From the fortress commander's office, the main road was visible at a glance.
"Tch. They acted all high and mighty."
A week ago, the troops had marched out with such bravado, but now Arun clicked his tongue at their pitiful return.
Adjutant Benjamin scanned their sorry state with his eyes.
"They all look exhausted."
"I can see that much—they look utterly defeated."
"It seems they abandoned all their gear and wagons, but the troop numbers haven't changed."
"What does that mean? Any guesses?"
"They must have encountered an unknown enemy and, upon realizing the overwhelming difference in strength, immediately retreated. No casualties in the process—truly befitting of Sir Brad."
"Hmph. Befitting? You mean fleeing?"
Arun turned from the window, as if he'd lost interest.
"I mean, in terms of unit operations..."
Adjutant Benjamin Roth shut his mouth. His lord knew full well how difficult a safe retreat was and what it meant for future opportunities.
'Is it too much to ask him to control his emotions as a commander?'
As his academy grades proved, Arun was sharp. It was just a shame he couldn't embrace subordinates superior to himself—understanding things with his head but not his heart.
Benjamin steeled himself and spoke.
"Forgive my impertinence. Sir Brad is a seasoned knight of renown and ability, more than worthy to be your sword. I beseech you to embrace him."
"I know that."
"...!"
Arun glanced at his blinking adjutant and sighed.
"You think I don't get it? If I could, I'd turn back time myself."
"Then."
"But he doesn't seem interested. Looks like he plans to end his career as a knight right here."
"Ah. I see."
"What? You thought I couldn't judge even that?"
"My apologies."
"Tch, I'm not blaming you. Just think of it as a clash between a guy living out his golden years on his terms and someone not big enough to handle it."
"Forgive me. My thinking was shortsighted."
"I said forget it."
Arun waved it off as if it were nothing and sat down.
Adjutant Benjamin's gaze was complicated.
'I was hasty. My lord just needs more experience.'
Yet he hadn't grasped Arun's desperation.
'I need to find a way before my brother makes his move.'
His patience was wearing thin in this gamble for the territory. Just then, a servant announced.
"Sir Brad Cahill requests an audience."
"Send him in."
Thud, thud.
The door opened, and the old knight entered, looking utterly defeated.
"Knight Brad Cahill reporting our return. Due to unprecedented circumstances, we left behind ten wagons and all equipment, but there were no troop losses. Recovery of gear..."
"Enough. First, tell me about these unprecedented circumstances."
Arun's eyes scanned Brad's battered appearance.
"The report can be summed up in two points. First, cairns had been built over the spots where our soldiers fell. The dates are estimated to be the day of the battle or the next."
"What nonsense is that?"
Arun barked in disbelief, but Brad continued.
"...The eulogy on the unmarked graves was signed 'Y.K.'"
"So you expect me to buy that romantic nonsense?"
His mocking expression seemed to say, I'm not a child who believes in fairy tales.
"150 soldiers saw it with their own eyes."
"...Is that so?"
Arun sank into the sofa, speechless. 150 men couldn't conspire without it leaking eventually. No need for such an obvious ploy if it were fake—it had to be real.
Seeing his flustered lord, Benjamin cautiously interjected.
"Let's hear the rest first."
"Sigh, fine. Sit down."
Despite regaining his composure outwardly, questions flew the moment Brad sat.
"A massive grave and offerings—what does that mean to them? No, before that—didn't the Kaminity bastards watch us flee?"
Realizing the implications, Arun clutched his head.
"Damn it all!"
'Sharp as ever. That's what makes it frustrating.'
Brad observed the silence respectfully, but the young noble still sought excuses.
"Urgh, failing to maintain vigilance—that's grounds for severe punishment."
By denigrating the knight who died in his place to save himself, Arun crossed his legs, fully composed once more.
"Let me ask again. What's your judgment as commander?"
"We can infer the enemy commander's confidence and character."
The young nobleman stared, urging him on.
"By honoring the soldiers who died for your safe retreat, they've instilled loyalty internally and ensured the tale spreads externally. It's also a way to preempt our soldiers' heroic narrative."
"Just initials, and now... Ah!"
Now anyone in the Kaminity family could claim ownership of those initials—and they'd be revealed as heir with 100% certainty.
"Urgh."
Arun pressed his forehead.
No part of this was honorable: defeat, flight, and now soldiers eulogized by the enemy. Worst of all, some faceless someone claimed his trophies.
"Urgh."
"..."
"Westguard's soldiers' loyalty will live forever in history."
And so would his defeat.
Unable to stand it, Brad spoke.
"You are Westguard's commander, young lord. A hero's saga can't avoid pain—please honor the troops' graves and prepare for the future."
"Future?"
Arun's voice sank lower.
"When my brother's blade is at my neck, you talk of that?"
Brad's eyes grew colder.
'All sarcasm, no alternatives, squandering excuses with sighs. Where do I even start teaching?'
Of course, teaching wouldn't guarantee learning. He sighed involuntarily.
'We need a breakthrough. This is survival.'
Brad let out a deep sigh. The words that followed piqued the young noble's ears.
"If you need a victory."
"...?"
Brad leaned in close to Arun's ear.
"I can make one for you now."
"What?"
Arun just blinked.
As even Adjutant Benjamin froze, Brad straightened up.
"Second report: Orc Wave."
"Wave?"
"Orc villages are being sighted simultaneously across Westguard territory. It's rare in lore—happened exactly once before."
A brief silence fell, then eyes widened in realization.
"...That was thirty years ago?"
"Are you referring to the Winter Wave?"
Brad nodded at Benjamin's question.
"Probably."
"'Probably'? Refrain from such irresponsible talk."
Thirty years ago, a massive fire broke out in the Kervenon Mountains, the northern edge and roof of the world. From that point, monsters led by orcs began migrating south.
It was a nightmare incarnate.
Monsters filling the horizon devoured humans, animals, and plants alike as they charged. Countless died, pioneer villages razed.
Survivors starved or froze.
The greatest tragedy since civilization reached the continent.
Humanity, locked in desperate battle, began counterattacking as imperial forces mobilized. But what truly pushed back the monsters was the season.
The horde that swept the northern continent in winter dispersed in spring, numbers halved.
Capital scholars dubbed it "monster population control." The church sold indulgences, claiming "divine punishment" neared; the empire poured funds into northern defenses.
Thus, tragedy birthed opportunity.
The Brennenton family, key in halting the orcs, rose as northern lords; Brad earned his knighthood and the Cahill name then.
In history, "Wave" meant "terror."
Benjamin ventured cautiously.
"...But it's spring now, isn't it? Scholars say food abundance discourages it."
"Right. Summer's coming—too early to call it a Wave definitively."
Brad nodded at their retorts.
"Your words have merit, young lord."
"So both your judgment and mine are right? Convenient thinking."
Arun raised an eyebrow. He still bristled at the "young lord" title, yet couldn't bully a family frontline commander outright.
The old knight's demeanor remained unchanged amid his turmoil.
"All possibilities are open, but commanders must always prepare for the worst."
"In the end, you're saying trust your judgment."
"My lord, Sir Brad has a point."
"Fine. Academy drilled it into us: never slack on vigilance, always prepare for danger, be fair in rewards and punishments—sound advice that sinks into your bones."
Gulp, gulp.
Arun downed the cold tea and slammed the cup down.
"But the reality you always emphasize? Thirty percent of our forces are combat-ineffective, today's elites need rest. And from headquarters..."
He shook his head.
"Uncle says no more reinforcements. Supplies neither."
"This concerns the entire Brennenton Earldom, not just you, young lord. If it's confirmed as a Wave, even the imperial army must mobilize."
The old knight corrected the misaimed point, but the young noble seemed oblivious.
"How can you be so sure? What if it's not a Wave?"
'Then we'd cheer.'
Baring his teeth in restraint, Brad lowered his voice.
"Better to brace for the worst than save face, no?"
"Worst?"
Arun furrowed his brow, pondering.
"Well, report comes first. Benjamin."
"Yes, my lord."
"Prepare a messenger. I'll draft it myself this time."
"Understood."
Brad bowed as if finished.
"We'll reorganize and commence scouting immediately."
"...Handle it."
Arun looked indifferent. Glancing at Brad, he walked to the window—a signal to leave.
"Then I'll take my leave."
"I'll ready the messenger at once."
Moments later, the door clicked shut. Silence followed.
"'Worst' sounds so tempting."
Arun sipped the now-freezing tea.
From despair, a ray of hope bloomed. In this competition, losing meant death or destitution—a hell unimaginable for a noble who'd known only luxury.
'Greater chaos means greater openings.'
His eyes flashed, all-in on the house lord contest.
"I hope the coming wave is as massive as possible."
Through the window, Brad's retreating figure emerged from the office. Arun raised his teacup like a toast to the old knight glancing back.
"To the knight who served Brennenton his whole life."
Brad turned and bowed politely.
Lifting his head, he saw the empty window and turned away.
"Will it repeat thirty years ago?"
His steps grew heavier with the sigh.
Some give their all, others just hitch a ride. Common enough, but tragic when the rider eyes his family's succession. Westguard, his life's work, mere asset to others—hollow.
"Maybe the truth of the Wave doesn't matter."
Ironically, the two aligned on that point.
People remember old fears; fear-paralyzed men do nothing. Only brave leadership conquers nightmares.
"This is the knight's path."
The resolute stand unshaken. Soldiers too.
"A soldier gripped by fear is no soldier."
Truth is simple.
He was a knight, former fortress commander—and still was.
On the chessboard, be a chess piece. Otherwise, die before the game starts. In this vast world's board, he'd fulfill his knightly duty.
"Exhausting, though."
Brad licked his dry lips.
The sun-set fortress entered his view. Serene.
The next day, reorganization began.
First, the Bolt Unit—2nd Company, nearly halved—was disbanded. Some joined 1st Company, others training.
Thus, 1st Company grew to 400 combat troops, 150 trainees. Arun van Brennenton's approval, rendering mutual checks moot.
They trained while preparing scouts.