Chapter 84: The Guardian (3)

Six people died, and seventeen were injured.

Among the dead was Sir Malon. He was the old knight who had always sparred with me whenever I visited the barony.

It had been a dangerous journey, and everyone who accompanied us had accepted the risks. Yet, no matter how much one prepared, the death of others always left a bitter taste.

The wounded weren't in much better condition either.

 As soon as Baron Esquente arrived in the capital, he took everyone straight to the Temple of All Gods.

 Thanks to Sirien, who had administered emergency treatment, there were no additional deaths, but the number of critically injured was overwhelming.

Mary remained unconscious for three days due to the aftereffects of excessive use of her abilities.

 Hakon suffered a shoulder injury and was told he needed at least a month to recover.

 Galedin had wounds all over his body and was advised to rest for at least three months.

 Some soldiers had to retire from the front lines permanently.

 Even the baron himself had three broken bones.

“Ah, Sir Razen. You’re here. Thanks to you, I survived.”

 “Are you sure you should be walking around already? I thought the temple told you to stay in bed.”

 “Well, I can’t just lie there doing nothing forever. At least I got permission to move around. Though, the priest of Benevolence looked at me as if I were insane… but that’s nothing new.”

Divine power isn’t all-powerful.

In this era, where technological advancement lagged far behind, divine power was nothing short of a miracle—far surpassing even modern medicine.

 But that didn’t mean a trip to the temple would magically fix a person’s body in an instant.

Would it be more accurate to say the pain lingers? Or that the body remembers its wounds?

 Even with divine healing, people usually needed a recovery period.

 Pouring more divine power into a wound could accelerate healing, but the energy cost was high. Not just anyone could do it.

In other words, Baron Esquente was currently walking around while feeling every bit of the pain from his broken bones.

 Despite his composed expression, his face was slightly stiff.

“Sirien will oversee the funeral. You don’t have to push yourself.”

 “No, I must attend. They were my people. They died for me. Staying in bed at the temple would be shameful.”

 “…I see. Then I’ll go with you. Need a hand?”

 “I’m fine. I can walk on my own.”

And so, the baron insisted on walking—one agonizing step at a time—across the vast open ground of the Temple of All Gods, where the funeral was being held.

By the time we arrived, Sirien was deep in the ritual of sanctification, blessing the departed souls.

 A warm, soothing energy—characteristic of the Holy Power of Rest—spread throughout the area. Her calm voice echoed as she recited the prayers.

Unlike hasty battlefield burials, this ceremony followed the full rites.

 Sirien solemnly guided the souls, while Baron Esquente watched in silence, absorbing every moment.

 He finally spoke when the ceremony reached its end—when the souls had found their peace.

“Have the departed safely reached their rest?”

 “Yes. All that’s left is to cremate the bodies and send them off.”

 “…Thank you. I owe you both a great debt. Without you, I wouldn’t have survived either.”

Baron Esquente bowed his head.

Knowing how deeply he cherished his people, his gratitude felt sincere.

 And among the dead, there were those I had known personally.

 Especially Sir Malon, to whom I owed a great deal.

But before we could dwell on our grief, there was something else we needed to deal with—

 The ashes that Nezra had left behind.

Sirien let out a sigh.

“We all have things to say, don’t we? Let’s move somewhere else.”

We relocated, though not to anywhere special.

 The baron was still a walking patient, and we had been ambushed only hours ago.

 So instead of a formal meeting hall, we gathered in a room we had been using as a temporary conference space at our lodgings.

And as for what we needed to discuss—

 It wasn’t anything grand, but it was necessary.

The Baron Slowly Poured His Tea.

Sirien took a light sniff before taking a sip.

 Her brows furrowed slightly. It didn’t seem to taste very good.

“I had a vague idea. You two are extraordinary, after all. Even if I didn’t know exactly who you were, I wouldn’t have mistaken you for ordinary people.”

 “And yet, you were surprisingly compliant. You didn’t even try to dig into our background. Didn’t seem like you ran any investigations either.”

 “I chose to trust you. When you first requested information control, I’ll admit, it was unsettling… but for someone like me, keeping promises is the only way to avoid making enemies.”

Nezra. That damned demon had mentioned my father before escaping.

 Along with the name of House Berthus. And neither Sirien nor I had denied it.

In general, the names of young noble heirs were not widely known.

 To be specific, not until their debutante.

 Before that, only nobles with personal connections to the family would have any knowledge of them.

It was an unspoken rule.

 It wasn’t classified information, per se, but exposing a young heir to the public was rarely beneficial for a noble house.

 The more powerful the family, the more strictly they followed this principle—

 Too many enemies meant too many risks.

Typically, by the time one reached twelve or thirteen, word would start to spread in social circles.

 But for us, that time never came.

 We had already lived through a catastrophe before then.

That was why Sirien and I never bothered with aliases.

 Unless someone had met us face-to-face at Rehaim Castle, no one would know our names.

 And it wasn’t as if we had committed a crime—so we saw no reason not to use our real names openly.

“…I suppose I should be glad I never acted rudely toward you two. I had no idea things were this… significant.”

 “Hm.”

 “Well, no point in overthinking it. I’ll just consider myself fortunate to have made powerful connections.”

That said, our surnames were different.

 There was no mistaking House Eilencia, of course—

 But even the name ‘Berthus’ was one few would fail to recognize.

The House of Berthus, where I was born, held no real land.

 Strictly speaking, we had a nominal estate—

 A small, designated plot in the remote corners of the Eilencia Duchy.

 But my father had never set foot there.

 Nor had I.

Instead, our house received a portion of the taxes collected from the duchy.

 My father had been a knight, a man who had wielded a sword his entire life.

 He had no talent—or interest—in governing land.

 Even if he had, he would have rather swung his sword one more time than deal with administration.

A house without land, without rulers—

 An empty shell of a noble family.

And yet, House Berthus bore the title of ‘Count’ for one reason alone—

 Battle.

My father had been a Swordmaster.

 People called him ‘The Blade of Eilencia’—or, more crudely, ‘The Mad Dog.’

 The Berserker Blade.

 Argen Berthus.

 That was my father’s name.

Which meant that if my surname had been exposed, so had Sirien’s.

 House Berthus swore loyalty to one family and one family alone—House Eilencia.

What’s more, silver hair was a defining trait of the Eilencia bloodline.

 Not all silver-haired individuals were connected to the duchy—

 But with this much evidence, there was no longer room for doubt.

“…It seems the timing isn’t what you intended, but allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Neloa Esquente, lord of a small northern frontier land.”

 “Razen Berthus.”

 “Sirien Eilencia. The last surviving direct heir of Eilencia.”

 “…What?”

Thunk.

Time seemed to freeze around the baron.

 His arm, raised to sip his tea, halted mid-air.

His expression, too, remained locked in place—

 Then, bit by bit, it crumbled into shock and fear.

No, no, this can’t be. Please tell me it’s not true.

I could almost hear the plea he didn’t dare speak aloud.

 His words came in a rush.

“T-That… What do you mean, ‘the last direct heir’?! From what I know, the Lady of Eilencia is still residing in Rehaim Castle, isn’t she?”

 “That’s what they say.”

 “I was under the impression that the duchess was alive and well… and that the young duke was studying abroad. I assumed you two had come here to gain battlefield experience against the demons…”

But Sirien didn’t waver.

 She simply stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

The baron visibly shrank under her gaze.

“…I was planning to keep your identities secret, thinking I was being clever about it…”

 “It’s all lies. The one in Rehaim Castle is just some stand-in they picked up from who-knows-where. My brother—”

Her voice hardened.

“—was killed right in front of me.”

The baron’s face turned ashen.

 Even paler than when he had spoken of the Count of Eloran back in his own lands.

“This part isn’t confirmed, but I doubt my parents made it out alive either.  If that’s the case, my mother is probably an imposter too.  As things stand, Count Roxen is the one holding real power in the Eilencia Duchy. A traitor.”

 “…A traitor, you say?”

“There was a coup. It happened when Razen's and I were twelve. That’s when I lost my brother.”

Drip.

Had her throat gone dry? Sirien took another sip of tea.

 I followed suit, though more out of frustration than thirst.

“You understand why I’m telling you all this, don’t you?”

“…You’re asking for my help.”

“That’s right. Once this business is settled, I’m taking back my land. I’ll kill Razen's enemy—that demon. I’ll bring down the Count of Eloran, I’ll negotiate with the Imperial Court, And I’ll wipe out every last one of the traitors.”

Her golden eyes gleamed with cold resolve.

“When that time comes… I’ll need your hand.”

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