Derek Otis had been trying to use his amassed wealth to exert influence over the central capital. He raised taxes and imposed forced labor, and any commoner who protested was beaten to serve as an example—crippled or left to waste away and die. When the villagers could no longer endure it, they began laying down their farming tools one by one. The uncultivated land quickly turned barren. As a result, many free farmers either starved to death or, unable to pay their taxes, fell into enormous debt and became serfs.
After reclaiming his estate, Curtis halved the taxes and granted each villager a plot of farmland. The rights to newly cleared land were granted for one generation only. He reduced the amount of communal land, minimizing the lord’s personal profit, and fully opened facilities like the mill and oil press to the people—making a series of radical reforms.
Bit by bit, the Russell Earldom grew wealthy. Even free farmers from Otis’s territory began migrating to Russell’s land, causing significant losses to Otis.
“Taxes have been halved compared to last year.”
“We only have about fifteen workers left to repair the castle.”
“The contracted shepherd has decided to stay in the Russell Earldom this year.”
Each time news like this arrived, Derek fumed with rage. The heir of the Russell family—long believed to be dead or missing—had suddenly returned, reclaimed his land, and was now threatening him. He tried to sway the king with complaints and pleas, hoping to turn the situation around, but all he got was a cold rejection: Stop being childish.
Derek retaliated by raiding the farms under the guise of bandit attacks, stealing crops and leaving the fields in disarray. His men were thorough, leaving no trace behind, so he could shamelessly deny responsibility.
“What sweet words did you whisper to make the king give you this kind of authority?”
“Curious, are you?”
Curtis curled up one side of his lip and beckoned with his index finger, as if calling a hunting dog. Derek’s face turned red with fury. He wanted to draw his sword right there and then, but Curtis had justification on his side. Not only that—Curtis Russell was once known as the “Mercenary King.” Cloaked in black like a flock of crows, he led a small force, accepting highly paid commissions and cutting down enemies without mercy.
When that wealth and fame reached the ears of the king, Curtis voluntarily pledged his entire fortune, life, and loyalty—along with proof that the Russell family’s treason charge had been false. Backed by the king, he led troops against the once-powerful House Dalton, utterly annihilating them.
“Guess you weren’t that curious after all.”
As Derek froze like a rock, unable to move or speak, Curtis shrugged and turned his horse away.
“Well then, I hope I won’t have to see your face in these woods again.”
“Wait!”
Swallowing his pride, Derek urgently stopped Curtis and asked:
“What did you offer the king?”
“Come closer.”
Curtis gestured with a tilt of his head, as if sharing a secret. Reluctantly, Derek nudged his horse forward. As soon as he got within reach, Curtis grabbed Derek’s ear and yanked it hard.
“Aagh!”
Derek screamed and struggled. Knights from House Otis charged in, causing swords to clash in a tense standoff. In the middle of it all, Curtis whispered into Derek’s ear:
“I asked if I could kill off the bandits that keep showing up at the border of the territory. All of them. Even their backers.”
“W-What did you say…?”
“He sighed deeply and handed me a royal decree. Why do you think he did that?”
Hot breath brushed against Derek’s ear, and a chill ran down his spine.
Curtis Russell—the man in front of him—was not only known as the “Mercenary King,” but also had another, hidden nickname: the Monster Crow. It came from the way he mercilessly butchered his enemies.
“Diplomacy? It’s just boring small talk. I’m not so idle as to attend such things every year. So talk amongst yourselves.”
He was a border lord who acted informally, even at the royal balls and noble gatherings. He showed no deference even to royal bastards. Many nobles held a grudge, but no one dared act—because of the king’s strong support and Curtis’s terrifying past.
“Let go of me!”
Derek, who had been momentarily paralyzed by fear, regained himself under the watchful gaze of his knights. He yanked Curtis’s hand away with all his strength. Curtis, acting as if nothing had happened, calmly let go and handed Derek a small pouch with a smile.
“A gift.”
Derek, suspicious, opened the pouch—and his eyes widened in horror. Inside were the ears of the men he had sent to rob the farms the previous night. They had never returned. Now he knew why.
“See you at the Carnival.”
Leaving that chilling message, Curtis turned his back without hesitation. The knights, boiling with rage at their lord’s humiliation, awaited an order to attack.
But there was no justification. And no guarantee of victory, even with overwhelming numbers. Curtis’s elite knights were individually famous for their martial achievements. Cursing under his breath, Derek threw the pouch aside and muttered:
“I will repay this humiliation. Without fail.”
As he calmed his burning anger, a messenger came running from the distance.
“My lord, the Duke of Ferencz has arrived.”
Derek’s expression darkened further. If the insolent mercenary wasn’t enough, now he had to deal with his wretched cousin’s visit.
—
The trees in the forest weren’t felled for cultivation, but to lure out Derek Otis. After confronting the viscount, the first thing Curtis did was have the village chief assess the damages to the farms from the night raid. Then he ordered Derek to repair the broken homes and compensate for the stolen livestock. A few impressed young villagers even volunteered to become soldiers.
“He won’t act out for a while now. Just in case, allow the villagers to build a wall at the border.”
“Thank you, thank you, my lord!”
The village chief repeatedly bowed. Most lords couldn’t care less about the small folk’s troubles. After suffering under Otis, he hadn’t expected anything from the new lord either. Even the positive rumors hadn’t swayed him—until now. What gave him hope was the memory of the previous Earl Russell, who gave out relief grain during famines without conditions and lent livestock at low interest rates.
Curtis left two knights and a few soldiers in the village for rebuilding and security, then mounted his horse without formal farewells. As he was about to leave, the village chief stopped him.
“Your father…”
“…”
“You really resemble your father.”
“Do I?”
Hearing this, Greg—the knight riding with Curtis—turned pale. Oblivious, the village chief nodded enthusiastically.
“Yes! In his youth, your father was just as gallant and just as righteous as you are. He’d be so proud of you now.”
“I see. Then let me ask you something.”
Curtis smiled faintly, cutting off the chief before he could gush further.
“What did you do back then?”
“Pardon?”
“When the House of Russell was wiped out.”
“W-Well…”
“Never mind fighting—did you at least try to gather signatures and petition the king?”
Stunned silent by the sharp question, the chief looked up as Curtis’s smile faded.
“You clearly don’t know. I’ll let it go this time. But if you say something like that again…”
“…”
“I’ll rip out your tongue myself.”
The weight of his stare made the chief nod stiffly.
Looking back, Curtis realized it had been a pointless outburst. He fled the village and rode through the night without rest. Reading his lord’s tangled emotions, Greg spoke quietly to comfort him.
“You must be exhausted.”
“Exhausted, huh…”
“Take a warm bath and rest for a few days. We’ve already secured the tribute and defense tax for Lent.”
“…Right. I should.”
Curtis rubbed his temple and flicked the reins. His black steed snorted and picked up speed.
