Chapter 73 : Chapter 73

Chapter 073: To Us, Tomorrow

The rain that had fallen through the night had stopped.

Callence arrived in Easton only after noon.

Heavily armed guards followed in orderly rows behind him.

Clop, clop.

After passing through the gate, Callence rode his horse slowly.

He quietly surveyed his surroundings.

“…….”

Callence’s expression gradually hardened.

Easton was the economic heart of Conwell.

People and goods were supposed to flow endlessly.

Yet, despite it being the time for peak activity, there was no welcoming crowd, and the streets were eerily desolate.

“My lord.”

Draven appeared from the opposite side, bowing respectfully.

Yeats, Kana, and Iroen were with him.

Clack.

Callence dismounted without acknowledging them.

The procession halted in the middle of Easton.

Even so, few of the townsfolk paid them any attention.

Most were either sobbing around the ruins of half-destroyed buildings or standing dazed, lost in thought.

Callence’s gaze lingered solely on those scenes.

Finally, his thick lips parted.

“Draven.”

“Yes, my lord.”

That was all.

Draven immediately lowered his eyes.

“…We lost him. My deepest apologies.”

Only then did Callence’s gaze shift to Draven and the three standing behind him.

A sudden silence fell.

Amid the sporadic wails in the background, Draven added a lengthy explanation.

“Someone aided Bihen Benkou’s escape… is that so.”

Callence muttered to himself.

He had heard all the details: the discord among the four, the collapse of Zephyros, Bihen Benkou’s resistance, the unavoidable stripping of command, and the appearance of a mysterious saboteur.

“When the smoke cleared, Bihen Benkou was gone.”

“I see.”

“…That is all.”

Callence surveyed the area further.

Traces of fierce urban combat were evident everywhere.

It resembled a wasteland.

“So that’s how it is.”

A deep shadow fell over Callence’s eyes as he sank into thought.

The silence stretched long.

Everyone watched their lord tensely.

The weight of the silence hinted at the depth of his anger.

Amid it all, one person stood out.

Yeats stared blankly at the ground, mouth agape.

His focus was blurred.

‘No way, it can’t be? Kuhn….’

Yeats blinked.

He suddenly felt eyes on him.

“…Ah!”

He gasped. How long had it been?

His lord was beckoning him with a flick of his hand.

The moment Yeats scurried toward Callence—

Smack!

Yeats staggered.

It felt like lightning had struck his face.

“Uh, uh….”

The pain was secondary; he was too shocked to speak properly.

His vision flashed.

Amid it, he saw Callence gesturing again, signaling him to come closer.

Yeats removed his hand from his stinging cheek and hesitantly approached.

His jaw trembled as if he’d lost all support.

Thud!

This time, his calf was kicked.

His body spun half a circle in the air before collapsing.

“My… my lord…!”

Yeats prostrated himself, crying out.

He was on the verge of tears.

Of course, this wasn’t the first time.

He’d been struck before, often for no reason, whenever the mood struck.

Each time, Yeats had consoled himself, believing enduring it was necessary for a rise in status.

‘B-but… in front of so many eyes…!’

Yeats gritted his teeth and quickly glanced around.

Behind Callence’s soldiers, he sensed mocking faces lurking beneath their visors.

Kana and Iroen were openly stifling laughter.

Draven, head bowed and looking away, was the only one Yeats felt grateful for.

That was as far as it went.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

Callence mercilessly beat the prostrate Yeats with a long iron rod handed to him by an attendant.

The ruthless sound echoed over the hushed ruins.

Thwack!

The barrage stopped only when Yeats fainted.

“Hoo.”

Callence exhaled heavily, his eyes gleaming.

He spoke to the attendant holding the rod.

“Grant Yeats a special stipend. Reduce Draven, Kana, and Iroen’s pay by thirty percent each.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Soldiers dragged the unconscious Yeats away.

Callence brushed back his sweat-soaked hair.

Suppressed killing intent seeped into his breath.

* * *

Days passed.

News finally reached the Litania Order.

Despite the land and sea routes around the order being sealed by magic formations, a messenger bird—one said to be used only by the leaders of Wild Dogs and Sewer Rats—crossed the sky.

“Ha, haha… Hahaha! My lady! Look at this! Hurry!”

Ramba, checking the note tied to the bird’s leg, made a fuss.

Inside the order, in Adeline’s temporary office.

Adeline’s eyes widened as she read the note.

Roland, reading over her shoulder, soon stammered.

“B-Bihen, that guy actually…!”

The note from Warren, the boss of Belmont, written in a scrawling hand, read:

「Bihen Benkou single-handedly broke through the encirclement of the Archduke’s Four Wings. Rumors that the returned Sword Fiend crushed the Archduke’s elite and Zephyros are spreading rapidly across Conwell. Easton is in great turmoil. The aftermath of the urban battle has intensified the townsfolk’s resentment. The Archduke’s side is struggling to manage the situation, but winning the people’s hearts is proving difficult. Most of the townsfolk revere Bihen Benkou.

P.S. The transport funds are as requested…」

Adeline’s eyes grew red.

She couldn’t pinpoint which part stirred her emotions.

The one who sounded the first meaningful victory was none other than Bihen Benkou.

That was enough.

“Hahaha! We need to spread this news to everyone! Morale will skyrocket! My lady, now it’s our turn! Our turn! Hahaha!”

Ramba hopped excitedly and rushed out of the office.

Even then, Adeline couldn’t tear her eyes from the note.

Finally, as if composing herself, she handed it to Roland and sank into the sofa.

An elderly man, standing quietly to the side, approached Roland and glanced at the note.

It was Moras, the high priest of Solari, head of the Conwell branch, and director of the Litania Order.

“Ohh….”

Moras skimmed the first lines and marveled.

He stroked his lush white beard with a wrinkled hand.

“As expected, his reputation is well-earned. Our brother Bolero praised him endlessly to me. A rare talent, skilled and virtuous despite his youth. A man who brought Elzerus’s revelation—what more is there to say? Heh heh.”

There was no response.

Adeline was lost in thought, nibbling her nails, while Roland was preoccupied, mentally reviewing the transport routes Warren mentioned.

As Moras awkwardly smacked his lips, watching them—

Bang!

Someone kicked open the office door.

Only one person would dare enter the lady’s quarters this way.

“Adel! Is what that filthy guy’s shouting true?!”

The Second Son, Killian.

When Adeline led a punitive force and was ambushed by the Archduke Callence, Killian had secretly mobilized his private soldiers to aid her escape.

It came at no small cost.

Despite their strained relationship and the suspicious timing of his intervention, this was why Adeline couldn’t easily dismiss him.

Above all, Killian knew his place and acted accordingly.

He had made it clear he had no interest or place in the rivalry between his siblings for the Conwell dukedom.

Thus, Conwell’s greatest wastrel prince settled into the Litania Order, living as a guest under his sister’s roof.

“…Yes. It’s time we started our next plan.”

“Huh, that Sword Fiend’s skills must be something else. Are my brother’s Four Wings ordinary? Together, they could overwhelm Eugene…”

Killian quickly shut his mouth.

Adeline and Roland’s cold gazes pierced him.

Mentioning Eugene was a mistake.

“Whoops, my bad.”

Killian mimed slapping his lips.

He playfully patted Roland’s back.

“Sorry, old sage. You know my mouth’s a loose cannon. Cut me some slack, eh?”

“Since when did you care about others’ opinions? Do as you always do.”

Killian sniffed awkwardly.

“Well, anyway. Any news from them, Adel?”

“Who’re you talking about?”

“Who else? The Gunbel Trading Company kids.”

A glint flashed in Adeline and Roland’s eyes.

Even Moras, who’d been pretending not to listen, subtly perked his ears.

Killian shrugged, oblivious to the tense atmosphere.

“With all these magic formations and whatnot, how much longer can we hold out? Food’s the issue. Bluntly, are we gonna fight while starving the kids? This tiny order’s supposed to produce food? We’re already stretched thin, and those Imperial riffraff we dragged along—how many are there? Keep this up, and we’ll be bankrupt in no time. Right, old sage?”

“So why’s the Second Son asking about the Gunbel Trading Company?”

“Ugh, so dense… Time’s cruel. How did our brilliant sage get so dull?”

He spoke bluntly, as was his nature.

Rubbing his chin like a master strategist, he continued.

“We need to secretly get food aid from the Gunbel Trading Company. That’s the only way to break this crisis, far as I see.”

Killian glanced around.

No one showed agreement.

“…Tch, so frustrating. The Gunbel Trading Company won’t back out now. They’ve invested too much in Conwell. That deputy leader woman probably went to Aldenfort. I heard last year the Aldenfort lord gave them a docking port. That’s their base, basically. By now, they should’ve prepared and sent us word.”

Despite his impassioned speech, the response was cold.

This was nothing new.

His noble blood and his unexpected aid in saving his sister with his private soldiers were the only reasons he clung to this position.

Killian sighed deeply, and Moras nodded understandingly.

“Phew. At least the old man sees my efforts.”

“Heh heh. Young lord, I’d appreciate it if you called me director, not old man.”

“…A magic faction branch head calling himself director?”

“Heh heh.”

As the two exchanged light banter, Adeline and Roland exchanged glances.

Without words, they understood each other.

The Archduke wasn’t foolish enough to plant someone like Killian as a spy.

More importantly, Killian wasn’t the type to volunteer for such a role.

So why was a man who’d spent his life indulging in debauchery now opposing his elder brother, vocally pushing his opinions from the weaker side?

The only explanation was that Killian was deliberately acting clumsy while scheming in his own way.

* * *

Conwell, Haspeld.

This small village, less than half a day from the border of Ludglen, had remained tranquil, untouched by the civil war’s ripples.

Until Bihen appeared.

Late at night, Bihen opened the door of Haspeld’s only tavern.

His face was hidden by the hood of his robe.

Creak.

The tavern was crowded.

More precisely, it was filled with mercenaries.

“…….”

The mercenaries, packing the tavern, turned to Bihen as he entered.

The lively chatter fell silent as if by magic.

Step, step.

Everyone watched Bihen in hushed silence.

No matter how tightly he wrapped himself, he couldn’t fully conceal his presence.

‘Where’s this guy from?’

‘He’s no ordinary guy.’

‘Damn. Another competitor.’

Bihen stopped.

He stood before a small table in the corner, where a young man sat alone, sipping ale.

Gulp.

The man spat the ale back into his glass.

Bihen sat across from him casually, but it felt as if an assassin had brazenly revealed himself to kill him.

Sure enough, Bihen said bluntly:

“If you want to live, buy me a drink.”

The man blinked, his mouth still agape.

Bihen had a reason for saying this.

In the tavern, this man looked the youngest.

His boyish face hadn’t yet shed its innocence.

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