Chapter 09
In the small mountain village of Krizel, within the Impera Count’s domain, a woman paced anxiously, her face full of worry.
“Where is that child? Why isn’t she home yet!”
The sun was about to set, but her daughter still hadn’t returned.
“Don’t tell me she went up the back mountain…”
No one was supposed to enter the back mountain right now—a wild horned boar had been rampaging there. Not long ago, a child who went to play there was seriously injured, making her even more uneasy.
“Mom!”
“Adeline! Where on earth have you been!”
She scolded harshly, but the girl remained all smiles.
“And what is all this smeared on your face?”
“I ate meat!”
“Meat?”
Meat? In times like these, when even a single meal of plain rice was hard to come by?
Who in the world had enough to share meat with a little girl?
“Yeah! When I went to the back mountain…”
“The back mountain? Didn’t I tell you not to go there!”
At that, the child finally realized her mistake and her eyes filled with tears.
“But… it smelled so good up there…”
“…And?”
“And when I went, there was a mountain of leftover meat…”
Thinking she was about to be scolded, the child blurted out the whole story.
Meat in the back mountain? What on earth…
It didn’t sound like a lie. Her hands and face were smeared with something oily, proof enough.
“Dear! Come here!”
“What is it now?”
Her husband came out, giving up on a brief rest.
“Adeline, tell us again, clearly.”
“So… that’s what happened…”
After hearing the girl’s story, the couple looked at each other in doubt, but quickly grabbed a few things and headed out.
A mountain of meat? How could they not go check? They packed lightly—if the horned boar appeared, they’d need to run.
Before long, they realized they’d chosen well.
“Oh my…”
The huge carcass of a horned boar lay there, skinned and abandoned.
“It’s the horned boar, isn’t it?”
“Looks like it…”
But who could have done this? And for no reward?
Questions piled up, but there was no time to think. The meat had to be moved quickly.
“Go fetch the village chief!”
“R-right!”
That night, the village of Krizel held a feast, dining on the horned boar left behind by an unknown adventurer.
“Ha-ha-ha! Cheers for the adventurer!”
“He’s better than our lord! The chief begged for help and the count ignored him, yet this adventurer saved us!”
“Watch your tongue! That’s disrespectful!”
“Oh, who cares? It’s not like the lord cares about a tiny backwater like ours!”
“Well… true.”
“Stop talking and eat more meat!”
“Mmm—!”
One thick bite of juicy meat chased all worries away.
“Irene!”
“Yes, young ma—kyaa!”
Irene screamed as soon as she saw him. No wonder—he was drenched in boar’s blood.
“M-my lord! What happened? Who attacked you?”
“Ugh… first of all, it’s not my blood…”
“If it’s not yours, then… murder?!”
“It’s nothing like that. Just… ugh…”
Most of the stains were horned boar blood. But the pain was returning now that the salve from Claude had worn off.
Should’ve asked him for another jar…
“Ahhh… what on earth happened…”
Irene cried as if she herself had been hurt. Such a devoted retainer.
For a wastrel like me, she goes this far.
“F-first…”
I thought of calling a priest, but stopped. That costs money.
These injuries would heal after a few nights’ sleep. I had to save every coin.
“…Do we still have some leftover melam leaves? Chop them up and bring them.”
“Melam leaves? Ah, yes!”
“Ugh…”
Melam leaves had hallucinogenic effects, though they were also used medicinally. Ian cared more about the hallucinations than the medicine.
Tomorrow I must learn Heal.
His broken bones and torn muscles screamed.
Luckily, he’d reached Rank 2, so maybe he could manage a basic Heal soon.
Irene quickly brought the leaves. When he plastered them on the wounds, the pain eased again.
“…Hah, better.”
“Are you sure this is enough?”
“Yeah. Go on with your chores.”
“…Alright…”
Still worried, Irene reluctantly left.
…Strange. Too quiet.
By Ian’s memory, Count Eamon should have appeared by now, thundering with rage, and Ian would have slunk off to his room.
But Eamon hadn’t come.
While Irene gathered the remaining leaves, he asked, “Is Father asleep?”
“Yes. He said he was tired.”
Tired?
That set off alarms. He’d been perfectly fine this morning.
“…Did he receive a letter?”
“Yes! How did you know? A letter came earlier today, and he’s been in a bad mood since.”
It’s here.
The letter announcing the Impera family’s downfall.
“Where from?”
“The seal bore the emblem of Count Bener— a snake coiled upon itself. Sorry, I don’t know the contents.”
“I see.”
Ian nodded. Irene left with the leaves—managing this whole mansion alone kept her busy.
But the problem was that letter from Count Bener.
It must be because of that guy Ian beat up.
A few days ago, in a tavern he often visited, there had been a small disturbance. As usual, Ian had been drinking like an unchained dog.
Then a stranger started shouting.
“The booze here tastes like garbage!”
Ian ignored it.
“And the snacks are garbage too!”
Still, he let it slide.
“Must be because this land is ruled by Count Impera! Hah!”
That he could not stand. Provoked, Ian snapped.
“What did you say, bastard?”
“And who are you?”
Ian could take an insult to the drinks, but not to the lord of this land. He lunged at the man.
Looking back, everything about it was suspicious—from the stranger baiting him right beside him, to never striking back as his face turned to pulp.
It was a one-sided beating until Ian finally tired out.
It was a setup.
Sure enough, the man turned out to be a baron, a vassal of Count Bener.
Though Bener apologized for his baron’s insult, a mere count’s son beating a baron was different.
Eamon was powerless. Politics.
Ian had been nervous, but a few bottles later he forgot.
But forgetting doesn’t erase the crime. The problem snowballed.
Damn it.
Not only did I end up in this wastrel’s body, now I have to clean up his mess.
I hurried to Eamon’s study.
Creak.
I could wait until tomorrow, but I needed to see it myself.
On the unlit desk lay a single letter bearing the coiled snake seal, its forked tongue seeming to flick.
This is it.
Count Bener. Ian remembered him vaguely, a man with a rat-like beard.
I calmly read the letter.
Skipping the flowery greetings, it all boiled down to one thing: blame directed at me—well, at Ian.
“…What?”
My eyes stopped at the last line.
“Medical expenses: one thousand gold.”
Did this man have no shame?
In this world, a tenant farmer earned one gold per month. A thousand gold meant the work of a thousand people for a month—demanded in a lump sum.
A wealthy lord might manage it, but the Impera domain was dirt-poor.
“One thousand gold… not for resurrecting the dead, just for a beating?”
No wonder Eamon’s face had soured.
He could never accept that demand.
He’d probably thought of appealing to the kingdom’s judges.
But Bener had surely bribed them already. The verdict was obvious.
A trial by combat.
Eamon would lose and be stripped of title—made a Blank.
I’d seen how Blanks were treated. Disgust welled up.
The nerve of these swindlers.
Yes, Ian had thrown the punches, but the whole thing had been a trap.
On the desk were crumpled drafts of letters—Eamon’s pleas for forgiveness. He’d even thrown away his pride for his son.
But Bener would never accept.
Everything was unfolding exactly as in the novel I knew.
Even expecting it doesn’t make it easier to live through.
My own magic rank was only 2. The opponent? A swordmaster of Rank 5.
Even with a thousand of me, I’d lose. The gap between Rank 5 and 2 was immense.
Even Eamon at Rank 4 would fare no better.
At this rate, our chances in a duel were zero.
Rank 5…
There was one way to reach it instantly.
The Necronomicon.
An artifact that could fix a caster’s dark-magic rank permanently at 5—at the cost of their soul.
If I used it, maybe I could win. Rank 5 against Rank 5.
“…No.”
But that would be the end. Even if I won the duel, dark magic would slowly erode my mind. I’d go insane, sacrifice Irene and Eamon, and eventually be killed by the protagonist or someone else.
Using it would be sheer stupidity.
“Ugh…”
Then what about paying the thousand gold? Impossible. Even selling the castle, Bener would find another excuse, and we’d be even poorer.
“Phew.”
No matter how I thought, there was only one answer.
And I’d already set it in motion.
Claude.
The Swift-Sword Knight, Claude.
Thankfully, I’d recruited him.
Still, had I made a mistake by revealing even the location of the knightly relic to him?
Would the novel’s future unravel?
“…Damn.”
It wasn’t ideal, but it was the least bad choice.
