Chapter – 137…
Helen and Kravel stayed silent for quite a long time.
“So that was your intention?”
“Strangely convincing.”
“Didn’t expect that from you.”
The scouts all turned to look at Carlisle as though seeing him for the first time.
They too had believed this damned troublemaker had kidnapped Maraga on a whim. Who would’ve thought there was actually a plan behind it?
“So… you were planning to earn the favor of the Storming Gale Tribe by saving Awanga’s son?”
“‘Earn their favor’ sounds a bit much. Call it forcing a debt on them. Aren’t Northerners not in the business of trying to win barbarians over?”
“…I misspoke.”
Helen admitted her mistake without resistance.
“Yes. You’re right, Private Carlisle. Northerners neither fear barbarians nor seek their approval.”
“As long as you understand.”
“Thank… thank you.”
Helen looked away, embarrassed.
Of all things, to be lectured about Northern pride by someone like Carlisle…
“A-hem!”
Kravel couldn’t bring himself to say anything and instead hid behind an awkward cough.
“But insubordination still requires punishment, Private Carlisle.”
“Well, I figured as much.”
“You’ll spend the night in the brig. If you reflect for a night, the battalion commander will surely forgive you.”
“Really?”
“Wouldn’t you agree, Commander?”
Helen turned to Kravel.
“Hrmm. Hrm, hrm. Insulting one’s battalion commander would normally demand a court-martial, but considering Private Carlisle’s contribution, we shall let it go with that. Hrm.”
Kravel reluctantly agreed.
This was the army.
Regardless of the circumstances, a private who had hurled insults at a battalion commander had to receive at least the appearance of punishment.
Carlisle understood that much and accepted Helen’s suggestion.
“A night in the brig is fine. Though I won’t be reflecting.”
“Just don’t desert. It’s only one night.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Can I trust you?”
“Why would I desert over one night?”
Carlisle snorted.
Helen’s eyes plainly showed disbelief and anxiety.
“So what do we do now? Send a messenger to the Storming Gale Tribe—”
“Are you out of your mind?”
Carlisle cut Kravel off.
“If we stay put, they’ll come on their own. Why send a messenger?”
“W-what do you mean, Private Carlisle?”
“Sigh.”
Carlisle rose from his cot with a look of utter exasperation and walked toward the map hanging in the tent.
“The Storming Gale army will probably move from here to here. That’s where the incident took place.”
“That seems likely.”
“And if they march south, they’ll reach our fortress.”
“Mm…”
Kravel didn’t seem to understand, unable to answer right away.
“In that case,” Helen said, “the enraged Storming Gale Tribe will wipe out all the minor tribes in the area. We can take control of the whole region without spilling a drop of our own blood—is that what you’re implying?”
“Top of the class.”
Carlisle complimented her.
“Try a bit harder, will you? A battalion commander with no sense at all—tsk.”
“You little—!”
Kravel trembled with irritation.
“So report to the higher-ups, then wait patiently.”
“A good strategy,” Helen said, impressed once again.
“Anything else to consider, Private Carlisle?”
“Mm.”
Carlisle thought for a moment.
“Treat the barbarian well. That’s key. Keep him safe and unharmed, then hand him over once Awanga arrives with his army.”
“I agree.”
“I’ve said enough. You can handle the rest. I’m going.”
Carlisle stepped out of the tent.
“Where are you going, Private Carlisle?”
“To the brig. I’m supposed to spend the night there, remember?”
“……”
“Bye.”
“R-right. Take care.”
Helen watched him leave, baffled.
A private walking himself into the brig… what a world.
She shook her head as she watched Carlisle head toward the prison.
* * *
Outside the brig.
“P-Private Carlisle?”
“What are you doing here?”
The guards flinched when they saw him.
The deserter from two months ago was now standing at their door of his own accord—of course they were startled.
“I’m here for punishment. Open up.”
“Punishment…?”
“Lady Helen said to spend the night in the brig and reflect.”
“What kind of bullshit is that?!”
One of the sentries shouted in disbelief.
“I don’t feel like explaining. Move.”
“Huh?”
“I’m just going to get some sleep. Don’t wake me.”
Carlisle pushed past them, stepped inside, and with a clank! locked the cell door himself.
“What… what the hell? Is he insane?”
“Seriously. Who walks into the brig voluntarily? You’re supposed to be dragged in.”
The guards stared at each other, dumbfounded.
Even they, as military police, had never seen a private walk into confinement without an escort.
“Unbelievable. When did punishment become a pet dog’s name?”
“Forget it. Getting involved with him will only make life harder.”
“True that.”
They returned to their post with a sigh.
Even the battalion commander tread lightly around Carlisle; what could ordinary MPs do?
* * *
The next morning.
“Ugh. It’s getting chilly.”
Carlisle stepped out of the brig with a spring in his step.
“Hey, butler, I’m hungry.”
“We’re going to get breakfast now.”
“Great.”
He headed straight for the kitchen.
“Acts like the brig’s his damn bedroom.”
“Don’t bother. That guy’s always been like this. Why do you think they call him the Northern Bastard?”
The MPs had long since given up on caring.
Trying to deal with Carlisle only resulted in headaches.
“You’re here? Sit,” said André, the mess chief, welcoming him as always.
Carlisle casually placed a gold coin on the table; André wiped the table as if cleaning and quietly pocketed it.
“You might have to share a table today. That okay?”
“Share?”
“The commander said we should treat the tribal chief’s son well. So you’ll probably eat together. If it bothers you, I can set up another—”
“That’s not necessary.”
Carlisle waved it off.
Soon, Maraga arrived with the scouts escorting him.
“You bastard! You come out of the brig and don’t even report? You’re just sitting here stuffing your face?!”
Bergman barked at him.
“I’m just hungry.”
“A private doesn’t eat here!”
“I’m a customer.”
“A… customer?”
“I pay him a gold coin per meal.”
“A g-gold coin per meal?!”
Bergman’s eyes nearly popped out.
He wasn’t the only one shocked.
“A gold coin? For one meal?”
“Rich young master indeed.”
“No wonder he never eats with us. That’s three gold a day… his daily meals cost a soldier’s monthly wage!”
And that was true.
An average soldier earned three gold coins a month.
Knights made around five.
Carlisle spent a soldier’s monthly salary in one day—just to eat.
It was ridiculous… but also understandable.
In this blood-soaked land of Kuberin, André used rare, high-quality ingredients that could never be found locally.
“Damn this world!”
“Rich get away with everything! The poor get crushed!”
“Boo!”
The scouts growled in frustration.
Some ate flavorless “army slop” every day, while this noble brat feasted on luxury meals worth gold…
“You scheming continent-dwellers! What are you planning?! What do you intend to do with me?! If you wish to mock me, just kill me! Don’t disgrace a warrior!”
Maraga roared with hostility.
“You seem lively now.”
Carlisle snorted.
Yesterday he’d looked half-dead, but after a day of treatment, he was already full of spirit. Barbarians truly were built differently.
Barbaric tribes were hardier and more physically gifted than continent-folk. Minor injuries barely fazed them.
And Maraga was Awanga’s son—strength ran in his blood.
“Pipe down and sit. Who yells at the table? Do barbarians have no table manners?”
“Y-you!”
Maraga finally seemed to recognize him.
“You’re the one who kidnapped me!”
“When did I kidnap you?”
“What?”
“You were being chased by the Black Fangs. I saved you. And now you accuse me of kidnapping?”
“Lies! Why would a continent-dweller save me?!”
“You seemed like a fine warrior. I saved you out of respect.”
“That… what does that mean?”
His tone softened.
Barbarians loved being called things like “brave,” “honorable,” or “mighty.” It was practically a cultural weakness.
“Didn’t the Black Fang seem cowardly to you?”
“Indeed!”
Maraga thundered his agreement.
“They use poison like cowards! They know nothing of a warrior’s honor!”
“I agree. Calling themselves barbarians while relying on poison—shameful. Underhanded. Dishonorable.”
“Hm. You’re ugly, but you know a few things.”
“……”
“So there is a continent-dweller who understands a warrior’s honor.”
Carlisle suppressed the urge to comment.
By barbarian standards, he really wasn’t handsome. Someone like Bergman or Wilson would fit their tastes better.
“So I saved you. Don’t misunderstand. Seeing a young warrior chased by cowards… it just felt right to help, even if you’re the enemy.”
“That is reasonable.”
Maraga nodded thoughtfully.
“Warrior of the continent, what is your name? I am Maraga, son of Awanga.”
“Carlisle. Carlisle von Sigmund.”
“Si-Sigmund?!”
Maraga recoiled in shock.
In barbarian lands, no name carried more weight than Sigmund.
