Chapter 152:  Sad and Happy

About a ten-minute walk north of Mudside, one would reach a rocky coastline.

Between the rocky ridges breaking the waves, Hardin and Princess Medeia walked side by side.

After a short silence, Medeia spoke in a low voice.

“You’re doing something that doesn’t suit you, Hardin Daphne.”

“Well, that’s harsh.”

When Hardin let out an awkward laugh with a stiff smile, Medeia firmly shook her head.

Hardin Daphne was someone who usually chattered endlessly and, even in the midst of battle, never lost his ease or sarcasm.

And yet, this very man was now giving his own money to the bereaved families. For Medeia, it was difficult not to feel a sense of contradiction.

“Why exactly are you doing that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Conscripts and commoners giving their lives for the house is only natural. But I wonder why you, the Great Young Master of the house, are so concerned about it.”

“…Well.”

Hardin paused, letting out a heavy sigh.

Fwoooosh!

At that moment, waves crashed violently against the shore.

Suddenly, several phantom voices echoed in Hardin’s mind all at once.

Commaaaander!

Please, spare me! Aaaagh!

Varlach! Varlachhhh!

Hardin’s clenched fist trembled faintly, and his insides ached as if pierced.

Perhaps trying to shake it off.

“Huuuuuh.”

Hardin took a deep breath, then stared intently at Medeia as he spoke.

“It’s just… for myself.”

“…For yourself?”

“Yes. People died because of this war, and some were left suffering. I’m only doing it so I can feel at ease.”

At this, Medeia slowly closed her eyes, then opened them again.

At the same time, a memory surfaced—words she had once heard from someone long ago.

Lord Varlach… after every great battle, he would always wear such a sorrowful face. So much so that his usual brightness seemed like a lie.

So, this man too… perhaps there was at least a speck of resemblance to that person.

Medeia looked at Hardin with newfound eyes and spoke.

“There is some sense in what you say, but I honestly find it hard to sympathize.”

“I didn’t say it so you would.”

When Hardin twitched his eyebrows in reply, Medeia raised the corner of her lips ever so slightly.

“Did you not see it in the plaza?”

“Hm? See what?”

“The faces of the children and parents laughing joyfully at the victory festival. If not for your sword, such smiles would not exist today.”

“No, that’s that and this is this…”

Just as Hardin frowned, about to argue, Medeia cut in firmly.

“It is the same thing.”

Her unwavering eyes carried a resolve that would not yield.

Her silver pupils glistened in the sunlight, dazzling to behold.

‘Well, live long enough and you end up hearing all sorts of things from youngsters.’

Well, still, this might not be so bad in its own way.

Hardin let out a sigh as he spoke.

“Haaa… Yes, understood. Let’s just say Your Highness is right.”

“It’s not ‘let’s just say.’ What I said is truly correct.”

“Yes, yes. I get it.”

Hardin shrugged his shoulders and started walking again when—

Smaaack!

“Huh?”

Feeling a heavy thud like a hammer striking the back of his head, he turned around to see Princess Medeia frowning with her fist clenched tight.

“Why did you hit me?”

“Do you really need to ask?”

“Yes, I really don’t know.”

“Then here’s another one…”

Medeia raised her fist again.

“Hey, what’s with you?!”

Dash!

Hardin shot off like an arrow.

“……”

I should just… grab him by the neck and twist it.

Clenching her fist tightly, Princess Medeia chased after him.

---

In the northwest of Luden Shire, at the Tread Count’s estate.

Centered around a white mansion stood a large domain, with stone paths spreading radially outward, lined with densely built structures.

What stood out, however, was how different the scenery was from usual.

“Come on, move it this way!”

“To that warehouse! Get the weapons!”

People and wagons bustled everywhere, carrying weapons, food, and other supplies, while armed soldiers and knights shouted with eyes burning.

At a glance, the atmosphere was anything but good.

In particular, inside the main conference room of the Tread mansion, retainers surrounded a desk, rapidly reporting to an old retainer seated at the head.

“Steward, we’ve gathered an additional hundred conscripts.”

“In addition to the mercenaries we hired through the guild, we personally recruited about twenty more mana users.”

“We’ve increased the smithy’s weapon production, and we’ve placed further orders for supplies.”

That man was Colmad, the steward of House Tread and its practical second-in-command.

After the death of Count Vernian, he was the one desperately holding Tread together.

“Yes, things are proceeding well.”

Scratch, scratch.

As Colmad’s pencil moved ceaselessly over the paper, fatigue and a ruthless gleam were written across his face.

‘If I get through this, I’ll have my chance to claim this place.’

House Tread had lost eight-tenths of its knights and regular troops, along with fifteen warships—a blow so devastating it was nothing less than a life-or-death crisis.

But for Colmad, this was nothing short of an opportunity.

Though much of its forces were gone, House Tread still had enormous wealth accumulated through its forges.

If he could stabilize the public security and defense issues caused by the sudden military vacuum, then becoming master of this house was not just a dream.

Boooom!

“Spend as much money as needed. Gather every soldier you can! As long as the house is stabilized… all of you will receive proper rewards for your efforts.”

“Yes, sir!”

The retainers answered with voices filled with resolve when—

Bang!

“S-Steward!”

A soldier burst into the conference room in a panic.

“What is it?”

“A… a guest has arrived.”

“A guest? At a time like this…”

Just then—

Step, step.

Footsteps echoed from beyond the corridor.

Moments later, five men entered the conference room.

‘Wh-what… who are they?’

‘Guh…!’

At the sight of them, every retainer froze stiff like ice.

“Grhhhhhh…”

A massive, muscle-bound brute, looking almost like a troll, with jagged teeth missing here and there, stood bare-chested, his torso covered in scars, holding a steel club as large as a man’s body across his shoulder.

“…Tch. Rats.”

Next to him, a dwarf assassin, hardly taller than a ten-year-old child, with a grotesquely melted-looking face, had countless daggers dangling from his waist as he clicked his tongue.

“……”

A long-haired man, with arms and legs unnaturally elongated, held a giant scythe in both hands, staring blankly into the depths of the room.

“Found you.”

Beside him, a black-robed mage with a half-skull mask on his face fiddled with an ebony staff, his raspy voice grating as he muttered.

And finally—

A man with fiery red hair, drooping eyes, and a uniform patterned in white and crimson.

Rubbing his chin with his long fingers, he spoke in a languid tone.

“Are all the people here… retainers of Tread?”

T-those men…

Steward Colmad shuddered, his face taut with tension, before speaking.

“What brings you here, Lord Jubile?”

Jubile Ron Ignima.

A scion of the Ignima Ducal House, one of the Empire’s Seven Great Houses, notorious for handling all the filth and dirty work, earning him the nickname “Bloodhound.”

Colmad had seen him occasionally meeting Count Vernian before his death, so his face was familiar.

Even if it weren’t, that blazing red hair—the mark of Ignima blood—was enough to strike shock.

And the four monsters behind him…

‘Those must be the infamous Executioners.’

The Executioner Unit, said to carry out every kind of task under Jubile’s command.

Rumor even had it they hailed from the cursed Belten Archipelago, so feared were they.

Even Colmad, a 2-star mana user, found it hard to breathe just from the aura they exuded.

Jubile folded his arms and spoke.

“Well, my business is simple.”

“……”

“We’d like you to hand House Tread over to us.”

When Jubile’s eyes curved into crescents, Steward Colmad’s widened in shock.

“What? That’s absurd!”

“Why would it be absurd?”

“Our house may have had dealings with Ignima, but we never swore any formal oath of fealty, nor do we have any such contract! What nonsense are you spouting?”

“Hmmm.”

Jubile tapped his chin a few times before raising one finger.

“First of all, Salamander’s Tongue is an important production base for Ignima. So if some half-baked fellow owns it and production gets hindered, that’s a problem. That’s the first reason.”

“What kind of twisted logic—”

“The second is that I had certain exchanges with the late Count Vernian Paul Tread.”

Flick!

Jubile pulled out a parchment and held it forward. Colmad and the retainers’ eyes shook.

“You see? The rights and promises I was to receive in return for assisting Vernian. Since collecting on them has become impossible… taking Tread as compensation seems like the natural course.”

Colmad trembled even more.

“I-I cannot accept this! That and this are entirely separate matters. No matter if you’re Ignima, I will not stand by while you plunder our house!”

“Is that so? It seems our thoughts differ.”

At that moment, Colmad’s eyes darted to the parchment in Jubile’s hand.

‘If only… if only that didn’t exist!’

Whummm!

A flash of light burst from his eyes.

Dash!

In an instant, he drew the sword at his waist and hurled it forward.

The speed was almost too fast to react to.

But at the same moment, Jubile smiled faintly.

‘Clumsy.’

He flicked his fingers with a sharp snap.

Claang!

The skull-masked mage behind him stepped forward, swatting the flying sword away so that it lodged into the ceiling, then thrust his staff forward, brimming with blue energy.

Fwoooosh!

“Aaaaagh!”

Blue flames engulfed Colmad’s body, and a piercing death scream filled the conference room.

In less than a few seconds—

Ssssshhhhh…

Only a pile of ash and the stench of charred flesh remained where he had stood.

Death had come in an instant, leaving no chance to beg for mercy.

“Lord Colmad?”

“U-uhhh…”

The retainers’ mouths hung open, their bodies trembling.

‘M-Madness. Monsters.’

‘The rumors… weren’t exaggerated.’

With just that single motion, they all understood.

Though there were only five of them, it was clear each one possessed enough strength to crush their lives like ants at any moment.

Jubile smiled faintly, clasped his hands behind his back, and spoke in a smooth, unhurried tone.

“So then, what do the rest of you intend to do? If you have objections, feel free to voice them.”

At that moment—

Thud!

One by one, Tread’s retainers dropped to their knees.

“F-Forgive us!”

“Please, spare our lives!”

“We will obey Lord Jubile!”

They bowed low, groveling, begging desperately for their lives.

Jubile’s lips curled into a cruel smile.

“Then, I’ll leave the cleanup to you.”

“Yes, sir!”

With that, he gave the order to the monsters and walked out of the conference room.