RMA 10

chapter 10

#1

Winter had come.

This year, the snow was heavier than usual, and the wind slicing through the forest was sharp as a blade.

Edward, the Duke of Montemer, stood in the biting gale. His gaze lingered quietly on the northern mountains beyond.

“Your Grace, the wind is harsh. Please, come inside.”

Edward didn’t reply right away. The woman’s voice behind him belonged to Medea Montemer.

Her name before marriage had been Medea Ophelia—the youngest daughter of the Marquis of Ophelia, famed for their mastery of ice magic.

Edward looked absently at her face, then turned away again. He rarely spoke, conserving his powerful mana, but he did not ignore her words anymore. That had changed long after Anis’s death.

He sat, accepted the blanket she handed him, and finally opened his mouth.

“What brings you?”

“I came to ask who you’ll be taking on this expedition.”

Edward’s eyes cooled. Medea—his wife. He knew well enough what her feelings were, what schemes moved in her mind. But neither he nor Montemer concerned themselves with that.

His role never changed.

To build, train, and maintain the strongest fighting force.

That was all. Which was why he did not involve himself in domestic matters.

Lawrence, his son.

I’ve heard the rumors. If they’re true…

A certain annex where the sounds of breaking furniture and maidservants’ screams rang out daily. If those whispers proved true, he would be disappointed—interest gone in an instant. Montemer was that kind of house.

Don’t fail me, son. Don’t let me down.

The pen moved at a flick of his hand, scratching across the parchment. This expedition was a wolf hunt—against winter wolves, ferocious, vicious creatures.

[… …]
[Lawrence Montemer]

The very last name on the list. Edward’s gaze lingered on it before he handed the document over.

Medea, Duchess of Montemer, was not only the lady of the house—she was also a competent administrator.

Edward’s principle was simple: if someone had ability, he used them, no matter who they were.

Medea checked the list and smiled faintly.

“Thank you. I’ll see it prepared.”

“Hm.”

Mana hummed faintly as Edward waved her off. Medea bowed deeply and left.

Once the door shut behind her, her thoughts turned sharp.

Curse, poison… and subjugation.

The perfect trifecta.

Edward would only think: He died because he was weak.

Because her husband was that sort of man. Whatever affection their marriage had once held had long since frozen away.

It had been political from the start.

For her children to climb to the very peak of Montemer, she would do anything. For to lose within Montemer was to lose in the entire world.

“You won’t walk back from this road, Lawrence.”

She didn’t know how a child without a mana core had come to wield magic, but she knew this: he wouldn’t get another chance.

His body was already broken with wounds, his mind tattered and fading.

“I’ll make sure it ends this time.”

Her eyes rested on the list once more before she slipped into the shadows.

It was time for the wolf hunt.

#2

“Master Lawrence—! The summons is here!”

“Whew—already?”

“Yes! Here.”

In the annex, Rachel handed him the sealed letter. The Duke’s crest blazed red upon it. Inside was a simple order: he was to join the punitive expedition.

“What about the baggage?”

“I packed it all. But… what are you planning to do with this?”

“Wolf hunting.”

“…Excuse me?”

Lawrence checked through the luggage again, running a hand over his body. He had grown broader, taller, stronger.

In the Boston bag: slabs of sealed meat. Bait. Wrapped so tight no scent could escape.

“I’m heading out.”

“Be careful on the road! Did you forget anything?”

“I’m fine.”

The backpack held his handmade artifacts—spares that could be swapped in at a moment’s notice.

He left the annex quietly.

The streets outside felt empty, like a ghost town abandoned to the wind.

He pulled his hood low and walked toward the city center. Even so, the crest of Montemer stitched into his sleeve made his identity clear.

Looks like the rumors spread well enough.

Medea’s “gifts” had not ceased. Cursed items, stronger with every delivery.

It had been no small effort to shield Rachel from their effects. But thanks to them, his growth had been accelerated to terrifying extremes.

He now stood 168cm tall—unthinkable height for an eleven-year-old.

“I wonder how surprised Medea will be when she sees me.”

No carriage had been sent. Perhaps one would come later, but for now, she meant to humiliate him, to make him appear pathetic from the very start.

Maybe I’ll stretch my legs. It’s been a while since I ran full-out.

Without the shackles of mana, his physical strength had reached far beyond ordinary human limits.

He ran. Through the crowded streets, weaving between passersby like it was training.

Excitement surged in his chest.

He wanted to see their faces. His parents’ faces when they saw what he had become.

Like an awl breaking through a sack—he would stab outward, all at once, so they could never force him back inside.

“Hahahahaha!”

His wild laughter rang out through the streets, sending people scattering in fright.

#3

The House of Montemer.

Even with the bitter winds of winter closing in, the flood of visitors did not slow.

The [expedition] was a grand, nationwide affair. Barbarians, beastkin, wolves, monsters—anything that threatened the empire had to be struck down.

Nobility bore a duty: to march, to fight, to win glory, and to protect the people. That duty was why the emperor granted them titles at all.

Montemer was a ducal house charged with defending the empire’s northern borders alongside the Archduke.

“Phew…”

Lawrence’s breath fogged thick in the icy air as he lifted his hood. The wind bit through his clothes—a taste of how brutal this winter would be.

In weather like this, wolves only grew more savage.

“Stop! State your name—”

“Lawrence of Montemer. I’ve come by summons.”

“O-Oh! Understood, my lord!”

The soldier faltered at the sight of crimson eyes—Edward’s unmistakable mark. But… eleven years old?

“Master Lawrence… truly?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“….”

It didn’t match the rumors.

“You thought some lunatic had wandered in?” Lawrence smirked.

“N-No, my lord! Please, proceed! The muster is in the grand arena.”

Nodding, he entered. Immediately, eyes fell upon him.

Noble families from all across the north bustled through the gates with carriages, supplies, and retainers.

Among them were two names Lawrence remembered all too well.

Algeras. Damian.

The Algeras knights—tied to dark pacts. And Damian, destined to commit atrocities during this very campaign.

Disaster had to be stopped. The wolves had to be hunted.

His eyes narrowed at the sight of the Algeras banner: a golden eagle on black.

The grand arena was already filling. Lawrence walked in slowly, scanning the crowd. Reactions to his presence were varied.

“Lo… Lawrence?”
“Is that him?”
“No way—how!?”

His siblings stared in shock. Understandable. The boy who should have been wasting away under curses and poison now stood taller, stronger, alive.

Lawrence ignored them and strode to the youngest brother.

“Been a while, Loras.”

“…You…”

“Look. I’m bigger now, aren’t I?”

At eleven, Lawrence stood 168cm.

Loras, at fourteen, was only 161.

Even with elixirs, he couldn’t keep up with Lawrence’s monstrous growth.

A whole head shorter—at their age, the difference was like looking up at a giant.

“You… how—”

“What? You think I should still be bedridden? While you’re busy beating maids and smashing furniture?”

“….”

The words struck home.

Danger. Alarm bells rang in Loras’s head. If Mother saw this—!

“Lawrence…?”

The voice came from behind.

He turned.

The Duchess, Medea, stood there, her composure cracking.

He bowed politely, as though declaring: Thanks to you, I’ve been doing quite well.

“Greetings, Duchess. Have you been well?”

“…Is anything hurting you?”

“Of course not. Didn’t Your Grace take such wonderful care of me these last six months?”

“T-That’s… yes, that’s right…”

His smile only brightened.

Medea’s chest tightened. That smile looked pure, but she knew better.

Oliver had said it himself: Lawrence was swallowing curses and poison whole.

Every day, reports spoke of screams echoing from the refuse heap.

No human could make such sounds without breaking.

And yet… he should have!

“Thanks to you, I’ve grown. I’m even taller than Brother Loras now.”

The solid frame before her looked like that of an adult already. No trace of curse, no shadow of poison lingered in his eyes.

The cathedral? No… there were no reports. No priests came or went. Then how—!?

Her throat went dry.

Anis. Lawrence. Why did those two always rise up to block her?

Her grip tightened, crumpling the papers in her hands.

“Well then, I’ll go wait.”

“…Very well.”

She couldn’t rebuke him here, not before so many eyes. She couldn’t demand to know what had happened, or how he’d survived.

So she simply swallowed her questions and watched him walk away, her mind in turmoil.

“Why won’t he just—”

Her muttered resentment was lost to the winter wind.

And then—

“The Duke of Montemer enters!”

Another presence strode in, radiating vitality and strength.