After taking a puff of a cigarette, my boiling mind began to settle down somewhat.
Even more so, the stinging sensation in my cheek and the stream of blood oozing from the cut inside my mouth acted as a form of cold water. However, receiving such a hit without being able to properly protect myself due to confusion was the epitome of regret. It must have been quite a punch from Siegfried, putting his whole body into it. On the battlefield, I’d already be dead.
Let’s set aside my disgraceful demeanor sparked by rage at the so-called ‘Shitty Game Master’ for now. That’s not important at the moment.
“So, does all of this begin with some bullshit job that has me thrashing around in agony?”
“Without enough information, I can’t say for sure, but it’s probably the case.”
To start with, the western frontier territory of the Threefold Empire has long been integrated as part of its vassal domain, but even so, it can hardly be said to be stable. This land, where pseudo-samurai landlords have gathered and simmer with resentment, is one where the frontier baron fears rebellion and is unable to fully assert authority.
It’s understandable, mind you. They once revered their own king and united against the Empire’s invasion. That changed when the pivotal battle of Marsheim tipped in favor of the Empire; their resistance was broken when their commander Justus—yes, the head on display in front of the bathhouse—was defeated along with the royal family. Submitting in an effort to avoid annihilation, they could never feel genuine loyalty, even after a hundred years.
If time truly diluted grudges and brewed loyalty, then Tokugawa’s shogunate would have lasted forever, wouldn’t it?
While I’ve never met the baron personally, it’s likely his strategy was to gradually weaken the resistance bit by bit, stretching the process out until there was no choice but reluctant compliance. Gradually reducing any formidable opposition into insignificant, powerless factions.
As long as they mutter about not being ready to strike as New Year’s comes around, let them say what they will—it causes no harm to speak the words. The underlying policy clearly indicates the goal: to neutralize them thoroughly, rendering them incapable of resistance whether they cry or scream.
Like a frog in water on a stove, they would be slowly boiled alive. One by one, they would face commands that force concessions, leaving them powerless to resist, until eventually, there’d be nothing left of them. A far more merciful and cost-effective approach than wiping them out all at once and replacing them with convenient rulers.
The problem was that their opponent was not just anyone. Rather, they were a fiercely rebellious group akin to the Choshu clan, steeped in resentment.
Something unbearable must have happened to these people, who stubbornly resisted their assimilation with the empire under the frontier baron.
If it had been ignored, it would have marked the point of no return where all resistance would become impossible.
I know what it is.
The massive expansion of the Mauser Canal and the construction of fortresses along the western frontier.
Currently, the Mauser River does not connect to the central region, making the deployment of a large army time-consuming as it needs to be sent via land. Additionally, due to uneasy relations with neighboring nations, the western frontier line had been cautiously managed—given that the Eastern Conquest War was ongoing, the Empire was wary of having hostile fronts on both sides. However, with the east secured, it seems the Empire no longer sees a need for such restraint.
Once both projects are completed, the local landlords will always be under the watchful eye of the capital. Any conspiracy will be nearly impossible to orchestrate. Even if they were to rise up, they would be easily crushed like a child’s toy, squeezed between the fortified frontier line and Marsheim.
The anti-Empire factions have realized that staying idle would lead to their complete annihilation and have begun to act.
Before being reduced to the helpless squawking of puppies, now is the time to summon the full force of a wolf, leap forward with all their might, and tear the throats of those who let down their guard.
We were swept up in the initial attacks they launched, disrupting the peace.
“Hey, what’s with that look? Don’t give me that face like it’s bad luck again.”
“Even now, I’m not exactly hearing about this canal business, but look… if I thought it was just about cooling things down by taking on routine jobs for rich clients, this is what happens. It’s not exactly fun, you know.”
“I’m not at fault here! At the very least, being caught up in this isn’t wrong!”
“That’s true. If anything, it’s just your bad luck. As always.”
“It’s not just me though, right?”
Here, let me raise a strong protest. As much as I might have sensed something amiss, I could never have foreseen this. Even if I were the legitimate heir of the Marsheim house, let alone the illegitimate child of a powerful nobleman governing this manor, I could never have expected such a severe attack. Whether they intended to take hostages to distance themselves from the frontier baron, or merely planned to kill as a form of harassment, it wasn’t something I could have predicted once I left Marsheim.
In fact, regardless of my location, it likely couldn’t have been avoided given the scale of things. Staying in Marsheim would have led to mounting pressure from the guilds, and even more unpleasant letters from Lady Agrippina. And if I took a job elsewhere, the result would have been the same—I’d likely have been attacked there, too.
Even protecting trade caravans would have been useless. The insurgents are definitely raising funds for war by indiscriminately attacking anyone passing by.
This is an extended version of the common “making a mistake by accepting the job” scenario. It’s more accurate to say living in this region itself was a mistake. If the GM were here, I’d have him sit down and give him a lecture.
“What are we going to do now?”
“…There’s nothing we can do for now. We lack sufficient information. We’ll just have to wait for Margit.”
“Yeah. There’s no point rushing in recklessly. If your prediction is correct, the main family might still be a target.”
“We can only hope that overly protective parents send excessive reinforcements for the safety of their children and grandchildren.”
Unlike before, I can’t fully grasp the situation. If this were a PL who could gain insights into the broader context, I could anticipate the GM’s moves based on table tendencies and divine revelations. Furthermore, I could lay groundwork under the guise of casual PC actions.
No, let’s not think too negatively. It’s far better than staying oblivious, only to suddenly realize too late when Marsheim becomes a battlefield.
Most importantly, in this instance, we’ve inadvertently tripped up our enemy.
At the very least, we’ve rendered one significant force dysfunctional. Even if they could replenish from the manor they besieged, rebuilding will not be simple. Moreover, the frontier baron is not incompetent. By now, they’ve likely already mobilized an army to deal with the situation effectively.
After all, this uprising by landlords on the brink of despair will amount to nothing more than ants trying to stop a giant’s fist, unless they have some unimaginable trump card in their arsenal.
“…Are we looking at the current set of flags?”
“Flags?”
“Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
Let’s stay calm. Even if they have a surprise ace up their sleeve, remember the Empire is still the Empire—a realm of inhuman chaos where monstrous abominations with broken abilities roam. They will overwhelm with a torrent of absurdity. Sending in a squad of combat mages from the Magic Academy would likely solve most problems with brute force.
“Sorry to break your thoughts, but there’s one remaining issue to resolve.”
Interrupting my thoughts, Siegfried pointed out the matter of what to do about the hidden abilities I’ve been concealing.
“Ah…”
“Ah? What do you mean by ‘ah’?!”
“Thinking too much is overwhelming my brain… it’s way beyond its capacity at this point…”
This is, indeed, a complex issue now.
I’m contemplating divulging it all, but when I suggested this, Siegfried didn’t look too happy.
Upon asking why, I learned that while the fact of concealment might be acceptable, the reason behind it could sow discord.
When I attempted to explain the reason, I was stopped with the statement that he preferred not to know. It wasn’t clear whether he had already made a vague guess or was simply avoiding potential headaches, but perhaps silence is golden in this case.
That said, they are already aware that I possess extraordinary skills. There’s a need to address this during the memorial service tonight. I’ll disclose everything then, keeping things straightforward.
It’s better than staying silent, which could lead to suspicions of ill intent. Trying to cover it up now would only risk being seen as harboring something sinister.
In any case, let’s focus on what we can do now.
“Alright… let’s get to work. My head hurts, but my body is functioning. You should get some rest.”
“I already told you, I can’t sleep after overdoing the medication yesterday. Lying down is painful anyway; moving around is better.”
We both stood up, picked up the set of black tea provided to us, and prepared to leave the room.
For now, I need to see the prisoners’ faces and assess the spoils of war. There might be clues to discover, and even if not, we need to consider the distribution.
…
【Tips】Justus de A’Dain. A hero of the Western Frontier in the late stages of the resistance, and the son-in-law of the old king. He served as the emblem of resistance against the Empire and was a military genius. He was the singular charismatic genius who could control the unruly landlords. However, in the Fourth Battle of Marsheim, he met his end alongside his father-in-law, the king. Following this, the landlord resistance lost its decisive leader, disintegrated, and ceased organized resistance.
Rumors persist that the head displayed was a double and that his descendants, swearing resistance, continue to this day.
The memorial service is scheduled to begin at twilight, just as the sky is dyed by the setting sun.
It is at this time, when the west is painted in crimson by the sunset and the moon appears from the east in its deep blue embrace, that both the stern father figure of the Sun God and the nurturing mother figure of the God of Night Shadow are simultaneously visible to us.
As the divine couple is also revered as the creator gods, they govern both life and death, and as they embody celestial movements, they are also seen as deities of time. Therefore, when both deities are present, it signifies the entirety of human existence—from birth through growth, aging, and finally death.
Hence, it is only natural for the Empire’s religious custom to conduct the ceremony of a life that has been brought into this world and spent, under the guidance of these two deities.
The deceased are dressed either in their favorite clothes or work attire; those of high status wear ceremonial attire and await in their bedroom until the time of the ceremony.
Those who pass away while away from home are laid in the inn they were staying at. In the case of the two members of the Sword Friends Association, it would be the conference hall they borrowed as a command post.
They have been sewn up from their battle wounds, dressed in clean ceremonial armor, and now lie with their eyes closed, an image that to some might look as if they were merely asleep. However, the ruddy color of life will never return to their cheeks, and their peacefully closed eyes will never open again.
The pleasant sound of a monk’s staff resonates—”Chirin.” This sound comes from a staff wielded by monks, regardless of their primary deity, who wear the holy symbol of the God of Night Shade and black monastic robes during this occasion.
In this multi-theistic religion, all deities, not just the one a monk primarily worships, are revered equally. Therefore, all monks receive training in holy scriptures for every deity at the manor. Even a monk who establishes a shrine for the God of Fertility in a newly settled manor is no exception.
The old monk arrives with the staff ringing and knocks three times on the door with the tip of the staff. The chief mourner, Erllich, who is the head, welcomes the monk inside.
Erllich was taken aback when he saw the monk. The elderly nun, her face creased with deep wrinkles, was draped in ornate monastic robes typically not worn by ordinary monks. Hanging from her chest was a holy symbol, the design of which featured wheat sprouting from the earth, signifying the God of Fertility. The decorations surrounding it indicated her rank. While Erllich’s limited knowledge prevented him from deducing her exact rank, he guessed from a monk friend that she must be at least a high-ranking abbess.
Ordinarily, a monk needs to become a preceptor to sponsor a shrine, and in most small manors, monks of the preceptor rank manage the shrines. An abbess, capable of overseeing a shrine in a city with a population of thousands, is a considerably high-ranking monk. It was unusual for someone of her rank to be present here.
Here again, Erllich was shown the extent of the affection the family patriarch had for their children, leaving him perplexed yet determined to honor his duties as the chief mourner.
Erllich welcomed the monk with a water-filled leather bag and cheese, offering them small sips from both. The monk then placed the remaining portions into a cloth and placed it upon the corpse’s chest. Afterward, the monk chanted a short prayer, after which the body was moved into the coffin.
In the Western Frontier domain, coffins are cylindrical barrels. The size and shape vary depending on the region, but here it was customary to place the deceased in a crouched position within a barrel-shaped coffin, along with a backpack.
Inside the backpack, the deceased would be provided with a blanket, a spare pair of boots, preserved food or items they loved during their life, a wooden dagger carved from wood, and their cherished possessions, along with a few silver coins—if they were available. If resources were scarce, copper coins might suffice. The backpack was then placed into the coffin to assist the departed on their final journey.
It was prohibited to place weapons inside the coffin for all but soldiers and adventurers, as the road to the afterlife was safeguarded by the God of the Night Shadows, requiring no weapons. The exception for those who fought for their livelihood in life was out of respect for their battle-scarred existence.
The sword and spear tip used by the deceased during life were placed alongside the coffin. Both items had been meticulously wiped clean and sharpened to the last possible moment, coated with abundant oil to prevent rust, ensuring they remained intact during the journey.
With the coffin carried on shoulders, the mourners would leave the house and proceed to the cemetery via the street in front of the shrine. Since the gods would welcome the deceased to their bosom and prevent them from wandering or returning, there was no need to confuse the dead with twists in the path or detours.
In a mass funeral, the processions would stop at each home to collect the deceased.
From the families of those who died in the local militia, came relatives with red-swollen eyes, carrying the coffins without a word. When they caught Erllich’s eyes, they silently offered a single bow of respect and joined the procession.
There was nothing to say, nothing Erllich could offer the silent mourners. The mourners continued their silent progress, bowing back in acknowledgment.
At the shrine, the people of the manor, the entirety of those able-bodied enough to attend, waited in a group.
Following the monks’ chanting, the long line of mourners slowly approached the cemetery. The process was drawn out due to the large number of attendees.
In the cemetery, where few graves existed yet, two deep pits were prepared, along with two altars placed away from the existing graves.
The wooden altar was designed to hold the coffin within a square cutout, and upon closer inspection, it was coated with a fragrant fat. Grand funerals by fire were both rare and costly—though they seldom became necessary in this peaceful region—they were made possible this time through the efforts of the family patriarch. This was done for the sake of returning the deceased to their distant relatives.
While coffins were placed into pits or altars, not a soul in the procession spoke aside from natural breathing. Attendees were expected to remain silent until the end of the procession. Children too young to maintain silence were left at home, and the heavy silence of twilight enveloped the ceremony.
Once the preparations were complete, the nun began a long chant, retrieving a silver incense burner. Through divine prayer, a flame was miraculously born within the burner, igniting the incense. The silver burner, suspended by chains, was gently swayed by the monk, filling the cemetery with a soothing fragrance that helped transcend worldly concerns.
This incense was a miraculous smoke, intended to soothe the soul of the deceased, drive away the stench of decay, and ward off predators drawn to the body.
As long as the chant continued, the burner would burn, and as the Sun God completed its daily journey, slipping beyond the edge of the world, the flame finally extinguished.
The monk then gathered the ash from the extinguished incense burner and sprinkled a handful over each coffin resting in the pit, filling the air with a pleasant, lingering scent. After sprinkling the ash, the monk moved on to the next coffin.
The graves were covered with earth, while the altars were set ablaze.
The task of setting the fire falls to the chief mourner. The fire was transferred to a torch and cast onto the altar.
The flames that arose were oddly devoid of heat, quickly enveloping the altar in a column of fire. These flames, not of the mundane world, were a bright and warm divine miracle, symbolizing the Night Shadow God’s reception of those who have fallen having completed their lives.
Ordinarily, it would burn for hours, but according to prior explanations, the flames would consume everything within a quarter of an hour. Then the ashes would remain—a distinct and pure white heap among the other ashes of the deceased.
As Erllich silently watched the two figures consume in flames, they were his subordinates, battle companions, and comrades who he’d worked beside. They were now gone, a loss eternal. He clenched his fists tighter to suppress the weight of the permanent absence.
For now, everyone could vividly remember their faces and voices, as if they were still standing right there. However, eventually, these memories would fade. Too few species possess endless memory.
Desperately, he attempted to imprint their faces, which were destined to fade, onto his mind. To remember as much as he could so as not to forget the moments of joy, the times of pride, and the sorrow and regret of their loss.
And in order that no comrade would ever again be mourned.
He knew it was a fragile vow and an unattainable promise. People die. They do so regardless of who is present or absent, and there are situations where no amount of effort can make a difference. It wasn’t anything more than sheer luck until now that they’d avoided such fates.
Nonetheless, while these two hands of his could reach, he’d strive not to leave anyone with regrets. Knowing ahead that a bloody and viscera-filled ocean of war lay ahead.
Well done. Their parting words might echo, leaving the rest to him, as Erllich stared at the two pillars of fire until they disappeared, without blinking once, despite the sting in his dry eyes, or the risk of bleeding on his first blink.
Mourning turns into another battle yet to come, but for now, it is paused.
The remainder of the time belongs to politics and the people…
I ended up drinking for quite a while, and it’s become rather late.
There will likely be no update tomorrow.
