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Chapter – 26
“What kind of father does something like this?”
A bitter complaint slipped out of Carlyle’s mouth.
Of all places, his father had to send him straight into the deadliest battlefield imaginable.
“They say a lion throws its cubs off a cliff, don’t they, young master?”
“Do I look like a lion to you?”
“It’s a metaphor, sir.”
“This isn’t a cliff—it’s a pit of hellfire.”
The region called Kuberin—where Carlyle was being sent—was a place where not a single day passed without battle. Dozens, even hundreds, of soldiers were injured or killed there daily.
No wonder it was known as the Blood-Soaked Land.
“What father would want to throw his son into certain death? He only wishes for you to grow stronger, young master.”
“If I get any stronger than this, there won’t be a body left to bury.”
“What can we do? That’s the fate of all northerners.”
“That damned ‘northerner’s fate.’”
Carlyle pouted, but he couldn’t deny that Maranello had a point.
Yeah, being born a northerner really is a curse.
The lives of northerners were harsh beyond measure.
Though the territory of Decaron was vast and fertile, the northern people couldn’t enjoy that blessing because of endless wars.
The food from the rich soil became rations for the army. The resources turned into weapons and armor. The strong, spirited people themselves became soldiers—and perished on the battlefield.
So, the northerners lived in poverty, and their average life expectancy was short.
Given their brutal conditions, it was no wonder their population was so small despite the size of their land.
“Fine, let’s say I accept that. But what about the soldiers who’ll be under my command? What did they ever do to deserve this?”
By tradition, once a Sigmund heir completed his officer commissioning ceremony, he would immediately serve in the army as a commanding officer.
Carlyle had completed his ceremony and received his heir’s sword, so he was officially an officer—soon to command his own troops.
The only problem: he had no real military knowledge.
The original Sigmund—Carlyle’s body’s former owner—had been lazy and careless about his studies, so the new Carlyle inherited that ignorance as well.
Sure, Carlyle had once been a top-ranked player in the game Overlord—his name gracing the leaderboard for years—but that didn’t exactly make him a real strategist.
“That’s not something you need to worry about just yet, young master.”
“Hm?”
“You know there’s still a trial to pass.”
“Oh, right.”
The “trial” Maranello referred to was the Noble Proof, a rite all newly appointed Sigmund officers had to complete before gaining the right to command troops.
Until then, there was no need to panic about tactics or command.
“You still have a bit of time left, don’t you? You should spend it learning as much as you can about military matters, young master.”
“Yeah, I guess I should.”
Carlyle had always hated studying—but this time was different.
This was about survival.
In his past life, studying had been about getting by in society. Now, it was about not dying.
It wasn’t just his own life at stake—his men’s lives would depend on his decisions.
He couldn’t afford to slack off.
Carlyle felt bitter about it, but there was no helping it.
Guess that’s what I get for possessing Sigmund’s body.
As Sigmund, he couldn’t just live a carefree life of luxury anymore.
Only one month remained before his deployment to the Blood-Soaked Land.
During that time, Maranello drilled into him everything from the most basic military knowledge to practical combat techniques.
Maranello had once been known as the Reaper of the North, a living legend. He knew countless ways to survive real battles.
Of course, with so little time, most of the training was little more than a crash course—but it was still better than nothing.
“Is the boy improving?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Maranello replied to Duke Guntram’s question.
“He’s doing his best, surprisingly.”
“So, he doesn’t want to die after all.”
The Duke’s eyes grew cold.
“But, Your Grace,” Maranello began cautiously,
“May I humbly suggest reconsidering your decision to send young master Carlyle to the Blood-Soaked Land?”
“That is out of the question.”
The Duke’s voice was firm.
“But you, more than anyone, know how dangerous that place is.”
“That’s precisely why I’m sending him. If I send him somewhere comfortable, how will he behave? He’ll go back to his old ways.”
“But still—”
“Yes, it will be perilous. He may even die by the hands of those barbarians. But so be it. That is the fate of those born as Sigmunds.”
Duke Guntram of Decaron was known as the Iron Judge—and the title suited him perfectly.
In the face of his unyielding convictions, there were no exceptions.
Not even for his own blood.
“I must send my sons and daughters into that Blood-Soaked Land. The blame, the guilt—I will bear all of it. That is the duty and the burden of the head of House Sigmund.”
Seeing the Duke’s resolve, Maranello couldn’t protest further.
Then all I can do is help the young master survive… somehow.
And so, Maranello drove Carlyle even harder.
The one bit of solace was that Carlyle had grown—astonishingly so.
Since the day he awoke from his coma, he’d been a different man—no longer the useless scoundrel he once was.
After his secret night training at the ruined castle, he was already stronger than most lower-ranked knights.
Maranello even began to suspect Carlyle had been hiding his true strength all along.
Still, that wasn’t enough.
Maranello knew too well how deadly the northern barbarians—and the Blood-Soaked Land—truly were.
Whack!
“Ow!”
Carlyle cried out, staggering back.
“Hey! Isn’t that a bit much? Ugh.”
He rubbed his shoulder where Maranello’s feather duster had struck him.
What kind of feather duster hits this hard?
Maranello never used wooden swords or real blades in training. Only that ridiculous feather duster—but its power was like a war hammer’s.
If he ever swung it seriously, Carlyle was sure it could dent steel or shatter stone.
Sometimes he even wondered if the thing was secretly a legendary weapon disguised as a cleaning tool.
“Do you really need to beat people with a feather duster?”
“Heh.” Maranello gave a frosty smile.
“The barbarians’ axes will hurt far worse, young master.”
“I know, I know—but this is overkill!”
“If you die in battle, this old man will never forgive himself. I’d spend the rest of my days regretting that I didn’t train you harder.”
“You don’t have to go that far! If I die, I die. Don’t blame yourself for it.”
“That’s not something I can control, I’m afraid.”
Whack!
“Gah!”
Carlyle barely dodged as Maranello’s feather duster whooshed past his head.
Had it hit, his skull would’ve been crushed for sure.
The news that Carlyle was being sent to the Blood-Soaked Land spread across Decaron like wildfire.
“As expected, His Grace doesn’t play favorites—not even with his own children.”
“You saw what he did during that trial, didn’t you? He sentenced that good-for-nothing brat to death—and nearly had his arm cut off!”
“No matter how much of a scoundrel he is, the Sigmund family tradition spares no one. That’s how it’s always been.”
The people of Decaron praised the Duke’s decision and held him in the highest regard.
Public morale soared, and young men eagerly volunteered for conscription.
When even the Duke sent his own children to war, who could dare to refuse?
After all, even the Duke’s eldest daughter, Selena Sigmund, had been serving as a knight for four years, earning remarkable military honors.
“That useless brat? He’ll die in his first battle—or run away.”
“It’d probably be better for His Grace if the barbarians killed him off anyway.”
The people supported their ruler—but not Carlyle.
“Bah! Let the bastard die out there!”
“Finally! That scum’s gonna get what’s coming to him!”
Carlyle had made far too many enemies with his past misdeeds. Hatred followed him everywhere.
Not that he cared.
He was far too busy dodging Maranello’s brutal training sessions to pay attention to gossip.
And so, time passed.
At last, the day came for Carlyle to depart for the Blood-Soaked Land.
Before dawn, he was already awake, packing for the long journey—his armor, supplies, and other equipment.
With Maranello’s help, it was easier, but still chaotic.
“This uniform’s too tight.”
“They’re meant to be, young master.”
“Do I really have to wear it?”
“As an officer of Decaron, you must maintain proper dignity and appearance.”
Maranello adjusted Carlyle’s collar and pinned the small rectangular insignia of a Second Lieutenant on his chest.
“Officer, huh? What a joke.”
Carlyle snorted.
“It’s not like I’ll have any soldiers to command until I pass that Noble Proof.”
“Even so, you must wear it properly.”
“Ugh, fine. Just stop choking me with it.”
As he wrestled with the uniform, Evangeline approached timidly.
“Um, young master…”
“Yeah? What is it?”
“I—I wanted to give you this.”
She held out a bracelet.
It was old and plain—hardly a suitable gift.
To someone else, it might even seem insulting.
“What’s this junk?”
Carlyle snapped, distracted and irritated from his uniform troubles. The words came out harsher than he intended.
“It’s… it’s my grandmother’s heirloom.”
“…What?”
“My late grandmother left it to me.”
—Ah, crap.
Carlyle’s face went pale.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly.
