Chapter – 52
Lebesk van Sigmund.
Though he was born into a fallen lower noble family, Lebesk was a self-made man whose talent and military skill had earned him recognition.
Yet no one could deny that the true key to his rise lay in his marriage to Medeia — a direct descendant of the prestigious Sigmund family.
No matter how capable he was, how powerful could a man of low birth really be?
If he hadn’t married into the Sigmunds and received their heirloom sword, could he ever have become this strong?
Could he ever have been appointed as commander of the 2nd Army — the force charged with defending Kuverin, that blood-soaked strategic stronghold?
The answer was already clear.
One not born a Sigmund could never defeat a Sigmund.
It was one of the few immutable laws accepted across the continent — and not without reason.
Lebesk was no exception to that rule.
Everyone in the North knew that his wife Medeia could easily overpower him in sparring matches.
Even with the heirloom sword he’d been gifted, which set him apart from ordinary knights, the superiority of the Sigmund bloodline was something that no amount of effort could overcome.
“So you’re going to disrespect your uncle-in-law right to my face, are you? Just because I’m from a pitiful family and a son-in-law by marriage?”
“Arrogant little brat… Fine then. Two days. I’ll give you two days. And then you’ll pay dearly for your insolence…”
“You ungrateful wretch! If this isn’t mockery, then what is—”
“You’ll see soon enough! Whether those eyes of yours will shed tears of blood or not!”
Remembering his heated exchange with Lebesk, Carlyle shut his eyes tightly.
It wasn’t even a proper argument — Lebesk had simply let his inferiority complex run wild again.
Was this his idea of revenge?
Perhaps. Lebesk was infamous for his pettiness, after all.
“Even so, we should retreat,” Carlyle urged Helen once more.
“Even if — and that’s giving them every concession — even if we somehow fend off the Butcher Tribe, what about that necromancer and his undead army?”
“That…”
“You know as well as I do. Our forces can barely hold off the Butcher Tribe alone.”
“Even so, retreat is not an option.”
“…What?”
“I’ll send another messenger. We’ve confirmed the presence of a necromancer — they must either send reinforcements immediately, or grant permission to abandon the fortress.”
At that, the messenger of Bowden Fortress, Fleetfoot Byron, made a face of pure misery.
He had barely returned from his last run.
But neither Carlyle nor Helen paid his suffering any mind — Byron wasn’t the only one being worked to exhaustion right now.
“So we’re all just going to die together, then?”
“If we retreat, we die anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“You think only I’ll die for disobeying orders?”
“…!”
“If it were just my life at stake, I’d give the retreat order this instant. Better I die than drag my men to their deaths.”
“…That’s…”
Carlyle fell silent.
There was something in Helen’s quiet words — the weary weight of command, the suffocating burden of responsibility — that hit him hard.
“Private Carlyle.”
“Yes, Commander Helen.”
“Orders from High Command are absolute. Retreat is not within my authority — and the consequences are not mine alone to bear. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
Carlyle smiled coldly.
“Then we’ll just all die together.”
He understood Helen’s position — but he couldn’t bring himself to accept the injustice of military law.
No matter how hard he tried, the words came out sharp and bitter.
“You little punk—!”
Begmann couldn’t take it anymore and barked in fury, but Helen stopped him calmly.
“That’s enough. He’s only said what many of us are thinking.”
“But—”
“You feel the same way he does, don’t you? As do I.”
“Helen…”
“I told you before — a soldier’s duty is simple. When ordered to die, you die. That’s the way of it.”
Helen spoke flatly, then rose from her seat.
Carlyle thought he saw her hand tremble faintly as she turned away, but before he could be sure, she was already striding out to give orders to the troops.
* * *
Early dawn.
Before reveille even sounded, the entire fortress was buzzing with activity — full combat readiness had been declared.
Those who had just returned from the dungeon expedition were granted three hours of rest.
After all, they’d been up all night on the mission, and Helen, out of rare consideration, wanted them to recover before mining operations resumed.
“When they say die, you die. Screw it. If I’m going down, I’ll take as many of them with me as I can.”
Mardor muttered that and flopped onto his cot, falling asleep almost instantly.
“Are—are we going to die? Really? Oh nooo…”
Russell, the scout team’s official coward (and occasional bedwetter), trembled in fear at the news of no retreat… then promptly passed out from exhaustion.
Begmann and Kudo, seasoned veterans, said nothing — they just lay down and closed their eyes.
How are they all so calm?
Carlyle couldn’t understand.
He could accept not fearing death — he wasn’t exactly afraid himself anymore.
But this… this blind acceptance of unfair orders? That, he couldn’t wrap his head around.
He understood the logic of it — that the military, like any system, existed to preserve the majority, even if it demanded the sacrifice of a few.
Still, understanding didn’t make it any easier to accept.
It’s a machine built to protect the many — but it runs on the deaths of the few.
That thought reminded him of his uncle-in-law, Lebesk.
If he really means to kill me… he’d better pray I don’t survive. Because if I do… he won’t.
Carlyle was burning with thoughts of revenge when a small dragon poked its head out.
“Hey, butler.”
The baby dragon’s voice was thick with sleep.
“I’m hungry. Feed me.”
“Did you leave your meal with me or something?”
“You’re my butler, act like it. Haaah…”
The dragon yawned so wide that tears welled up at the corners of its eyes.
“You can eat at a time like this?”
“What time like this?”
“We’re all about to die.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
The dragon replied lazily.
“If the one who feeds you dies, what are you going to eat?”
“I’ll just find another butler.”
“…Right.”
“Feed me. I said I’m hungry. Don’t make me say it twice.”
“Then earn your keep, at least. Everyone else fought while you were sleeping.”
“Did we die?”
“…What?”
“And for your information, I’m basically a newborn. You know what newborns do? They wake up, get hungry, eat, and then sleep again. It’s exhausting. Shouldn’t a butler understand that?”
Carlyle wanted to retort — to ask what kind of newborn talked back so rudely — but gave up.
We’re all about to die anyway. No point arguing with a talking lizard.
As he shook his head, the dragon’s eyes glinted sharply.
“What did you just call me? A lizard?”
“…What?”
“Did I hear that right, butler?!”
“Wait, how did you—”
“Grrrr!”
The dragon growled low in its throat.
“Hey, rookie.”
“Huh?”
“Shut that thing up, will you? I’m trying to sleep.”
Begmann’s drowsy voice came from across the tent.
“And take it outside. Between your muttering and its meowing, no one’s getting any sleep.”
“Sorry.”
Carlyle quickly apologized and slipped out with the dragon in tow.
He didn’t want to ruin his squadmates’ rest any further — and he knew if he didn’t feed the creature, it’d keep whining for hours.
Guess I’ll have to beg the cooks for something to feed it.
He headed toward the mess hall.
The kitchen was already bustling with activity.
“Watch the stew! It’s sticking!”
“Are those loaves done yet?”
Even on the brink of death, the army still prepared breakfast.
It might seem absurd, but in truth, nothing was more vital than food.
Even if you were destined to die, you needed a full belly to fight until the end.
“Uh, excuse me.”
Carlyle approached one of the cooks who was butchering meat in the corner.
“Kyaaaa!”
The cook — a young woman — screamed the instant she saw him.
“P-please! Don’t hurt me! Please don’t!”
“…”
Before Carlyle could even react—
“You pervert!”
“Scum! You can’t even wait until morning?”
“I knew it! I knew you’d show your true colors someday!”
Within seconds, the kitchen was in uproar.
Cooks grabbed their ladles and knives, circling Carlyle like an angry mob.
“Wait, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. It’s not what it looks like—”
“Shut up, you creep!”
No one was listening.
“You’re caught red-handed, bastard!”
“Helen’s gonna have your balls for this!”
Carlyle backed away slowly, surrounded by furious kitchen staff.
Why does everyone always assume I’m some kind of sex offender? Gods above, this body’s owner must’ve been a real piece of work.
He considered, briefly, whether he should just knock them all out and explain later—
but then salvation arrived.
“Oh! Hey, oppa!”
Gwen came walking over, carrying two buckets in her hands.
For Carlyle, Gwen’s appearance was like a rope thrown down from heaven.
“Corporal Gwen?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same.”
“I’m on kitchen duty today!” she said brightly.
Kitchen duty — when ordinary soldiers were assigned to help the cooks with their workload.
“And you?”
“I just came for something and… there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?”
“The usual kind.”
“Ahh.”
Gwen nodded knowingly.
After all, their first meeting had started with that same kind of misunderstanding.
“Oh, Jeanne!”
“Gwen? You’re on kitchen duty today?”
“Yep!”
Fortunately, the cook who’d screamed — Jeanne — seemed to know Gwen.
“Sorry for the scare. But it’s okay — opp… I mean, Private Carlyle isn’t like that.”
“R-really?”
“He might have been a dirty, disgusting pervert once upon a time, but now he’s very polite and well-mannered.”
…That’s your idea of a defense?
And since when have I ever been polite?
Carlyle wanted to protest, but decided to keep his mouth shut.
At least things were finally calming down — and the last thing he wanted was another lecture from Helen.
