Chapter 2

Volume 1 CHAPTER 002 — Good News? Bad News?
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Clop, clop, the sound of horseshoes rang out.

A horse walked along the hard, packed earth. On its back rode a man in fine attire.

“How about it, Peystry? This is the domain you’ll inherit someday. It’s your first time seeing it, but what do you think—it’s vast, isn’t it?”

Before the man was a small child. A boy who looked like a toddler rode the horse, supported by the man.

On either side of them stretched wheat fields of a slightly scorched brown.

“Tou-sama, the wheat looks unwell.”

“Even a child like you can tell, can you? Indeed, our domain’s soil is terribly thin. It’s still early days, but we may be putting you and the others through hardship because of it.”

The father smiled wryly.

His son’s innocent observation had been far too accurate.

“Aren’t you growing anything besides wheat?”

“Hm? Besides wheat, there’s rye and oats. And vegetables in the fields around the houses, I suppose. I’d like to improve the soil from here on.”

“What about sugar and fruit?”

“There’s no leeway to grow such things. Even wheat didn’t grow well before you were born. I hear some things grow wild in the south, but around here they simply won’t take.”

“Then sweet things are…”

“There, there. Next time I have business in the capital, I’ll buy some as a souvenir for you.”

The father stroked his son’s head, and the son let him.

The son’s face showed sorrow. Then, it became an expression of resolve.

“Then someday, I’ll make this land overflowing with sweets.”

“Hahaha, having a dream is a fine thing. Indeed—by the time you’re grown, I’ll show you this place made prosperous.”

Thus began the dream the boy first spoke of to his parents.

It was when Peystry was three years old.

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The sound of metal clashing against metal rang out.

“What’s wrong, is that all you’ve got!!”

“Guh, not yet, not yet!!”

Two men faced each other.

In their hands, both gripped swords.

Of the two fighting face-to-face, one was a stalwart man in his prime.

A physique so taut it was obvious even at a glance.

Not muscle meant for display, but lean muscle likely specialized for battle—it gave off an intimidating presence even through his clothes.

The way he wielded what looked like a solid lump of iron as freely as his own two hands was the mark of a seasoned veteran.

Against him, the other.

To call him a man was a bit too young.

His age was in the single digits. Even allowing for individual differences, at best—rounding up generously—he barely failed to reach double digits.

Sweat flying from his forehead and indeed his whole body, he swung his sword with all his might.

The way his whole body sometimes swam along with the sword when he swung it showed he was still very much a work in progress.

Rather than using the sword, he was being used by it.

“Look, your grip’s gone slack again. Grip it tighter.”

“Yes!”

“That’s it, good. Grip it as if you won’t let go even if your own hands are torn off. Letting go of your sword on the battlefield is the same as dying.”

“Yes!”

The two crossed swords.

Knight Baron Morteln and his son, Peystry=Mill=Morteln.

They were in the midst of their daily swordsmanship training.

This daily routine had been carried out every day since his son Peystry turned five.

The boy, nicknamed Peys, had started it by making a selfish request, but before anyone knew it, it had become a daily habit.

Still, swinging a sword from such a young age as his was unusual.

Even in this world where bandits appeared from time to time, monsters ran rampant, and the winds of war blew strong.

That he swung a sword before his body was even properly formed was largely due to his father’s background and beliefs—and to his son’s peculiar nature.

Another bruise was added to the boy’s body.

Because his tangled footing caused his sword to be greatly knocked aside, he was slammed hard against the ground.

Into such training—which in a peaceful era might be called child abuse—came a voice cutting in.

“Taishou~ Taishou~, are you here? Oh, there you are, there you are. Just as I thought, it was here.”

“What is it, Shiitsu? I’m in the middle of special training with my son.”

The man who approached without seeming to mind the two swinging lethal iron weapons.

The man called Shiitsu was a friend of twenty years to Knight Baron Casserole=Mill=Morteln, who still doted on his son, and was also his chief retainer. He was his right-hand man, holding the title of captain of the Morteln domain’s private army as well.

Though the private army’s subordinates numbered only two.

That Shiitsu, after glancing at Peys with a fond look, called out to the father.

“Taishou, it’s about time for breakfast. I’ve also got a report, so please come back to the office for now.”

“I see. Alright, Peys, that’s it for today.”

The father slowly sheathed the sword he had been crossing with his son.

The moment he sheathed it, his son collapsed on the spot.

“Zeh, hah, thank you very much.”

“Mm. You wipe your sweat quickly too and go to your mother. If you keep her waiting, you’ll get the usual.”

“Eh, then I’d better hurry. Father, if you’ll excuse me.”

The boy, holding a sword larger than his own height.

As he ran off, the father and his best friend saw him off with much the same look in their eyes.

The eyes of men watching something heartwarming.

“The young master is getting quite good. Children progress fast.”

“I suppose. Even if I say so myself, my son catches on quickly. He seems to move by his own logic, like someone who has ‘mastered a single art,’ and that logic is sound besides. I’m truly looking forward to his future.”

“There it is, the doting parent as always. Don’t expect too much. There’s a saying—’a child prodigy at five is just an ordinary person by fifteen.'”

“Peys might have made a name for himself with the sword by the time he’s fifteen, though.”

Shiitsu merely shrugged at the doting-parent behavior of the man who was both his best friend and his liege lord.

Swallowing the “good grief” he wanted to say.

After that, the two unkempt men went off together to the office.

Though to call it an office was largely ironic.

Originally, the Morteln domain was one of the crown lands meaning to serve as a buffer zone with a neighboring country.

A land of thin soil, where even wheat barely grew, spreading out as reddish-brown wasteland.

It had been granted to a knight who had distinguished himself in the last war—and that knight was Casserole. Thereafter, he held a noble title and took the Morteln family name, down to the present day.

A land with nothing. In a place where even trees barely grew, it took three years before crops could be grown.

It took another three years for fewer than ten people to establish a prospect of self-sufficiency.

After that, people and cultivated land were gradually increased.

Even now it was a land that could hardly be called wealthy, and accordingly the lord’s manor was truly modest. A construction of utmost simplicity befitting a knight.

In short, a rundown house.

In other domains, a somewhat well-off farmer would live in a house about the same.

Still, from the belief that they ought to act like nobles, only the number of rooms was large.

Among the many rooms, one with a wooden board that could barely be called a door, and a sofa, reception table, and desk assembled under a principle of single-point luxury, was called the office with a touch of mockery.

Shiitsu’s opinion was that he worried less about being robbed of money than about the sofa and desk being burned.

The two entered the office, whose name was tinged with self-derision.

The knight baron who literally owned this room—indeed, the entire domain—and his right-hand man.

Naturally, the master sat in his favorite chair at the desk, and the subordinate sat on a box beside it in place of a chair.

Shiitsu, the subordinate, sat down casually and spoke. His joking tone was the fruit of many years of rapport between the two.

“Now then, the report. There’s good news and bad news. Which do you want to hear first?”

“Don’t bring me bad news before I’ve even had breakfast. Though I’d like to say that, either way I have to hear it, don’t I. Then let’s hear the good news first.”

“Mm, then the good news. About the harvest from those bean fields. Just as the young master said, it looks to be a considerable yield. At this rate, it seems we’ll get by without worrying about surviving the winter, same as last year.”

“Ho ho. That’s splendid.”

Knight Baron Morteln was renowned as a capable lord.

He had reclaimed barren land so people could live on it, maintained it, leveled and plowed it, and made it into at least a land where one could eat.

Now he was a proper domain noble overseeing three villages of about forty people each.

In recent years his growth had been remarkable, adding fuel to his reputation.

The bean cultivation he had started three years ago as a new endeavor was especially famous, and the case of weathering last year’s nationwide famine without a single death by starvation or person sold into servitude became a much-praised topic in the salon.

Few people knew that many of such knight baron’s policies were actually proposed by his son.

Because no one would think a brat not yet ten could devise groundbreaking policies that even grown adults couldn’t conceive of.

Even if Casserole were to speak of his son’s achievements in social settings, it would only be seen as a doting parent’s favoritism.

Moreover, since about ninety percent of it was genuine doting, it was quite a troublesome situation.

“So, the bad report.”

“It doesn’t look like I’ll get out of hearing it.”

The atmosphere changed.

To describe the two warriors’ expressions turning serious—it was like the moment a reversed blade that had been turned away was brought back to the front. The vaguely lukewarm, easygoing air from moments ago sharpened all at once.

“Yeah. Apparently the bandit suppression at Count Retesh’s domain failed. A notice has circulated that a considerable number of the ones who escaped are fleeing in our direction. Well, the notice’s content was boastful, saying they’d successfully driven them off. The escapees are a real nuisance for us.”

“If they’re coming here, how much time can we get to prepare?”

“From the date on the notice, if they head straight for us, about ten days. If they ravage the countryside along the way, somewhere between one and two months.”

“Troublesome.”

There are several things called the duties of a noble. Among them, there exist two great duties understood as absolutely inviolable.

One is the duty to devote loyalty to the king.

This is a natural duty, since it is the authority and power of royal sovereignty that guarantees the privileged status of nobles.

Should one violate this duty, one would be stripped of noble status by none other than the king, and at worst become a criminal.

And the other is the duty of national defense.

The reason nobles are granted lands by the king and given privileges, stipends, and income through taxation rights is to cultivate military strength for emergencies.

From the quasi-knight baron who provides only his own martial strength, to the duke who maintains mobilized forces second only to the king. The duty exists equally for all.

To prepare for emergencies on a daily basis, and within the scope of one’s authority in the entrusted land or granted post, to devote oneself to stabilizing one’s function.

And should the worst come to pass, to use one’s preparations without stint.

Because of this duty, domain nobles are permitted to collect taxes, and professional nobles are given stipends.

Responding to bandits is also inevitable from the standpoint of a noble’s duty.

But it cannot always be adorned with results that can be called success.

Because, to begin with, there is no standard for success and failure.

When a disaster strikes, even if one rescues the majority of victims and proudly declares the disaster relief a success, there will surely be bereaved families who see it as failure if even one person died.

This can be called an example of how, in emergencies, drawing the line between success and failure is difficult.

This communication from the count was, from the count’s perspective, a result falling into the category of success.

They drove the bandits ravaging their domain out beyond its borders. If the people of the domain would no longer be troubled by these bandits in the future, it could be called a result of universal rejoicing.

If one looked only at the count’s domain.

In contrast, from the standpoint of the one responsible for the place where the driven-out bandits would now ravage. From the perspective of those who would newly suffer, it would appear a clear failure.

That merely shifting baggage from right to left doesn’t count as cleaning up—that too is a valid argument.

From the Morteln knight baron domain’s perspective, it was clearly the latter. Just estimating the damage they would suffer was enough to give him a headache.

“So, how large a force fled?”

“Around fifty, I’m told.”

“If they come here, is it too much for you to handle?”

“With three including me, how are we supposed to fight fifty? If we faced them head-on, it’d be hopeless.”

A force of fifty would be a considerably large bandit gang.

Hearing only the scale, it was understandable that Count Retesh could do no more than drive them off. Though there were parts hard to accept.

“Could we gather the men from the villages, arm them with wooden spears and have them throw stones—would that be impossible?”

“Even if we gathered them, thirty at most. Even if we holed up in the main village with its moat, resistance would be the best we could do. And if the other two villages were wiped out because of that, the damage would end up no different from being attacked without resistance. In a prolonged fight we have no reserves. If we can’t manage a short decisive battle, it’d be a poor strategy.”

“What about holing up to buy time while I go call for reinforcements?”

“I know you could do that, Taishou, but I think there are too many problems with it.”

“Why?”

“The count won’t send reinforcements because of face. They could do no more than drive them off themselves, so if we were to suppress the bandits, they’d be criticized as incompetent. On the other hand, if the reinforcements only drove them off again, they might come back to the count’s domain. If we get ravaged for all we’re worth and in the end they return to the count’s domain anyway, it’d be a joke. Their ideal is for us to fail and for the Fubrek Margrave’s house or someone to lead a suppression force and wipe their backsides for them. They’d pin all the responsibility for the failed suppression on us. At worst, they might even interfere. Other knight lords might sympathize, thinking ‘there but for the grace of God go I,’ but with military preparations similar to ours, they’d hardly have the leeway to send people elsewhere.”

Here lay the reason Knight Baron Morteln concluded “the count failed.” The fact was that only small lords surrounded the count’s domain.

Needless to say, the knight baron’s own domain was still poor, and his standing retainers numbered three, including Shiitsu here.

It hardly seemed possible to deal with a bandit gang that even the count couldn’t handle.

“What about going to the royal capital or a great noble to request reinforcements?”

“If we haven’t even been attacked yet, they’d be slow to act. And to do such a thing right when Count Retesh is boasting of having driven them off—you’d earn the count’s enmity, you know?”

“If being hated would let me protect my family and people, I don’t mind being hated, but we’re a frontier domain and reinforcements were always a faint hope to begin with. …Still, this isn’t a problem I can leave unattended without a plan.”

“I don’t want to die either, so I’ll leave it to you, Taishou.”

Between best friends, there was trust in each other’s abilities.

Inside the “office,” the sound of the two laughing together leaked through the thin wooden walls into the next room.

“So, do you have a good plan?”

Shiitsu asked, his expression returning to seriousness for a moment.

Casserole nodded with the face of a lord.

“At worst there’s the option of me going out myself, but…”

“Taishou going personally is a last resort. If Taishou dies, that’s the end of it.”

“Other than that, the safe options would be deepening the moat, or distributing spare spears to the houses.”

“That feels like ‘better than nothing.'”

The two furrowed their brows.

As a practical matter, since this was a problem even the far larger and wealthier count’s domain couldn’t handle, it was unreasonable to think a newly risen knight lord could manage it.

“There’s one idea I have.”

“What is it?”

Casserole gave his subordinate a dubious look.

“Either way, somewhere along the line we’ll need to take a gamble. How about we try making the young master our trump card (joker) here?”

“What do you mean?”

“If we win the bet, he might just perform as well as you, Taishou. My ‘gut’ is screaming that we should do it.”

“I can’t ignore your ‘gut,’ but…”

Making his son the trump card.

The knight baron felt some hesitation about this. He didn’t understand what it meant in the first place.

No matter how talented his son was, there was no way a child of merely seven could have the ability to turn a battle.

There was no way such a magical thing could be done.

But then Casserole caught on the word “magical.”

Suddenly, he hit upon what Shiitsu was getting at.

The single word he muttered was surprisingly clear.

“The Rite of Consecration, is it.”

“Exactly.”

Casserole’s decision this day became the first step that would greatly move the world.

Since this is the first one, I’ll update consecutively for now.

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