Having prepared the setting, we resumed the situation from last night.
Our spoils of war were plentiful; notably, we had fifteen captives and twelve war horses with their belongings—a significant haul. For now, everything is under the management of the head of the manor, and we plan to decide the distribution ratio later. Since the vigilant group also risked their lives in battle, the manor is also entitled to a portion of the spoils.
More than that, there is also an element of getting rid of complications.
As war spoils, the weapons and armor, as well as the cash and jewels they carried, were easy to liquidate and useful to us, so no complaints there. But the war horses are a problem. A big one.
Their large frames consume a tremendous amount of food—high-quality salt, which isn’t cheap—and water constantly. No matter how large the group, even the Sword Friends Association wouldn’t be able to sustain them. We could go bankrupt just trying to keep them healthy until they can be sold.
Yet turning them into cherry meat feels wasteful. So ideally, we’d like the manor to manage them temporarily, with plans to sell them later, or for the Sword Friends Association to manage as many as possible.
On the other hand, our casualties, as you’ve heard, resulted in four dead, five severely injured, and twelve lightly wounded— essentially, every participant sustained some form of injury. I’m included in the lightly wounded, so this time must be engrained in my mind as a significant lesson and unforgettable teaching since the establishment of the Sword Friends Association.
A portion of the spoils will go towards medical expenses, and as much as it tends to be overlooked, also to the bereaved families as condolence funds. Though it’s not explicitly stated, our group always decided from the beginning that we would compensate the bereaved families whenever anything happened.
We know that the pain of losing a loved one cannot be healed by money. Nonetheless, we wanted to support their temporary livelihood as much as possible. Ultimately, recovery requires time, and obtaining time requires money.
On the other hand, the civilian casualties, fortunately, were not zero…
“Three injured? What does that mean?”
“Uh, it’s nothing serious. One old man strained his back trying to carry his belongings while fleeing, the other two are kids who tripped during evacuation. One broke his nose upon a nasty fall, and the other dislocated a shoulder, so Lady Kaya counted them as injured.”
“Sloppy work, buddy.”
Ideally, I wanted to wrap things up cleanly saying there were no civilian casualties, but I suppose if it fits us, it fits us. Hopefully, we’ll never have a similar situation again, but if something does happen, we must pay attention to evacuation procedures in the future.
“Let’s put the details aside for later… what about the funeral arrangements?”
“The manor will handle everything. The monks are personally coming to chant the sutras. They’re doing everything they can for us.”
I couldn’t help but lower my brows at his half-sarcastic response.
Their deaths are my responsibility. It’s only natural as the leader and someone who leads a group. They chose voluntarily the profession of adventurers, which is premised on war and death, and they stood on the battlefield based on their own responsibility and strength, but that doesn’t absolve the commander of responsibility.
I have no intention of carelessly mourning that their deaths are entirely my fault and discarding my sword, nor am I about to accept my inadequacy as an excuse.
As the leader, it’s my duty to mourn and reflect on their deaths, even if only to apply it to the next time.
“Understood. After the funeral, we’ll arrange a meeting. Everyone is required to attend.”
“Understood. I’ll let them know.”
Letting out a heavy sigh, Siegfried furrowed his brow slightly. Sensing he had something to say, I looked at him, and he leaned back deeply into his chair, his face slightly averted as he began to speak.
“You can give whatever speech you want, but stop grandly proclaiming that it’s entirely your fault or whatever.”
“… Why is that? It’s obvious I have responsibility as the commander.”
Siegfried stretched out his legs, making the chair creak. Usually, Kay would reprimand him for such improper posture, but I knew his habit of fidgeting when he’s bothered, so I let it slide.
“We’ve repeatedly discussed this: we choose our own battles with full awareness. It’s the same argument as before—telling us that all our deaths are your fault is going to tick some people off.”
“… Don’t underestimate us, then?”
“That’s right. It also undermines the adventurers who accept the possibility of injury and death. Besides, I was responsible for their lives when it came down to it.”
You might not understand since you’re so strong, his unspoken addendum hung heavy in the air, leaving me speechless. On further reflection, he might be correct. To some, it could seem as if our survival or death depends on my success or failure.
“… Complicated.”
“You started this complicated job, didn’t you?”
“I thought I understood… but I guess I still don’t when it comes down to it. Thank you for enlightening me, Siegfried.”
Adjusting my posture, I bowed, but he waved it off with a hand.
“Most of the time, you catch things I don’t. Highlighting the parts I miss is my job. Let’s stop this endless cycle of ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ There’s blame on both our sides when it comes to the team.”
“… Right. Let’s change the subject then.”
There’s much more to say and share regarding the duties and responsibilities of a commander, but there’s still much to settle and many things to worry about.
After regaining consciousness, when I stepped into the plaza, I felt an unsettling atmosphere, though I wasn’t informed of anything after fainting from the victory report. What do the manor folk think of this situation?
“Huh? Pretty standard post-victory vibes. Families are mourning, but everyone else is celebrating life and the victory. Those who survived feel the same way.”
“What? But four people died! The place is littered with injured. I was bracing for stones thrown our way.”
“… Most people consider it a small cost under the circumstances.”
Perplexed, I gave him a questioning look, and with the same heavy sigh as when he first entered the room, he added that our senses have become somewhat desensitized.
Looking back, it’s abnormal that we haven’t lost anyone in our first few jobs. Although we’ve always managed without casualties, it’s easy to forget that humans are mortal.
Especially for us adventurers, death is a trivial matter. From an arrow in the wrong place, bad water or rations, lack of skill, or sheer bad luck. There are countless reasons, and in the “Wanted Adventure Board,” a week without new wanted notices is a rarity—adventurers die frequently and easily.
We receive invitations to the funerals or memorial services—under the guise of drinking parties—of acquaintances’ members at least once or twice a month, yet our perception has become distorted.
“In general, if fifty or fewer adventurers and vigilante units go up against a hundred infantry and fifteen cavalry, they die. Surviving everyone isn’t normal, cutting losses is.”
“Hmm… oh, right?”
“At this point of realization, you’ve lost your perspective.”
Further adding that we didn’t completely lose the will to fight, Siegfried fell silent.
Upon reflection, he could be right. Engaged in situations where the actions of a single individual can drastically influence the battle, our awareness of numbers and strength has dulled. In general terms, numbers and professional soldiers create a considerable gap against adventurers.
Ignoring the impossibility of overturning the situation and acting as if we won effortlessly will surely attract criticism. There’s a good chance I’ll be expected to say a few words at the service, so it’s better to gather my thoughts now.
Speaking of gathering thoughts…
“Siegfried, did you fully inventory the captives’ belongings?”
“I did. There’s nothing identifying their status. No family rings, handprints, tokens, or weapons emblazoned with family crests. There are some extravagantly decorated weapons, but none engraved with any identifiers of status. Usually, the wealthy flaunt their coats of arms, it’s odd they don’t.”
“Hmm… does the item you’re wearing now also follow that pattern?”
He nods and produces the rapier at his side. Indeed, while it’s ornate, there’s no family crest embedded in the hilt, nor does it appear to be a custom-made weapon. Even with a brief inspection, I can recognize it as a fine piece but not necessarily ordered.
Upon examining the blade Siegfried offered—though unmarked—it was undeniably beautiful and a marvel of craftsmanship, yet there was no suggestion of origin. The blade, cold as frost, was just slightly longer than a Sending Wolf’s but narrower in the body, with ivy-patterned engravings near the handle. No grand enchantments were apparent, but the resilience of the metal, its resistance to rust or damage spoke volumes of its value.
This blade alone must be worth more than a provincial domain and could buy some farmland in the countryside. Considering the expense, the lack of family insignia is perplexing.
“Checked the hilt too—it’s unmarked. No inscription.”
“No mark? This blade and… a practice piece??”
Perhaps it’s a Western custom. In lands where local lords conduct semi-legal side jobs, they might eliminate all personal identifiers from objects they consistently carry.
Nonetheless, the identity of the cavalry who attacked isn’t obscure, even through this single blade alone. Ordinary bandits might wear stolen armor, but possessing bloodlines of restricted military horses in such quantities is implausible.
Then there’s the reason we’ve come here, the background of the manor, Lady Agrippina’s letter, and the adventuring guild’s intentions to entangle us in dubious cases.
Putting together all these factors, the situation that was entirely unclear before begins to resemble a foggy forest.
In the haze, the shadow isn’t a singular bulk but something creeping through the connections.
“… Hardly a one-off incident, it appears a series.”
“Huh? What’s that?”
I told him to forget it when he asked what I meant, hearing without understanding his question.
Previously occupied with immediate problems, I hadn’t let my imagination wander much, but now, everything connects. We thought we’d been swept up in a grand current, but it appears we’ve stuck like a bone deep down the throat of a large serpent.
Most likely, no, almost certainly, a conspiracy at the national level is underway.
Thinking we’d escaped conspiracies by venturing out, we were merely floundering in a framework too vast to comprehend. Like a fish escaping from one tank to another, only to realize the folly of its action now.
First off, the necromancer’s attack wasn’t purely for plunder. This much was evident from the scale of the first strike and as previously suspected, it spans the entire frontier area. Initially, I thought they were merely threatening local security for unknown goals, but last night’s information filled in the missing pieces, giving the matter a clearer outline.
This wasn’t the work of some rogue mage but someone with a substantial research infrastructure—no, a mage, to be exact.
Until now, only rudimentary undead were deployed, but the undead guarding the suspected sorcerers in the woods were elite units with significant enhancements. Especially the physically invincible one that gave us the most trouble—something that can’t be made in a single cauldron workshop.
Extending an arm could be thought of by a beginner, but planning at such an advanced level and being able to manufacture accordingly can only be done by a mage with deep knowledge of magic who views gold pieces as disposable as water.
“Siegfried, you may understand this, but didn’t you find something odd about the feel of slicing through the undead yesterday?”
“Odd? I thought they felt different from humans, sure. Dead flesh and human flesh feel different, naturally. Also, the bones were oddly solid, so clearly they were tampered with.”
“That’s right. Not abandoned dead flesh. Yesterday, I was cutting through something different.”
“From the cavalry? No?”
Shaking my head, as one develops the ability to recognize the sensation of cutting through different things with experience, the first shadow I cut in the forest wasn’t an undead. It had the feeling of cutting through a living human.
In the heat of battle, I severed and burned its head to prevent resurrection without a second thought. But judging from the fineness and hardness, it was undoubtedly human, most likely female from the build—some kind of humanoid species, presumably a woman.
“…. The operator of the corpse, then?”
“Half correct… I think.”
“Cut the suspense. Your roundabout phrasing annoys me.”
“Sorry. Most likely, there were two mages at the scene. One I cut down and the other commanding powerful undead.”
“Two?” Siegfried tilted his head but nodded as if it made sense.
There were two types of undead we fought. Ones that were simply reinforced for large-scale production and others heavily modified and adjusted. From the different magical signatures detectable through experience, the distinction between prototypes and masterpieces became clear.
“Undead take magical power both to create and to command. Simultaneously creating and commanding undead at such a scale is impossible unless the mage is incredibly powerful, reducing labor efficiency drastically.”
“Such a big shot focusing on a random frontier manor doesn’t make sense. So the manufacturer and the commander are different people?”
“That’s right. Purely speculative, but the one commanding the strongest undead could be the master in charge of production. The one I cut might’ve been sent to the frontlines as both commander and mechanic for practice.”
Such deep sorrow suggests considerable attachment. They’re not mere errand runners or subordinates. Likely a disciple, though a lover or partner might also be possible, but given the skill gap, it’s unlikely they died merely from being cut.
Anyone sent as suitable practice would get angry if killed. Expecting a quick crush of a manor but instead meeting fierce resistance would likely result in complete annihilation of the undead guards along with other unexpected losses.
This job was shitty for us too, but it must have been far worse for them.
Their mentor must’ve been overly protective. Deploying such overwhelming force to attack a manor manned by only one mage makes no sense. Such attachment.
My name is undoubtedly on the absolute kill list now.
What I wouldn’t give for a mentor with such affection. Lady Agrippina might treasure me while alive but isn’t the vengeful type. She might even exploit my death for some opportunity or dismiss it with a sigh.
To summarize, it’s safe to view this as a conspiracy on a national scale involving mages. The involvement of a separate raiding force equipped with cavalry requiring substantial funding supports this view.
A mage in a position like this generally operates covertly. Attacking a manor should’ve been discreet, and definitely wouldn’t involve knights in a conspiracy.
Though the possibility of rogue mages from the magic academy arises, at least their ties to the elite are undeniable. Their actions indicate neither autonomy nor self-interest.
Moreover, one of the knights was far too talkative.
He mentioned “defiled blood” in his speech.
If this manor were an ordinary pioneering outpost, it might’ve implied migrants or non-imperial citizens, but Lord Gizebureicht, the proprietor of the manor, is none other than the illegitimate child of a favored concubine of the influential noble family allied with the Baron of the Marsheim frontier. Given that he’s still under the baron’s influence, an assault couldn’t have been contemplated. Any noble harming him would risk retaliation.
This indicates he belongs to a faction estranged from the Baron of Marsheim.
Then there was the false goods escort request Siegfried was caught up in, the adventuring guild desperate to involve me, and Lady Agrippina’s letter about our recent transactions.
Blending these bits with the tropes from novels I read in my past life, a single keyword emerges. Novels are often dismissed, but history books are filled with examples of similar tales. Fiction often draws on reality, and sometimes reality mirrors fiction in ways that defy belief.
The secret abduction of a noble’s daughter, the group set to capture her, the deteriorating local security, and the obvious scent of conspiracy ignored by those at the top.
“Might not just be a conspiracy, could be an outright rebellion!”
“Woah!? What’s gotten into you all of a sudden!?”
“Absolutely knew it wouldn’t be good, but now it reeks of rebellion! Feels like the entire Western frontier is caught up in a massive fireplay! The stone has already started rolling downhill!.”
“Don’t start saying dangerous things out of nowhere! You nearly gave me a heart attack! Calm down and explain yourself!”
“A group of landowners! Dissatisfied with being incorporated into the empire, they’ve harbored resentment for hundreds of years and are set to rebel now! They’re creating chaos in the region as a smokescreen for their real objectives!!”
“What!? Don’t skip important details! What’s the proof!?”
“ARGGH! It’s not written in the handout! Don’t suddenly start a long campaign without explanations! Gathering a one-off group and then dropping a bomb about being part of a conspiracy doesn’t make sense!”
“Seriously calm down! Stop yelling nonsense! Speak in the imperial tongue!”
Thrashing uncontrollably and yelling illogically, I took a while to regain control and ultimately consumed Siegfried’s “one shot” to calm down…
