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Moving anywhere is no ordinary task.

Setting aside the adaptation to a new environment.

Packing up, arranging for a moving company along with furniture.

Once I’ve moved everything to the prepped space, the reorganization begins.

Unpacking and organizing isn’t something that can be completed in just a day or two; it’s an endless series of major projects.

If the move were close, it would be easier.

But with distance, what if I encounter monsters or thieves?

Still, I couldn’t reduce the load.

Even a regular peasant, when wanting to move, would likely dismantle the floorboards to take them along, so it’s only natural.

After all, those planks are well-dried boards, and they are all worth money.

Naturally, those with a bit of wealth would need even more, and for the nobility, it was a matter of needing several carts’ worth of goods and furniture.

In that sense, the budget-wise mercenary Gordon—

No, now Baron Gordon Stark is relatively free from such burdens.

“Free? Chief, I mean, Baron. It’s more like there’s so little that it’s problematic. At least you’ve got enough rewards and gifts, right?”

“Well, what can I do? A wandering mercenary has wealth comprised of armor and weapons; a money pouch is sufficient.”

“Why on earth did someone like you, a Swordmaster, end up roaming around?”

“Robelio. A lot has happened. A lot.”

Gordon’s eyes momentarily softened and became distant.

Dozens of incidents involving magic and physical assaults that occurred in mainland Europa and south of Iceland quickly flashed through his mind.

Each one targeted the weaknesses of purity and dreams he had cherished.

Mostly in a chastity context.

Gordon shook off the haunting past that crept in, greeting him as if to say, “Hello?”

Beside him, the man named Robelio, once the temporary leader and treasurer of the Dayfly Mercenary Group, had suddenly turned into the butler of a baronial family overnight.

With Gordon’s dark history swirling in his mind, a large noise emerged as if the ground was about to open.

“Is it really okay to do this?”

“Huh? Is there a problem?”

“Excuse me, Chief, I mean, Baron. Ugh, this title just won’t stick to my tongue.”

“What’s the matter? Are you probing me?”

“Who am I to say such things?”

As Robelio drove the wagon, he whispered loudly to Gordon, who was riding beside him.

“You’re not just a chief anymore; you’re a nobleman, right?”

“What are you trying to say, bringing up that again?”

“Hey, can’t you listen? Isn’t it too much for people like us, with no background, to be filled with subordinates?”

“Why not?”

“Well… you’re a noble now?”

And also a Swordmaster, at that.

Robelio’s words weren’t entirely wrong.

If he were starting out as a noble with nothing, that would be one thing.

But with the endorsement of the Duke’s family, and being a Swordmaster, Gordon’s assets post-banquet were already massive beyond belief for a freshly minted noble.

Not to mention the existing powerful figures he’d been approaching to form connections.

Whenever a new power emerges, it’s only natural for checks and attempts to climb the ladder to occur; Iceland isn’t much different in that regard.

But, against a Duke’s benefactor?

And a Swordmaster to boot?

In Iceland, where capability is key, such emerging power was almost welcome.

At the last feast, and even afterwards, countless nobles approached Gordon in goodwill and, naturally, offered gifts and suggested talents or arranged marriages.

Typically, they presented portraits of their troublesome third sons, relatives, or suddenly emerged adopted daughters.

“Hey, are you seriously worrying about that?”

Gordon waved his hand dismissively, clad in flashy, layered silks and chain mail over plate armor, looking like a peacock.

Then he pointed at an ex-mercenary in the wagon beside Robelio.

“Illegitimate child.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

He pointed sequentially from the ex-mercenary to others who had once been comrades.

“Orphan, child of a whore, offspring of rebels, deserter, drifter, etc. Somehow, despite having picked pockets, none are ex-professional thieves?”

“Well, that dead chief had a knack for gathering that kind, I suppose.”

“Coming from the youngest of a fallen noble family, aren’t you the last to say that?”

“Then how noble is our Baron’s origin, I wonder?”

Gordon pointed his finger back at himself.

“Runaway serf.”

“Whoa.”

Robelio was left speechless, sealing his lips tight.

There’s a faint chance that an orphan could carry some secret about their birth.

Comparatively, he was as rootless as the drifter or child of a whore.

“Ah, speaking of origin. Our dear former noble is boasting again about their roots?”

“The orphan beside me must be weeping quietly.”

“Oh, the illegitimate child born unwillingly is too miserable to hold back tears.”

“What! How dare a rootless bastard show tears before a fallen noble!”

“Ah! What do you mean I don’t know my place, you illustrious noble’s youngest!—”

“SHUT UP, ALL OF YOU!!!!!”

Robelio roared in exasperation.

Regardless, the mercenaries roared with laughter, mocking their superior.

Once weakness is shown, it must be exploited.

Their taunting tone was oddly warm and familiar.

Anyway, our fault? Doesn’t seem like it???

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

Gordon realized that it was all in good fun, without malice. It was merely friends teasing him for showing weakness.

Initially unsure if it was correct, he had now adapted and chuckled.

“Well, at least as long as the payment is assured, you mercenaries aren’t the type to grip your swords backward. In that sense, I’m confident in my judgment of character.”

“However unlikely that may be, why so confident?”

“Of course! I’ll fulfill all their dreams and futures!”

“Ah, true.”

Robelio had no choice but to agree.

Unlike adventurers with romantic dreams, mercenaries roaming the continent solely for money aim, paradoxically, to retire and settle down as stable families.

If possible, they want to hold high positions.

And for that, they needed connections and money.

And even more money.

“Not to mention, right now, if I ask them to, they’d probably lick my feet!”

“The Baron commanded them to lick his feet!”

“What? Hey! That was just an example! Get back to your places!”

Before he knew it, Gordon found himself fending off his former mercenaries trying to cling to his legs in a display of loyalty.

It was a precarious situation, nearly tripping him.

Yet, the horse he rode, a masterpiece bestowed by the Duke, merely snorted and returned to facing forward without a care.

Luckily, Gordon didn’t lose his dignity in the process.

As time dragged on, he pushed away his overly loyal subordinates.

And with a short sigh, as if to say ‘when did it come to this’, he redirected the topic.

“Anyway, it feels like we’ve been traveling for about two days. How much longer until we reach the territory?”

“Probably another day, if nothing out of the ordinary occurs.”

“Of all seasons, it has to be autumn now. It’s early autumn, at least.”

“What kind of overly ambitious—”

WHOAARRR!!!

A brown figure enveloped the area.

But patches of white fur began to appear.

With a size 1.5 times that of an adult and arms dragging on the ground, a pig-like snout and protruding fangs.

“Is that a monster?”

“Ice Troll. Seems like it’s just starting to prepare for winter. And that size? A young one, I reckon.”

While Gordon mumbled casually, stroking his chin, Robelio swallowed hard in tension.

Trolls were monsters that could never be underestimated.

They had a unique regenerative ability whereby they would regrow even if their arms were severed.

Naturally accompanied by an immense tenacity for life.

Even if a subjugation team was organized, their brute strength was one thing, but cunning tactics meant they would ambush an unprepared team.

Veterans often found themselves caught off guard, leading to their swift demise.

They were monsters that could never allow themselves to be careless, and that Ice Troll was no less enormous than regular trolls from other regions.

WHHIIINNNGGG-!

“Whoa!?”

Suddenly, a gust of wind whipped from the side, causing Robelio to instinctively close his eyes.

THWUNK- GRRRR— WHAM!

The menacing sound of a slice.

Blood-curdling noise.

A heavy thud.

As Robelio opened his eyes again, the situation had resolved itself.

The Ice Troll lay decapitated on the ground.

Its head separated from its body, pooling blood that still didn’t recognize its own death, still twitching as the crimson pool grew larger.

Robelio’s mouth was agape.

In fact, everyone who peeked out to see the scene shared his astonishment.

They all understood that Gordon was a Swordmaster.

After all, he had made it through that uproar in Iceland; they couldn’t be oblivious.

Yet, back then, the enemy had been a Grizzly Beaver.

Now, what lay before him was an Ice Troll—a powerful monster that even knights might struggle to defeat alone.

And that Ice Troll? Did it take about five seconds?

Even the Snowrunner, startled by the cry, almost flinched but quickly flattened in shock.

As Gordon calmly turned his head, the mount he rode had blood splattered on its hooves and started shaking it off.

“Why are you just watching? Surely, this Baron isn’t expecting to dismount and help bag that thing?”

Only after hearing the deliberately noble-like tone of the one who caused the unbalanced scene, did the mercenaries snap back to reality and scramble to grab their tools, rushing out.

Of course, it’s all cash!

“Hey! Don’t waste a drop of blood! That’s all money—money!”

“Shovel it all into the barrel! It’ll sink anyway!”

“Hooho! Just look at all this! My pockets are stuffed! Take it!”

“Watch the blade! You nearly scratched the precious skin! It’s more expensive than you!”

“Let’s see… disposing of the innards and meat. Getting the head, hands, bones, muscles, blood, and skin. Where else can I get cash from…”

Even though there was no one else to witness, those from the former mercenaries, the vassals who had once moved freely, were wholly absorbed in collecting spoils, discarding nobility.

Gordon watched the scene with satisfaction from his mount.

“With this, I can surely buy some furniture for a place to stay.”

Once they finished gathering, the caravan began to move again, but the onslaught from monsters and beasts intent on winter preparations continued.

Each time, the caravan came to a halt.

With various byproducts, their carts grew heavier, and the pace of the caravan slowed.

What was supposed to take four days now stretched into six.

Finally arriving at the Bolton territory.

AAAAHHHHHHH-! KIIIIIICK!

WHOOOAAAAH- CLATTER! CRASH! WHOOSH!

Upon arrival, they could see a group engaged in combat against a pack of Grizzly Beavers.

Adventurers and mercenaries in uniquely varied attire.

Not only that, soldiers displaying their family flags rallied against the encroaching Grizzly Beavers alongside numerous knights.

Though a distance away from the caravan, Gordon found himself murmuring at dusk as he recognized a few familiar faces.

“That’s the Rescue Team. Wait, is that knight from the last subjugation team?”

“Subjugation team? Chief, you’re talking about the one from the last Grizzly Beaver hunt, right?”

“Yeah. That one. Uh, that guy was the mercenary I smashed on the head with a mug back then.”

“Is the front line really pushed back this far?”

“By the looks of it, it’s not the entire subjugation team, but rather a dispatch squad.”

Fortunately, the battle concluded with the Grizzly Beavers retreating.

While part of the subjugation team stayed back to reorganize the battlefield, others pursued the fleeing monsters, Gordon led his party to approach the commander of the knights.

The commander, unsure at first upon seeing Gordon, flipped his attitude upon reviewing his appointment letter and began to explain the situation.

As the subjugation dragged on, the Grizzly Beaver horde had spread elsewhere, causing severe damage to some territories, leading to the evacuation of the entire area’s residents toward nearby Felwinter Ridge.

In other words, the now vacant Bolton territory was a foregone conclusion.

And, a season later, it would be winter.

Gordon found it hard to respond at all.

The commander, with an understanding expression, patted Gordon’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry about this. The good news for you is that when you report to your lord, they will assist you with various measures and recovery. After all, a Swordmaster won’t be left hanging like this at the start of their appointment.”

“Let me ask just one thing.”

“Of course.”

“What about my subordinates who followed me and I wanted to take as vassals?”

“They’ll provide some support until the restoration begins.”

“HAAAAHHHH.”

Gordon let out a sigh of relief.

In that case, he had something to say to the mercenaries who followed him.

In fact, some might actually prefer it.

Expressing gratitude to the commander, Gordon looked up into the sky as he made his way back to the caravan. Why is the sky in Iceland always so gloomy, just like myself?

“Damn.”

It was autumn.

*

*

*

“So, you’re here to see Sir Atanitas, huh?”

“Correct.”

“My head hurts.”

Karem, who had been listening to all of this, clutched his head.

Just like before, Catherine’s actions mirrored Gordon’s words precisely.

An unexpected guest had entered the Wizard’s Tower.

 

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