People grind themselves down precisely in extraordinary situations, and if we are to protect them, it is crucial that we protect the ordinary.
After four days of staying in Mottenheim, everyone except those helping the headman to fortify the defenses has been told to maintain their usual way of life as much as possible. The people, who had looked anxious, seem to be returning to their normal routines, reassured by the sight of our patrols and the ongoing preparations for emergencies.
Still, I feel bad about it, but the huntsmen of the manor — like Margit’s family, approved by the deputy to hunt — have been asked to refrain from hunting, and the children have been sternly warned not to approach the forest, even though it’s usually their playground. “One lives to earn one’s bread,” as they say. It’s unfortunate for the huntsmen who can’t work for a while and for the children who’ve lost their playground, but we can’t risk them near a place where we don’t know how many undead are buried.
Though we’re not yet near normalcy, we must strive to restore it. While it may not entirely be our job, if we’ve taken the task, the Sword Friends Association gives it our all.
“First line! Form up!”
Now, whether this counts strictly as our job is debatable, but one could call it a bonus service.
At my command, the young men of the manor form a line with their shields. The plain round shields are part of equipment dusted off from the vigilante warehouse. Though there was a shortage of armor, the manor, with its noble backing, was well-stocked with consumables like spear shafts and shields. So, we took the opportunity to train the militia. As part of this, we gathered all the younger sons with the spirit to protect their families and organized a makeshift defense force.
“Owaaaa!?”
“Ah crap!?”
“Gyaah!?”
We’ve quite the mountain of difficulties ahead.
When the Sword Friends Association charged the line of the militia that had formed their shield wall by overlapping large round shields, the shields went flying, completely broken with a single strike. Breaking through a rank with a sword while wearing armor and crouching low is a fundamental skill of warfare, and it’s practiced as such in our association, but if the line collapses this easily, it’s troublesome.
Particularly, with only three attackers against a line of ten, and not even including naturally superior races like the bull-like humans, pig demons, or ogres.
“You bastards! What’s wrong with you? Got no balls?!”
“Put some backbone into it! If we were bandits, you’d all be dead!”
“You’ve got to counter-attack! Do you understand? Remember your wife’s face, or the girl you’re sweet on!”
The members cry out in exasperation at the ineffectiveness. Normally, I would reprimand them for being too rough on amateurs, but since we need these people to be combat-ready quickly, we can’t afford to be gentle.
It’s true, after all – they won’t learn unless it hurts, right?
But what exactly has the militia been doing? With the headman of the militia himself being blown away, it looks like they’ve gotten quite lazy. It seems they’ve been conducting their training too gently and infrequently, fearing backlash, because of their peaceable manor life. As far as manor politics go, that may make sense, but the whole point of a defensive force is to be ready in case of need. Even if people don’t like it, they should toughen up.
I can see why they’ve been lax. With the major towns and provincial capitals nearby, and with the help of the headman in securing swift reinforcement, it’s easy to become complacent. The difficulty of resisting such human nature is undeniable. But I certainly hope they might stand firm as the last line of defense in the end.
Well, it’s a good opportunity, and since we’re paid handsomely, let’s take this chance to retrain them thoroughly.
“First line again! Second line, observe carefully! Whether we succeed or fail, you’ll learn why things went right or wrong!”
Using a command flag made for this purpose, I instruct them to reassemble their line while preparing the assault with my team. Once they can handle three of us easily, we’ll try five, then the same number of attackers. Ultimately, we’ll have the likes of Etan and Yorgos – living heavy tanks – crush them with overwhelming mass.
If it seems impossible, they’ll have to disperse the line impact by avoiding it and striking from behind.
In a battlefield scenario, instead of shields, we form pike screens – seven meters long according to empire standards – to push or penetrate, while smaller humans maneuver through the gaps for melee. But with smaller groups, shield walls are more efficient.
Once raised, it wards off arrows; aligned side by side, it serves as a physical barrier, capable of holding up against a sparse phalanx where many pikemen might be outnumbered. From ancient times through the middle ages in my previous world, this strategy stood the test of time not without reason.
In my homeland, it was a common training practice. Quickly aligning a formation to fend off arrows until entering melee has been one of the sights of warfare. And if you ever let your guard down, Lambert would tackle you, sending you flying like paper, so you can’t afford a moment of rest.
“Whoaaaaa!”
“Woaah!?”
“It hurts!?”
The shield line collapses again. They need to squat lower and angle the shields this time. You’ve got to “guide” the impact rather than just block it; with armored, heavy attackers, it’s hard to stop a charge. You need either to throw them upward or smash them into the ground.
“Come on, big brother! Stand up!”
“You’re embarrassing yourself!“
The men, getting up painfully, are retaliating weakly against the crowd’s jeers, but if they can argue back, they’ve still got some fight in them. Good, let’s try it again.
As I watch them form up again, crying out, I notice a white silhouette lingering in the corner of my eye.
Turning my head, I see an extraordinarily pale woman among the spectators.
Her slender, ethereal stance resembles a willow, her hair glowing like an extension of it, and her beautiful wing patterns are intricate and graceful. There’s a shadow of melancholy in her slanted eyes, and she is gazing at me as if transfixed by something dazzling.
She is the headman’s second daughter, a lepidopteran born exceptionally to the headman who partnered with a human. Humans, known for their reproductive potential, usually produce human offspring even when partners with other races. Yet, it’s remarkably rare that she became the second daughter of a lepidopteran just like her sister, earning her the title of a blessed child treated with great care.
In the future, she might marry into a powerful manor family or be sent to another manor’s headman for new alliances, or even taken on as a concubine of the deputy. With her strikingly pale, porcelain-like hair that matches her skin, she must attract many men.
She looks like an exquisitely crafted western doll. Her skin tone, which could make one doubt her humanity, hides a breathtaking beauty.
Our eyes meet from a distance, and I can tell for sure, without any mistaken perception.
Why? Because she waves her hand at me.
Using one of her secondary appendages to adjust the basket she’s carrying and steadying her long trailing robes with her left hand, she waves her right hand gracefully. Her polished conduct suggests some noble education, perhaps aimed at serving the aristocracy.
Her movements mesmerize the men, and even some of my Sword Friends Association followers are captivated. Each gesture is charming.
Now, what should I do? Usually, a nod would suffice, but Margit’s words come back to me unexpectedly.
She said I should be friendlier, that I could understand the feelings of a girl in love, and advised me to stop being so curt — while I consider myself already friendly enough. Perhaps I should respond.
But, how? Throwing coins is inappropriate; forming a heart with my hands might seem creepy from me, and I doubt it would even make sense. Saying “thank you” loudly feels childish and questionable as a response. And declaring “I love you” is too grandiose, embarrassing even for an idol, let alone me. Even saying it in private under the stars to Margit seems too much to declare under the open sky.
After much deliberation, using all my “<Multiple Simultaneous Thinking>“, the answer that finally came to mind was embarrassingly simple and foolish.
I place my hand on my lips and toss a kiss.
Instantly, there’s a high-pitched cheer from the crowd, mixed with subtle sighs of envy from the men.
Suddenly realizing how I must look, I feel blood rushing to my cheeks.
“First line! Form up!”
The practice of shield defense was followed by some “gentle pats” on amateurs during a mock melee. It’s certainly not because of embarrassment or any misplaced anger; I’m simply reinforcing the concept for that one girl’s admiration.
Why shouldn’t there be anything wrong with answering the longing of a young lady? I tried to convince myself through the angry cry.
【Tips】The “thrown kiss”. Originating from intimate greetings of ancient Greece and Rome, this gesture entered through the Southern Inner Sea during the era of many small kingdoms in the Threefold Empire of Rain but is now considered rather pretentious.
We practiced battle formations by mixing members of the Sword Friends Association and the militia in suitable proportions, dividing them into two opposing sides for skirmishes.
And, at an appropriate moment, I decided to join in solo, and it was pretty fun. Everyone tries their best, throwing themselves recklessly to land a blow, an important battlefield instinct I wanted to nurture.
Perhaps their main motivation was landing a hit on a hero of adventure tales to have a story to brag about back home. But that level of determination truly matters — having that level of spirit will make their bodies react more effectively during real combat.
Of course, they did seriously counterattack, but not with full force. Tripping or tossing them, grazing their jaw, the wounds were not bone-breaking or incapacitating. It would defeat the purpose if people got injured to the point they’d be bedridden from training.
Walking past, I stabbed my wooden sword into the ground, offering a word or two to each one sprawled out. Praising the good points, noting what needs improvement, and receiving faint thanks in return. With unlimited respawn mode enabled, I encouraged them all to keep coming until they collapsed.
Weaving through them, I reached the last one, the troubled youth Yorgos the Ogre.
“You’ve got plenty of spirit. You’d fare better with your preferred weapon.”
“…Huh.”
Glancing at the sky, he lied there beside an improvised oversized wooden sword, lacking a proper giant-sized weapon for training. For a normal-sized person, it’s a challenging greatsword, but for him, it suits like a longsword. Wielding it with ease in both hands, it becomes terrifyingly dangerous. Shorter weapons have speed, but a longer one that’s just as light and swift is daunting. When swung downward with the aid of gravity, from above where defenses are weak, it becomes very difficult to counter, no matter where you dodge.
Despite the apparent ease for him, his face shows unease and frustration. His stern golden-glowing eyes are knitted with displeasure, teeth clenched.
His serious expression conveys doubt, questioning if this path is the right one.
He’s still struggling to reconcile his motivations.
Understandably, at a mental age roughly equivalent to a mid-teenager, it’s not easy to answer profound questions about one’s future.
More fundamentally, it seems he himself doesn’t fully understand the roots of his aspirations.
Did he want to become strong? Did he seek respect as a man among his ogre tribesmen? Or did he merely wish to stand beside those glorious warriors?
These can be hard to separate. All may be equally valid and invalid. Human emotions don’t simplify as neatly as reality.
“Still don’t have the answer, huh?”
“… Sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for.”
Sitting down heavily beside him, I pull out my pipe case from my bosom, pack it with leaves, retrieve a smoldering string from the ember container, and take a puff.
“Figuring out what you want to be doesn’t happen overnight. I’m still searching too.”
“Really, boss?”
Certainly. I aimed to become a proper adventurer, honed my skills to stand beside my cool older brother, and set out for the imperial capital. Now, having fulfilled my promise and returned here with an old friend, I’m far from the adventurer I once idolized.
The heroes in those adventure tales I cherished were countless:
The dingy club room produced many such figures: those who achieved greatness and those who met undignified ends passing their legacy on, as well as those who faded halfway. Yet, I feel I’ve done what I wanted with all of them.
Noble knights, money-grubbing alchemists, maddened sorcerers in pursuit of knowledge, and half-bloods clinging to life – each story was enjoyable and precious.
Thinking of those nostalgic, distant memories brings to mind countless aspirations.
It mirrors the musings of a younger child, wanting to be so many things: firefighter, police officer, movie star, all at the same time.
So, though I was reminded by Etan, I won’t rush you, Yorgos. There’s no need to force clarity upon yourself prematurely.
“Haste not, Yorgos. Rushing too much will muddy and warp your growth. It’s good to be lost in thought, but don’t rush. Your swordwork revealed it.”
“Yes, boss. Thank you.”
“Your expression’s a little less strained now.”
Glancing at him, the rigid expression relaxes slightly. Good, good – such a scary look could make children cry.
“Come, rise. The women of the manor are distributing refreshments. Let’s indulge.”
“Aye.”
The towering Yorgos got up slowly, his naivety a good trait. He will surely improve. He may surpass me in sheer unreasonable power as a swordsman.
In this business, being incapacitated by one good hit is the norm, but with the ogre’s reinforced bone structure and skin, there are areas where he’s beyond the ordinary.
Still, some of the severity hasn’t left his face. How can I break the ice?
Suddenly recalling that things seemed off lately from the manor headman’s demeanor, I remembered that the traveling merchants still lingered in this area.
The same goes for the prostitutes accompanying them, here to make a profit.
Perhaps allowing him a rendezvous with a woman might soften that rigid mindset born of youth…
Thinking such thoughts…
【Tips】Though no physical changes occur, there’s undoubtedly a transformation in men before and after losing their virginity.
Today is officially the release day of Volume 3, so here’s an update.
Receiving numerous update notifications, I couldn’t be happier. Thank you all so much!
We aim to continue this momentum into Volume 4, and your continued support would be invaluable.
Also, I had forgotten until someone commented, but my humble work has surpassed a million words.
Two years worth, equal to two volumes of books – would you say we’ve put in a good effort?
There will likely be a long road to completion, but I humbly request your continued support.
