A Deputy And An Aide

“Regarding command authority.”

At Ian’s words, Count Nudelria’s expression momentarily stiffened. He hadn’t expected Ian to bring up the topic first—especially when he had been hoping to avoid it.

“What if I only observed?”

“Only observed?”

“Yes, what do I know about commanding a fleet? I thought it might be helpful just to watch. Would that be acceptable?”

“…That’s a wise suggestion. However, I don’t think that will be possible.”

“Huh? Why not?”

Ian was briefly taken aback by the unexpected response. He thought the count would’ve welcomed it. But Count Nudelria, looking genuinely regretful, explained:

“His Majesty said that any prince should at least command one warship. Therefore, Prince Ian, you will be assigned a warship and take command.”

“What the…”

Sending the princes to the front lines was one thing, but now his father wanted him to command a warship too? Was the king even sane? At this point, Ian almost felt relieved he wasn’t in charge of the whole fleet. But that thought vanished quickly.

‘No, maybe this just got even more complicated.’

Having the authority to move a ship freely introduced an unpredictable variable. Without warning, one could launch attacks or sail off course. In such a case, additional forces would be needed just to keep things in check.

‘I’ll become a walking liability. No wonder the 8th Fleet’s admiral looked so grim.’

“I understand your concerns.”

Count Nudelria spoke.

“So we’ll assign you a highly capable aide and deputy captain to assist you.”

“That’s a relief. Honestly, I’m not confident in commanding anything.”

Hahaha! Hah-hah! Laughter rang out from nearby. It was Prince Seven and Prince Eight, delighted by the prospect of commanding their own ships. Watching them, Count Nudelria quietly admired Ian’s composure and awareness.

‘At least he won’t send his crew to a pointless death.’

It reassured him to know this was the man betrothed to his daughter. Just look at the 8th Fleet’s admiral—his expression was worsening by the second. And then came the absurd demand: they wanted to be given the fleet’s only battleship.

‘Thank goodness my daughter isn’t engaged to either of them.’

As the admiral of the 8th Fleet insisted that the battleship was off-limits, Ian asked:

“What kind of ship will I be commanding? It’s definitely not the flagship, right?”

“You’ll be commanding an armored cruiser.”

“Not a destroyer?”

A cruiser was clearly one of the fleet’s main assets—meaning the danger would be significantly higher. It worked alongside the battleship to provide major firepower, so its importance couldn’t be overstated. Hearing Ian say this, Count Nudelria could only think: Exactly. He, too, knew this didn’t make sense.

It wasn’t a battleship, true—but still, it was a worrying assignment.

“For stability, we’ve chosen a cruiser. Destroyers, frankly, would be more dangerous for someone to board.”

“I see.”

“You’ll be aboard the second ship of the Lamit-class series, the Luda.”

“Second ship? So it was built early?”

“Yes. It’s one of the three original Lamit-class cruisers constructed during the first wave.”

That confirmed everything Ian suspected about the 9th Fleet. Warships, after all, evolved rapidly—those made later were vastly superior to early models. The cruiser he would board was an early design, meaning outdated technology and performance.

‘Still, it’s a cruiser. That’s something.’

In terms of safety, a cruiser was preferable. A direct hit on a destroyer could be fatal—but an armored cruiser like this could take a few hits without sinking.

‘If it’s an armored cruiser, then it has to weigh at least 10,000 tons.’

Light cruisers hovered around that weight, so that made sense. Still, commanding such a ship—even with all the studying he’d done—was outside his expertise. He would have to rely on his officers to some degree.

‘I don’t know who’s going to serve under me, but there’s bound to be distrust.’

As Ian mulled this over, the welcome ceremony came to an end. But of course, things weren’t truly over. The next stop was the colonial governor’s mansion, where a banquet awaited them. When they arrived, the hall was aglow with luxurious lighting and full of attendees.

With a full orchestra and such extravagant arrangements, Ian couldn’t help but wonder—was this really wartime? Nobles in glamorous formalwear were mingling with wealthy business owners, and the buffet was overflowing with food.

‘Why does the future look so uncertain?’

It was a recurring thought—Ian couldn’t help but feel that the nation’s future was dangerously unstable. A full-scale uprising seemed inevitable. And if they lost the war, the reparations would be enormous. They might even lose all their colonies.

‘There’s no sense of urgency anywhere.’

Looking around, Ian didn’t see a single person expressing concern for the future. Clicking his tongue inwardly, he noticed Count Nudelria approaching—alongside two unfamiliar men.

One appeared to be in his late 30s with silver hair. The other looked to be in his late 20s. That reminded Ian of something: earlier, the count had said he would assign him a capable deputy captain and aide.

“Prince Ian, I came to introduce you to two people.”

“Are they the ones who’ll be assisting me?”

“Haha, correct. You guessed it right. You two, introduce yourselves. This is Prince Ian, the Ninth Prince.”

With Count Nudelria’s words, the two men stood at attention and saluted. They, too, were dressed in formal military uniforms appropriate for the event, their movements crisp and their gazes sharp. Ian saluted back, raising his hand to his temple as he’d been taught.

“I am Major Derian Zeco.”

“Lieutenant Mardin Gaso.”

“Major Derian Zeco will be your deputy captain, and Lieutenant Mardin Gaso will serve as your aide.”

As Count Nudelria spoke, Ian quietly studied them. Derian, with silver hair and a long face, gave off a vibe of stubbornness and integrity. In contrast, Mardin had a round face and a gentle appearance—but was well over two meters tall and had a formidable build.

“I see. You both seem highly capable. I look forward to working with you.”

When Ian extended his hand, the two hesitated briefly, then reached out and shook it. Even in that moment, Ian could sense a faint trace of distrust. But he had expected this and wasn’t offended.

‘Honestly, I’d probably feel the same in their shoes.’

“Your name was Major Derian Zeco, right?”

“Yes, Prince Ian.”

“From now on, I’d prefer if you referred to me as Captain whenever possible. Of course, only once we’re aboard the ship.”

“As you wish, Prince Ian.”

“That aside, you’re the deputy captain, correct? Were you already serving in that role on the cruiser I’ll be boarding?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

So the original captain had been reassigned elsewhere. That fact alone made Ian feel like he wouldn’t be welcomed. Still, Derian maintained a neutral expression, showing admirable self-control and discipline.

‘I hope he’s just as competent in command. The way the count speaks so confidently suggests he is.’

“I imagine no one knows the cruiser I’ll be boarding better than you.”

“Yes, I can say I know everything about it.”

“Then you also know its issues, right?”

“Well…”

“If possible, could you prepare a report outlining all the ship’s known problems and deliver it to me?”

“What are you planning to do with that information?”

“What are you doing right now?”

Count Nudelria’s voice cut in sharply. His glare was laced with disapproval—Derian had just questioned a prince’s order. As an admiral, he could not tolerate insubordination. Seeing this, Ian raised a hand to calm him and spoke:

“Admiral, please. I only asked for a list of issues so that I can identify and address them quickly. If I’m to do anything useful as a prince, I need to know what problems the naval personnel are facing and whether the ship itself has any damage.”

If there was something he could solve using his royal authority, he would do so swiftly. He was confident that the governor would comply if he personally made a request. Who would dare reject a prince asking for help?

Meanwhile, Derian was feeling ashamed. Hearing the Ninth Prince speak so rationally made him realize he had made a mistake. He had resented Ian for replacing the previous captain and let that resentment cloud his judgment.

And now this prince wanted to solve problems first? He was clearly not the kind of royal Derian had expected. Knowing he had overstepped, he lowered his head in apology.

“My apologies. I questioned your order, Your Highness.”

“It’s only natural to have doubts. But in the future, carry out the order first. If you’re still curious afterward, feel free to ask.”

“…Understood.”

As Derian bowed again in apology, Ian turned his gaze to Mardin Gaso. The large man looked comically stiff, his body locked in place as he awaited his turn.

“Lieutenant Mardin Gaso?”

“Yes, Your Highness!”

“As you’ve probably heard, I’d like you to call me Captain later on. Also, I hope you’ll stay by my side and explain anything I don’t understand.”

“Of course!”

“No need to raise your voice. Do you think you could set aside three hours a day starting tomorrow?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you busy?”

“No, sir. My sole duty is to assist you from now on.”

“Great. Then please teach me naval tactics for about three hours each day.”

“Excuse me?”

Mardin’s face froze into a dumbfounded expression. Ian looked at him with a hint of doubt—can this guy really serve as his aide? Mardin quickly snapped to attention and saluted with confidence.

“Understood! I’ll teach you well, sir!”

“Hoho, Lieutenant Mardin Gaso graduated from the capital’s military academy with top honors,” Count Nudelria added. “He’s a true elite and will provide Your Highness with thorough instruction.”

Ian appreciated the praise, but a question lingered in his mind: If he’s such an elite, why was he assigned to the 9th Fleet? Still, he decided not to ask. Something must’ve happened that brought him here.

Whatever the case, Ian would need their help in the coming war. And if they insisted on maintaining a poor attitude toward him, he’d have no choice but to use his mental manipulation powers to bend them to his will. He had no intention of tolerating prolonged disloyalty.

Smack!

A loud slap rang out nearby. Turning his head, Ian saw an officer’s face twisted sideways and Prince Eight standing before him, seething with anger. The situation looked bad at a glance.

“What did you just say?! That war isn’t a joke? That I should take this seriously? You think I can’t do anything?!”

Prince Eight jabbed his finger in the officer’s face. The slap had likely been prompted by some honest advice. Clearly, the prince’s pride had been wounded.

The admiral of the 8th Fleet rushed in to break things up. Count Nudelria watched the scene with a sigh and muttered under his breath:

“He must’ve spoken out of frustration.”

“Seems so.”

“He’s always been the type to value rules and principles.”

From their conversation, it was clear they were familiar with the slapped officer. Watching them, the three couldn’t help but compare Ian and Prince Eight. Ian had, after all, been the one to humbly request to learn.

‘Maybe it’s a blessing that Prince Ian was assigned to the 9th Fleet.’

‘Let’s just wait and see.’

You never knew with people—he could still fall apart in live combat. But if nothing else, Prince Ian already seemed to have a proper sense of character, unlike his brothers.

Major Derian Zeco and Lieutenant Mardin Gaso exchanged a subtle glance, unable to hide their curiosity toward the Ninth Prince.