly shocking.
"I'd love to meet him. Who is he?"
"No solid info yet. Just rumors."
"Fair enough. Still, if true, it'll be fun."
What reactions would history-knowers have to an anonymous genius forging new history?
Bayola sat alone at the party hall's center, eating. Marina, a bit away, piled her plate high, making up for lost proper meals. Marin ate moderately then slipped aside. The food was good—plenty of time, she could've emptied plates. But the air felt stifling. A scent she'd never smelled before permeated the hall. Indescribable. The stink of tax collectors whining about hardship. The reek of union site overseers mentioning daily wages. Thick hypocrisy and greed.
She spotted who seemed least suited here. But reality defied her guess. Strekl was popular. Men wanted even a word with him; women cast subtle glances. He conversed easily amid the stench, his oiled full plate armor gleaming like a beacon, setting him apart.
He's popular.
He griped daily about being abandoned by his country, but he was a war hero. Marin understood men's minds a bit—had to, to survive. A war hero? Every man wanted a chat. Women probably just eyed his body and face. Strekl's features were sharp; his facial scars added wild allure.
Not as much as Lord Marhal. But not ugly.
Suddenly, that thought hit. How would Marhal act here? Mingling calmly, probably. Compared to him, she only knew swinging a sword.
"Miss. Alone?"
Why'd she come to a place she didn't fit? Marin cursed her past self.
"Miss?"
"Me?"
Marin turned. A youth smiled at her. Mildly dim-looking, ordinary face. Normally forgettable upon introduction, but here, one to remember. Count Totran. Party host and landowner.
"Yes, miss. I didn't hear a beauty like you was coming. Might I have your name?"
"Marin."
Caught off-guard by the curt reply, the count composed himself.
"I heard Knight Strekl brought guests. You're with him."
Marin nodded. She didn't know how to act here. Outwardly calm, inwardly flustered. Strekl called her ordinary, and she seemed so, but his power wasn't. Worlds apart from her. Why interest her?
"If not too rude, may I have this dance?"
"Can't dance."
"Fine. I'm no good either. Best part of being count? No one laughs openly at your foolish acts."
Count Totran extended a hand. Marin froze like a doll. Tuning in, whispers reached her. She thought she'd whispered low, but her hearing outstripped most knights'.
Look at that. Count with a commoner.
No proper heir, that's why. Old Count Totran lacked children too. Died from folly, like parent like child. Seeing such idiots alive makes me puke.
Shouldn't we nobles lead them?
He's a count.
Idiot's no different from commoners. Makes me wanna hurl.
If street, she'd grab and break arms. Not here. Throw gauntlet? Heard of it, never seen. Knights she knew threw daggers or hammers first.
"She looks unwell. How about a dance with me instead?"
It was Bayola. She'd approached lightly like a deer, speaking sweetly. Marin wanted to ask: Who're you? Given Bayola's usual self, she'd believe it another person.
At Bayola's words, Count Totran visibly panicked.
"Ah, no. Enjoy yourselves."
He fled like.
"You can be harsh with clingy types. In society, women lead men. And we're guests—run, done."
"Gotta make good impression?"
"Ah."
"Idiot."
"Not an idiot!"
"Then why'd he flee from you?"
Bayola was a beauty. In dress and makeup, unparalleled in the hall. Yet oddly, none approached first.
"I reeked of empire. Imperial dress, etiquette only. With empire-duchy tensions, best avoid me. Not a lord's son—even lord himself, that's a weakness."
"Not total fool, then."
"Hey, I tried hard at... home. Follow. Leave party to big sis."
Bayola grabbed Marin's hand, leading to center. Forgotten amid her ditzy acts, but imperial princess. Raised in suffocating etiquette from birth.
"Who's sis? You're younger."
"You don't even know your exact age!"
Bickering, they advanced to center.
Party ended. Heading to inn, Marin and group got lord's hospitality: overnight in manor. Four took a guest annex corner. Spacious for ten.
They gathered in annex's largest dining hall. No one saw it as simple courtesy.
"What happened?"
Strekl asked. Migrant issue unfit for party. He'd planned discreet post-party meet via butler. But count arranged first—odd.
Bayola eyed Marin. "Maybe. Could just wanna meet someone."
"Hey."
"Young man, not impossible. Become countess, wield real power. Superhuman you beats mortal lord in strength."
Marina chimed in. Marin glared at chatty mage she wasn't close enough to banmal with.
"Don't joke. I'm not going anywhere."
Knock knock.
"Count's here."
"Send him in."
Strekl said. Door opened soon; count entered, weary-faced. His gaze lingered on Marin—fleeting.
"High Knight Strekl, long time."
"Well?"
Strekl rose, bowed. Knights quasi-nobles, but not true. Courtesy to nobles required.
"Dragging carriages—what brings you?"
"Taking migrants."
"Westbound rumors true. Your rivals bustle. Even I hear whispers—imagine extent."
While away, rivals worked hard. Time given, return to capital meant no seat left. Time to abandon homeland fully.
"Butler opposed, but I'll overlook all. Our locals migrating, other lords' knights interfering—everything."
"Grateful."
Count Totran no leisure either. Full non-interference: best support.
"But condition."
"Name it."
"Heard of Black Wraith?"
"First."
"Weird sightings across duchy. Black mist, raids villages. Over ten knights dead confronting—high knights too."
"...Demon?"
"Many say so. Real demons in west, apparently."
"True."
Count's eyes twitched. Forebear died from war wounds turned chronic. Demons: hatred, terror for him.
"...Good you came. Not our land, but Black Wraith nearby. If encountered, slay personally. Sole condition."
"Understood."
"Late—I'll go. Visit anytime, all here."
As Count Totran's presence faded, Bayola poked Marin's side.
"Lucky you?"
"Bullshit."
All saw where his final gaze lingered. Unfathomable favor chilled Marin.
"Black Wraith... Planning countermeasures can't hurt. Expert opinion?"
"Real demon? Victims already. Likely killer ghost with odd powers."
Marina said. Demon black mist turned touched into demons. Raiding villages without one conversion? Mist likely mystic.
"Killer ghost slaying high knights. Troubling either way."
Best avoid, but Strekl's instinct half-convinced. Things you hope won't happen, do. On return, they'd meet it.