Chapter 40: The Kingdom of Bers (17)

“Daddy!”

“Daddy!”

Baimart caught the children rushing toward him and immediately noticed they had gained a lot of weight.

He didn’t need to weigh them to know.

Because he was their father.

Once every fortnight.

One hour.

The “family time” spent under the distant gaze of watching soldiers was infinitely precious to Baimart.

Especially before entering the colosseum.

“Daddy! Look! I drew this!”

“Me too! Me too! I learned letters now! I can write!”

“Let me see…”

Baimart looked at the colorful drawings and the crooked, awkward letters the children proudly held out.

In truth, Baimart could not read.

Still, he could tell that Archduke Greenwood was keeping his promise.

Becoming the archduke’s champion had been fortunate.

If the one he served had been any other noble or the King of Bers himself, such “consideration” would never have existed from the start.

“You drew really well. Are these the knights over there? They’re ugly.”

“No! That’s you, Daddy!”

“…You’ll have to draw a lot more from now on. Still, you did well. Keep drawing and you’ll get better.”

“Heehee!”

One hour.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

The allotted time was still flowing.

Baimart stroked the children’s heads, ate with them, and took a short walk around the estate.

Time passed like a river.

Only five minutes remained.

In the little time left, Baimart combed the tails of the children lying side by side on his lap.

It was something a mother should have done… but there was no mother.

She had died long ago.

Returned to the high heavens, into Barhan’s embrace.

When their tails were combed, the children would fall asleep immediately, and then Baimart’s one hour would end.

Soon Anastasia approached Baimart, who sat motionless so as not to wake them.

“Lord Baimart.”

“…Yes.”

Baimart carefully shifted aside so the children would not wake.

The brief sweet dream was over.

It was time to return to cold reality.

Back in the training yard, Baimart punched and kicked the steel sandbags until they shattered.

It was less training and more an outburst of rage.

Anastasia silently watched him train as though a volcano were spewing flames and ash without restraint.

She simply stood there until every session ended, like a statue that had grown from the ground.

Finally, when the long day sank into night, she spoke.

“Baimart. Excessive training will ruin your body.”

There was no answer.

Anastasia saw the steel plates that had been perfectly fine until yesterday now completely crushed and crumpled.

The steel sandbags looked as though they embodied Baimart’s heart.

Hers was the same.

“Baimart. I have prepared bathwater. You must wash and rest—”

“Can I win?”

Anastasia froze, her hand still outstretched to touch the bear beastman’s shoulder.

Can I win?

Those words carried Baimart’s shattered spirit whole.

Surabar was strong—an unprecedented, terrifying rival.

Was it true that Barhan had prepared everything for all Bar even before they were born?

Baimart was not naive enough to be deceived by such lies and false comfort.

Life was filled with trials, adversity, despair, and rage.

There was no hope.

Baimart recalled the colosseum.

KIIYAAAAA—!!

The one who had screamed loud enough to fill the entire arena had not been Surabar.

It had been the beast he faced.

A cockatrice.

A horrific monster that even dozens of soldiers might not be able to kill.

Surabar had crushed it with ease.

Bare-handed, without a weapon.

Could I defeat a cockatrice like that?

If I train more here, become stronger—could I do exactly what Surabar did that day?

Baimart shook his head.

He could probably defeat it.

He could claim victory against that dreadful beast.

But he could not picture himself achieving the same perfect, overwhelming victory as Surabar.

Even fully armed, Baimart could only imagine an ambiguous win or a mutual death.

I am weak…

Baimart realized the ten victories he could never achieve had vanished before his eyes.

Not only the intentional defeat set by Archduke Greenwood—life itself had gifted him unbearable suffering.

“Anastasia… I… what should I do…?”

The turned-around Baimart was crying.

Anastasia could offer no words, no comfort.

Any consolation would fall on deaf ears to this man who had completely collapsed and was screaming in despair…

Instead, she embraced him.

She held the ruined face, the sobbing, endlessly weeping Baimart who thrashed in the swamp of unbearable despair.

“Baimart. Do you remember what I said in the colosseum?”

“…Yes.”

Anastasia looked at the bear beastman’s face—emotions he had hidden and locked away now vomited out, leaving the man utterly broken and distorted.

He was a wreck.

Yet she loved him.

Baimart.

“Help me. I will kill my father. And my other siblings too.

If I become Archduke Greenwood, you will be free.”

Baimart nodded.

***

“Kuh!”

Thud!

The more the sparring continued, the more hollowly Paramir was defeated, and Garland began to understand what was wrong.

When he had first met Paramir, it was because of his father’s order to subjugate goblins.

At that time, Paramir—who had participated as acting leader of the Black Tail Mercenaries—had achieved unbelievable feats.

He had fallen into a pit dug to trap or hinder the goblin horde and single-handedly slaughtered well over fifty goblins down there.

Back then Garland did not know he was a swordmaster (and even if he had, the desire to recruit him would not have changed), so he had simply thought him an extraordinary talent with tremendous sword skill.

That was wrong.

Paramir’s swordsmanship was inferior to Garland’s own, who had received thorough knight training from before the age of ten.

Paramir’s sword relied on strength, speed, improvisation, and absurd (because he was a swordmaster) reflexes.

Those were extremely important in real combat and had saved him from countless crises, but in the end they were performed without a proper foundation.

One cannot fight forever relying only on improvisation.

For a swordmaster who always seeks out battle, the basics are even more crucial.

How on earth did he become a swordmaster? What kind of training made his realm so high yet his foundation nonexistent…?

Nothing is impossible.

Paramir must be one of those impossible cases.

Asking about phenomena one does not understand anyway yields no answer.

Instead of chasing futile questions, Garland decided to do what he could right now.

“Surabar will train fine on his own. The important one is you. I know what the problem is.”

“Yes? What problem do you mean?”

“Come here for a moment. Surabar can be left alone, really. We can end today’s sparring here. There is something more important than sparring.”

“Understood.”

Garland urged the coachman to head to the garden on the outskirts of the palace grounds.

He had to be conscious of eavesdropping magic both in the annex and in Surabar’s quarters, so he chose this place.

It is easy to maintain magic for long periods on ground that has been leveled for construction.

Conversely, in open areas with wild bushes, maintaining magic is difficult.

When Paramir asked how he knew such things, Garland only smiled and lightly replied that royal studies include specialized knowledge unknown to the public.

In any case, it was truly fortunate to have a place where they could speak freely without worrying about others.

This was even more so when he remembered why they had come to the Kingdom of Bers.

After confirming they were far from gardeners or suspicious maids, Garland finally spoke.

This place was enemy territory, even if he sometimes forgot because he had grown used to it.

“No matter how I look at it, your sword is clumsy. Reaching the realm (swordmaster) is an undeniable, remarkable achievement, but aside from that, your swordsmanship relies only on improvisation and brute force. I believe this is because the habits from the place you belonged to have solidified in your body.”

“Yes…? You’re saying my swordsmanship—mine, of all people—is clumsy? Are you serious?”

“I am completely serious, ‘Sir Pamir.’ I guarantee it—your pure sword skill is worse than mine.”

Paramir looked as though he had been punched hard in the face, or as if the entire world he knew had been overturned.

Garland picked up a thin branch nearby.

He held it like a sword and assumed proper stance—the basic knight posture he had learned before he was even ten.

At the basic footwork used against human opponents, Paramir flinched for a moment.

“You are strong. That cannot be denied. But you are incomplete. Only the gods know what led you to that realm… yet there is still room for you to become stronger.”

“Aren’t you looking down on me too much?”

“I have every reason to look down on you. How could I not, when you lose just once and mope like a child begging ‘please comfort me~’? Take up your sword, ‘Sir Pamir.’

I will show you what real knightly swordsmanship is.”

“…Are you serious?”

“I am always serious.”

“You’ll regret it.”

“You talk too much.”

Garland swung the branch-sword.

Soon, in the garden blooming with flowers, “Sir Pamir” found himself sprawled on the ground covered in dirt and fallen leaves.

“This is your pure skill level. Pathetic.”

Garland said.

Paramir wore the expression of someone whose entire fortune saved for dinner had been stolen.

***

Archduke Ged Greenwood had children.

Very many.

Even if the old man who had long led the house according to his will died, there were still plenty who could inherit it.

Anastasia knew full well that her turn would never come.

She, whose name was barely registered on the family ledger, had no chance.

Under normal circumstances.

Ged Greenwood cherished Anastasia.

Excessively so.

If he had a single weakness, it could only be her.

Whether it was because of Hokhma’s blessing that let her see the essence of whatever she looked upon, or because she was wiser than the other officially registered children, she did not know.

Anastasia had no desire to distinguish between the two.

Knowing would not turn back the past anyway.

Because he kept a well-sharpened blade close and used it often, giving it the tiniest—truly the tiniest—bit of “affection,” Archduke Greenwood would never open his eyes again.

Anastasia.

Anastasia Greenwood.

The archduke who, just hours ago, had climbed stairs with perfectly healthy legs, was dead.

The head of House Greenwood—who had boasted vitality unbelievable for a man nearing seventy—was dead.

She rose, looking at her deeply sleeping father.

It was time for the drug to take effect on the rest of the family as well.

The sun rose.

Anastasia gathered the bodies of everyone bearing the name “Greenwood” and placed them in coffins.

Thus the house welcomed a new master.

Even if the master changed, the work of those below did not.

They bowed their heads, swore loyalty, and continued their usual tasks without pause.

The Greenwood estate greeted a today no different from yesterday, as if nothing had happened.

The death of the former archduke caused astonishingly little trouble.

Even when receiving the King of Bers—who had rushed over in shock at the death of his dear “friend”—Anastasia remained remarkably calm.

Before the mourning Anastasia, King Red Stone of Bers truly wore the face of a sovereign grieving a loss.

“He was my old friend. We quarreled at times, but no one understood and helped me like the archduke did. So you are Ged’s daughter? Very well. I do not know what happened in this mansion, but I offer my sincere condolences for the deaths of your family. Rest assured there is nothing to worry about. Anastasia, your father’s death is a great sorrow to me as well.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty Red Stone, for coming in person. It is a great help.”

“Not at all. I only hope you will continue to be a pillar of the kingdom.”

“There will be no cause for worry. I swear it on the family name.”

“Haha… then I shall take my leave. If you need any help, speak anytime. Do not feel burdened.”

After all the mourners left and she returned to her “father’s” study, Anastasia noticed the huge man crouched in the corner watching her.

Seeing him, the new “Archduke Greenwood” smiled brightly with not a shred of falsehood.

Baimart.

My lover.

Master of my soul.

No one can separate us.

Not even death.

“I love you.”

She said, kissing Baimart, and for the first time in her life Anastasia felt the desire to bear someone’s child.

…Was there any need to restrain herself?

Was there reason to fear or give up in advance just because conceiving a child between two different species was nearly impossible?

Nothing is impossible.

Anastasia had learned at her father’s side that anything she wanted could be grasped.

Now she had the power to do anything.

Anastasia loved Baimart.

She wanted to kiss him, to share body heat with him.

Nothing stood in the way of her aching heart for him.

And… and…

“I want to have your child, Baimart.”

“Yes.”

Baimart answered.

The two entwined like inseparable snakes and made love for a long time.

Gazing at the sleeping face of Baimart, Anastasia swore.

For you, I can do anything.

Anything.