8 (8)

The soldiers were on the march—northward.

Morale was sky-high.

Among them were quite a few who, until recently, had aimed blades and spears at each other to the death.

What mattered was that they had now re-rallied under a single banner: Louis.

There was still some lingering friction, but as they drilled in the same uniforms and maintained their gear together, they became one with surprising speed.

Their new lord was that compelling.

From horseback, Louis watched the column with a satisfied face.

He didn’t need the System window to know morale had surged.

He had already heard the gist from Kalbang.

‘They say I carry the blessing of Mars, the god of war…’

He had no intention of denying it.

Day by day his conviction in himself grew stronger.

Yesterday he had furnished his second brother a generous funeral.

It was a provisional rite; the formal ceremony would be held with their father.

Since they had all drawn blades the moment their father died, it was an unfilial mess if ever there was one—but Louis felt no guilt.

After all, their father had claimed these lands in much the same way.

While administering the oaths in Kayani, he had spotted several with notable talent—but he knew better than to hand them swords just yet.

Unlike Aksen, his second city, Kayani’s entrenched interests were broad and strong, tied to other marquises as well.

All because of salt.

The tramp of infantry shook the quiet lane; nearby birds burst skyward, and the farmers at work stopped, cowed by tension, fear, or sheer awe.

When their eyes found Louis, they doffed their caps and bowed.

Children gathered in excited clusters, mouths agape, their bright eyes following the high-spirited troops.

The long tail of the column seemed endless, and the finale belonged to the cavalry.

With Kaiser at the front, the riders and their warhorses—splendid in heavy plate—were magnificent enough to draw gasps from the children.

‘First things first—scouts have to bring in enough to sketch the picture. Who, in the end, won?’

Days earlier Louis had dispatched a significant number of scouts.

They would carry back every scrap of intelligence before he reached the objective.

He was keen—and a little afraid—to learn the result of Fred’s battle with Marquis Gangpireu.

He might, after all, have to draw his blade again.

Unlike with his second brother, pointing a sword at the elder—his childhood ideal—might wound even a steely mind like Louis’s.

He glanced at the sky.

Clear not long ago, it now seemed ready to take offense at what he had done—broad banks of rain-heavy cloud spread far and wide.

Louis offered the sky a private mutter.

‘Try me. I do well in foul weather fights.’

In any advance, supply always held pride of place.

Louis moved along a thoroughly secured road.

His destination, naturally, was Grad—the city Fred had ruled.

Grad had no notable resources, but its walls surpassed Kayani’s after years of repelling outsiders, and above all, its position favored defense.

Just as he began to wonder if the city had fallen, several reports reached him at once.

A scout knelt before Louis, clutching intelligence and a letter stamped with his brother’s seal.

Louis had yet to question him, but the man was heaving for breath; his jacket and trousers were ripped in several places—he had come in frantic haste.

Deciding what to read first, Louis spoke.

“Wait. I’ll check the letter first.”

“Understood.”

He judged the letter held the most vital news.

It was filthy, smudged with red—blood.

A message written in extreme urgency, and in this situation, that could only mean one thing…

Steadying himself, Louis broke the seal.

His pupils widened.

It was exactly what he had suspected.

A brief notice that his brother was dead—followed by a final will bequeathing to Louis all cities and troops under his command.

The handwriting, of course, wasn’t Fred’s.

It was not the swift, bold script he knew, but neat, deliberate strokes.

The scribe was Jodan—whom Louis knew well as Fred’s steadfast adjutant.

Jodan was not one to scheme; his upright nature had sometimes put Louis in a bind, but he was the kind of man Louis had once thought he’d like to have at his side.

‘Calm down first.’

Louis shut his eyes and went still.

He had planned to kill his brother himself—and steeled his heart for that guilt.

It did not help.

A boil of anger surged up, burning strangely clean.

Even he found the feeling bewildering.

He wasn’t ready after all.

Those around him were alarmed.

The killing intent Louis exuded, amplified by his Charisma trait, pressed on everyone present.

The scout kneeling closest went ash-pale.

Kalbang, acting as adjutant, flicked his hand—clear the tent.

Burly guards slipped out; the maidservants scurried after.

The scout, reading the air, began to shuffle backward when Louis’s voice fell.

“Report.”

His parched voice carried fury—reined but palpable.

Startled, the scout pulled himself together and spoke slowly.

“…The corpses were beyond counting, my lord. Judging from what we saw, it appears Marquis Gangpireu won—but not without heavy losses. The city of Grad seems to have fallen to him. The cordon was too tight; we could not reconnoiter further.”

“I see. You may go.”

Barking a sharp salute, the scout withdrew.

Now only two remained: Louis and Kalbang.

Reading his lord’s face, Kalbang understood the letter’s contents.

Louis stayed silent, anger still on his features.

“I thought I was ready.”

“May I ask what the letter says?”

“Here.”

Louis handed it over.

Kalbang’s expression became complicated.

“It seems… things have turned in our favor.”

“Yes… and yet, it means my brothers are all dead. Can you understand this grief? I thought I was prepared—but it hurts more than I expected. Unlike my second brother, the eldest was my target—my measure. Kalbang, do you have brothers? Tell me your story.”

“I do, my lord. I can’t claim to know exactly how you feel, but I’ll try. I had three elder brothers; all were stabbed to death before I turned twenty-five. I never respected them—respect would have gotten me killed. Still, I suppose I became a model for my younger brothers. After I lived by the sword to thirty, two of them came asking me to teach them mercenary work. Each copied me—one died a year later, the other two years after that. I drank myself blind for three months. That’s all I have by way of experience. It may not be precise, but I think I understand a little of what you feel now.”

“…I see. Leave me.”

Kalbang bowed and stepped out.

Louis was alone.

Losing his goal in a stroke left him with a hollow he couldn’t name—new territory for him.

But the fact remained: his brothers were dead, and from this moment, Remitri’s domain passed to Louis.

From now on, he was Duke Louis of Pontina.

He didn’t know how much Marquis Gangpireu meant to take, but the succession war was over.

Louis tilted his head back; the dingy canvas above wavered with heat from the lamps.

He exhaled a long breath—caught in a peculiar feeling.

‘Just a few years ago, I thought I’d die about now—beheaded.’

No one had foreseen that he—Louis—would inherit the domain intact.

Fortune indeed—but he didn’t feel as glad as he’d imagined.

He mourned the brothers who had raised him, blood half-shared or not.

What remained were immense wealth, strong armies, and the rank to command them all.

At his age, so swift a ducal succession was rare.

He knew he had no three months to drink himself senseless.

This was the field—and thousands of lives hinged on his judgment.

That was enough to wake his reason.

‘As for what comes next…’

Two paths lay before him: fight Marquis Gangpireu head-on and take everything, or make a measured compromise.

Louis drew the dagger at his belt and pressed it to his thumb.

A bright bead of blood ran down.

He stamped it on a blank sheet and began to scrawl.

‘I’ll chase you to the very end of hell—and kill you.’

It was a declaration of vengeance.