Arc-6 Ch-31

A man could be seen rushing toward the duke’s mansion’s reception room with tremendous speed. From his neat attire, one could tell he was a servant of the duke’s household, and from the way he ran, one could judge that he possessed a fairly well-trained body. What filled their hearts was concern for their lord, Vince Rapha Redgrave, and anger toward the man believed to be the mastermind behind this disturbance—Leon Fou Bartfort. What kind of punishment they should mete out to that arrogant country bumpkin.

How they should discipline the upstart who had joined the ducal family by sheer luck alone. Whether it was from imagining such dark delights, or from the manic excitement brought on by the emergency— In any case, at this moment they were no different from hounds following the scent of blood. That Leon Fou Bartfort possessed talents far exceeding those of other noble sons was an undeniable fact. His trained body, his superior intellect, and the nerve to bear disgrace if it served his purposes—there was no doubt he was a man worthy of being praised as a hero.

Whether it was misfortune or good fortune that he happened to be the same age as the Saint Olivia and the Five Heroes was something only he would know. Against ordinary opponents, he could defeat them with ease, and even against powerful men, he could overcome them without difficulty if he didn’t care about the methods. He possessed the cunning and intellect to use terrain or weather to trap and neutralize groups of enemies, and he also had the judgment to retreat immediately when the situation turned bad.

But that was all.

He never lost to opponents weaker than himself, and he could not win against those stronger. Though he alone could not prevail, he was only a threat that could easily be subdued if one simply used numbers. For a man born a noble but not the heir, two paths lay before him: marry into another house, or live by his own talents. Most of the male servants of the duke’s estate came from ducal-faction noble families and had survived strict selection. They were required to have not only intellect but also physical strength, and they possessed skill not inferior to knights experienced in rough combat. No matter how exceptional Leon Fou Bartfort might be, facing servants whose abilities rivaled knights would be difficult. As long as they took care not to let harm befall their lord, the Duke Redgrave, restraining him should be possible.

From the moment the disturbance erupted, the servants calmly assessed the situation and headed for the reception room. There was nothing wrong with their judgment. If the arrival of the uninvited guests had been delayed by only a few dozen seconds, Leon Fou Bartfort’s plan would have evaporated. The servants who had joined together while heading toward the reception room formed a group of about four and dashed straight toward their prey. At the top of the stairs and down the hallway, the door to the reception room came into view. From the slowly opening door emerged two figures. One was a giant whose trained physique was obvious even through his combat uniform; the other was a man of medium build, who took a half-stance with a smooth, almost relaxed movement.

From their posture alone, one could sense that neither was an ordinary opponent. Winning unscathed was impossible—then the optimal solution was to use their advantage in numbers to subdue them. One of the servants immediately judged so and launched an attack on the giant without slowing his pace. No matter how superior a physique someone possessed, a full-power body slam would make them stagger. If things went well, it might even knock them to the floor. In the wide corridors of the duke’s mansion, there was nowhere for the giant to dodge or hide. The giant spread his arms and lowered his hips—he seemed to have sensed the servant’s intent.

But that was precisely the bait. Slowing his speed slightly, the servant smirked inwardly. If there was nowhere to escape, then all he could do was defend. All the more so for someone with a physique like that. By spreading his legs and lowering his hips, the giant left his groin completely exposed. The servant launched a kick at that unguarded groin. Regardless of whether someone was huge or small, the human body had vital points that did not change. The eyes, the temples, the cervical vertebrae. What the servant targeted was the vital point all men shared—the testicles. A place where even the slightest touch would make any man writhe in agony, and the opponent was, after all, a marauder attacking the duke’s estate.

There was no need for mercy; a merciless blow would bring the giant down pathetically. —Or so he thought.

The full-power strike stopped just before reaching the groin. When the servant looked down, the giant’s large, thick hand was gripping his ankle. Five fingers as thick as a baby’s arm wrapped tightly around his leg and would not let go. The helmeted marauder’s face could not be seen, yet the servant felt as though he was grinning. Ignoring their comrade who had fallen into dire straits, another servant dashed toward the door. The giant was busy blocking the attack and could not move. The other marauder could not intervene because the giant’s body was in the way. Now was the chance!

Thinking so, the servant raced for the door without hesitation.

'Hun!!'

Right after the shout echoed down the hallway, the servant’s body was crushed from both sides by an immense impact. He could not understand what had happened—only that one side was the corridor wall. In his fading consciousness, he understood that the giant had struck him with something the giant was holding. It was the body of the colleague who had launched the first attack. With a fierce battle cry, the giant swung the servant’s body like a massive war hammer, slamming it down onto the servant attempting to enter the reception room. A feat impossible without monstrous strength; a marauder swinging an adult man like a blunt weapon was more terrifying than any monster lurking in a dungeon. The remaining two servants did not flee—half from loyalty to the ducal family, half from sheer desperation.

One grabbed a flower vase displayed in the corridor and hurled it, flowers and all, at the medium-built marauder. The ceramic vase, priced high enough to support a commoner family for half a year, spun through the air toward the marauder. At the same moment the vase was thrown, the other servant began his own attack. Whether the marauder dodged or intercepted the accurately thrown vase, some opening would inevitably be created. One would exploit that opening to restrain him; the other would finish him off. If they could not stop the giant marauder, then at least they would bring down the medium-built one—this was their desperate resolve.

Meanwhile, the medium-built marauder was calm. Without hesitation, he raised both hands above his head, subtly shifting his center of gravity in a way barely noticeable to an observer. In his right hand he held a black metallic object. It closely resembled the short batons used by soldiers for apprehending criminals or guarding key areas. It was believed that the closest and most familiar melee weapons to humans were simple stone, wood, or bone clubs. For commoners who could not possess armor or guns, a stick of suitable length and weight was easy to obtain and easy to train with. Though nobles tended to disdain them, short batons were so practical that they were included in the training of the Holfort Kingdom’s army. The baton was about the length of a one-handed shortsword—something almost never used by those trained in swordsmanship.

Being struck by such a stick would not deal much damage. If they could endure the attack and force it into close-quarters combat, there would be more than enough chance to win. So the servant thought as he rushed forward low along the floor. The thrown vase conveniently obscured the marauder’s vision; using it as a distraction made the attack extremely hard to evade. If he tackled him and applied a chokehold unaffected by armor, he could make him lose consciousness—and afterward, his fellow servants would handle the rest. But that suicidal charge never reached the marauder’s body. A sudden, fierce pain struck his shoulder, and the servant collapsed onto the floor. A moment later, fragments of pottery, water, and flowers rained down from above. Only then did he realize that he had been struck by the marauder’s baton. The full-force overhead blow had shattered the flying vase in midair and, without losing momentum, smashed the shoulder of the charging servant. Furthermore, with a twist of the wrist and smooth control of posture, the accelerated baton sank into the abdomen of the servant who had thrown the vase. The strike landed squarely on the solar plexus—the marauder’s target was the diaphragm.

The diaphragm was the body’s largest muscle for inhalation and one of the most vital organs for breathing. If damaged, it could cause respiratory distress and, in the worst case, even death by suffocation. The servant struck in the solar plexus collapsed in agony and lost consciousness as he hit the floor. The servant who had been struck on the shoulder struggled to fight back but could not. The shoulder was a complex area of intertwined muscles and bone; a heavy blow there robbed him of arm strength and impaired his breathing with pain. In the blink of an eye, the duke family’s skilled servants were defeated, and his vision darkened at the realization. He felt as though he would go insane from humiliation and rage. Whether his attempt to rise was from loyalty to the duke or murderous hatred toward the marauders, he no longer knew.

The giant’s thick arm wrapped around his neck. His carotid arteries were compressed, cutting off the supply of blood and oxygen, and within seconds the servant lost consciousness. Only a few dozen seconds after the marauders appeared at the door, four skilled servants had been taken down—an abnormal situation.

"That was close."

"Their movements were good—as expected of people employed by the ducal house."

The two marauders relaxed their shoulders. Though from the outside it looked as though they had dominated, their impressions apparently differed. They gently moved the unconscious servants to the side of the corridor. Though they had been enemies, those who carried out their duties deserved respect.

"Your fighting style is far too rough. Why not polish your technique a little more?"

"Most people can’t match my body, and I can’t swing a spear inside a mansion. It’s more efficient to overwhelm them with muscle rather than rely on weapons. What about you—where’s that swordsmanship you’re so proud of?"

"Becoming strong isn’t only about swordsmanship. If you can’t fight properly once you lose your sword, that’s just strength dependent on your weapon. Learning other martial arts and tools to complement swordsmanship is also one path to becoming stronger."

The footsteps echoing from far away grew steadily louder, paying no mind to the two who were chatting casually. It was obvious that the four servants of the ducal residence who excelled in combat and now lay collapsed were not the only ones.

“Hold this position until further orders, and do not kill anyone.”

“That’s my line. Don’t overdo it.”

Exchanging light banter, the two bandits repelled those who approached. Even though the corridor of the ducal residence was spacious, it was somewhat cramped for fighting. On top of that, with many allies around and their lord’s whereabouts still unconfirmed, using firearms meant a high risk of hitting their own side. For the duke’s people, who lacked offensive options, facing the heroes was no different from a fawn presenting itself before a lion.

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Bang! Bang!

Gunshots, completely unfitting for the beautiful gardens of the ducal residence, rang out repeatedly and carved small holes into the lawn. The guards who had gathered from various parts of the estate scurried about outside, wondering if there was anything they could do from the perimeter, but their efforts lacked any real effect.

It was no surprise. Standing before them was a metal giant, tens of times the volume of a human and nearly a hundred times the weight. Despite being called “armor,” it was not something one wore but something one piloted; with a light swing of its arm, any human it touched was reduced to a pitiful pile of flesh.

Knowing the overwhelming difference in power, challenging it was not courage or recklessness but sheer folly. Moreover, the suit of armor that had descended from the airship hovering above the estate simply stood there, blocking part of the mansion, making no move to take initiative. Whenever anyone from the estate approached, it merely raised its arm threateningly to chase them away, repeating that endlessly. In response, several guards acted as decoys to draw the armor’s attention while others attempted to enter the reception room where the duke had been taken, but the attempt ended in failure.

The guards who worked in the ducal residence were mostly skilled in martial arts, and it was entirely possible for them to climb the ornate outer walls of the mansion and reach the balcony of the reception room. However, sniper fire from those waiting on the balcony thwarted the attempt. What made it troublesome was that the snipers’ marksmanship was superb. Even a massive suit of armor, for all its strength, was modeled after the human body. To remove something at its feet, it had to crouch, and it did not have eyes on its back. Furthermore, the armor showed no intent to engage—its movements were slow and faint, as if it feared harming the people of the ducal residence.

“Argh!! They’re really annoying!!”

A cute voice, unfitting for the menacing atmosphere, called out from the balcony, only to be drowned out by gunfire. The small bandit wearing a helmet and armor was a diminutive figure who could be mistaken for a young boy or girl. Yet their handling of the rifle was so skilled that even veteran soldiers would be impressed. They shifted the fore-end of the rifle, ejected the spent casing, and checked the remaining ammo. Their hand slid into a waist pouch and grabbed its contents. Clutched in that small hand were rifle rounds; with dexterous movements, they reloaded quickly. They aimed not at the armor but slightly ahead of the path where the guards of the ducal residence attempted to approach by exploiting the armor’s blind spots.

The guards, startled by the dirt kicked up a few steps in front of them leaving small, fingertip-sized holes, hurried to hide behind cover. She fired warning shots at the guards attempting to infiltrate and continued obstructing the rescue of Duke Redgrave. This same exchange had gone on endlessly for some time now. Who would have imagined that the marksmanship skills taught to her by hunters in the territory—skills learned because her own parents and siblings discriminated against her and treated their youngest daughter as though she did not exist—would one day prove useful.

A noble daughter treated as nonexistent became a vagabond, was saved by a saint, became a lady-in-waiting, and now assaulted a duke. Truly, life was unpredictable. What irritated the girl bandit was not hatred toward the god who had subjected her to such a harsh early life. It was the relentless persistence of the guards of the ducal residence, who made repeated attempts to break through. No matter how overwhelmingly powerful the armor was compared to swords, guns, and magic, a single unit was not that great a threat.

In this world’s dungeons, monsters of similar size and strength to the armor had been documented, and many adventurers had records and legends of slaying them. In fact, several soldiers and units had been commended for defeating the Principality of Fanoss’s armors and the monsters commanded by the princess during last year’s and earlier wars, all without using armors themselves. If someone familiar with the armor’s capabilities devised a solid plan and used appropriate measures, even a giant armor was not an invincible titan. Moreover, the armor before them, for some reason, was unarmed and was confronting the duke’s household with only its two arms and two legs.

If the victory condition was changed from “defeat the armor” to “rescue the head of the ducal house and his heir,” this operation was not particularly difficult. Leon Fou Bartfort did not overestimate the superiority of armors. Despite possessing wisdom and piloting skill surpassing ordinary knights, he was an unusual noble who did not hold armored combat—the flower of the battlefield—in high regard. Part of the reason was that, although born a noble, he had not received proper aristocratic education in his childhood.

For the “Villanous Knight,” an armor was merely one useful piece on the board, and the unspoken rules of noble warfare were just outdated customs that had no real impact on the battlefield when ignored—they were simply matters of personal aesthetics. Rather than using several armors to forcibly seize the ducal residence, he intentionally limited their number and used excellent infantry to compensate for what a single armor could not handle.

“This is the method that will result in the fewest casualties,” Bartfort had said.

For that reason, the armor carried no weapons, and the bullets fired by the soldiers assaulting the residence were all non-lethal. In contrast, Marie Fou Lafan’s marksmanship relied on killing a target with a single shot aimed at a vital point. This was because she had honed her shooting skills through hunting within the territory. If she missed, she would waste ammunition and let the prey escape. On the contrary, she might even be discovered and attacked in retaliation. Thus, she aimed for the target’s head or the heart in the chest. In situations where failing to finish in one shot could cost her own life, the cold precision and marksmanship she developed were poorly suited for a strategy designed to avoid producing casualties.

Being capable of hitting her target but having to deliberately miss frustrated her. Furthermore, the guards of the ducal residence were deeply loyal to their lord and kept charging by exploiting the armor’s blind spots. If she could simply shoot them in the leg to take away their mobility or hit them several times to knock them unconscious, they wouldn’t have to repeat the pointless cycle of assault and repulsion. Above all, what irritated Marie was how the guards mistook her deliberate misses for their own skill, grew cocky, and even started taunting her.

“Sir Jilk.”

“What is it?”

“Can I hit them?”

“No, you may not.”

“But look! They’re blatantly provoking us! They’re yelling stuff like ‘Hit us if you can!’”

“If you know it’s provocation, don’t rise to it. Also, wasting ammunition is strictly forbidden.”

“Then wouldn’t it be more efficient to weaken the enemy’s strength!?”

“As I explained beforehand, if we launch excessive attacks against those serving the ducal house and they get serious, we are the ones in danger.”

This standoff was nothing more than a means to buy time. It was for Bartfort to persuade Duke Redgrave and to put on a show of force directed at the surrounding nobles. Bartfort had not disclosed the specifics, but apparently he had a trump card with which to convince the duke. He intended to make one final attempt at persuasion using it. If that failed, preparations were already in place to restrain the duke and his heir and escape. Simultaneously, the plan deliberately stirred up a commotion to draw the attention of the surrounding nobles. A major incident erupting at the mansion of the leading feudal noble, Duke Redgrave—instigated by Bartfort, a young noble who had risen rapidly and was married into the ducal family—was something that every noble of the Kingdom of Holfort would take interest in, or rather, had to take interest in.

Furthermore, this occurred in the capital, on the mainland, in the residential district where the nobility lived close to the royal palace, and heavily armed soldiers and an armor had suddenly seized the mansion. It was so reckless that Marie regretted agreeing internally to Bartfort’s proposal. To settle this chaos, cooperation between the royal family and the ducal house would be indispensable, and some behind-the-scenes deal would be required. Was this all calculated from the start, or was it reckless optimism born of youth?

In any case, he realized he would have to revise his understanding of the man called Leon Fou Bartfort.

"Most of the people who serve the ducal house come from ducal-faction families, but there are also nobles from the neutral faction. They too will not remain silent if their sons or daughters are harmed."

"Lord Leon predicted that far ahead when formulating this plan, didn’t he?"

Is that really true?

That man has no attachment to the rank, territory, or honor that are important to nobles. A person with ordinary sensibilities, once elevated to nobility, would devote themselves entirely to how to pass that status on to their children and grandchildren. They would run about developing their territory, arranging marriages for their children, pushing into high society and strengthening their base, yet even then it would be the grandchildren’s or great-grandchildren’s generation before society recognized them as fully fledged nobles.

And yet that man so easily steps off the most important first step. As if to say he needs none of it, he disregards status and honor, bows his head to others, throws himself into mortal danger, challenges a prince to a duel, and even now indulges in this unfavorable gamble. To those immersed in the common sense of nobility, he is unfathomable—this is the terror of Bartfort.

"The bigger the commotion becomes, the more the nobles will sense danger. Those who have pretended that the conflict between the Holfort royal family and the Redgrave ducal house is someone else’s problem and maintained their detachment will desperately move to protect their own families now that such turmoil has erupted. Furthermore, if the ducal-faction and neutral-faction nobles who were unaware of the duke’s plot become involved, the development ahead will be difficult to predict, and even if the ducal house wins, they will not come out unscathed."

There have been many treacherous retainers who slew their kings, but few of them built stable regimes afterward. Even if things remain fine while the man himself lives, afterward someone else will question him for the crime of regicide, providing a just cause for the one who defeats him to ascend the throne. Is this a strategy based on lessons learned from historical examples and foresight of what is to come?

Or is it merely that acting on instinct happened to produce the best result by coincidence?

Only one thing is certain—the man called Leon Fou Bartfort is someone you must never make your enemy.

"In any case, until we receive communication from inside, we hold our position here and maintain the battlefield situation. And do not forget to prepare for escape should the need arise."

"Understood."

Though answering with his mouth, the small-statured bandit fires warning shots at the guards attempting to infiltrate while hiding behind cover. As expected of someone serving the ducal house, he is quick-witted. If this continues, the ones driven into a corner will be them instead. Jilk, glaring resentfully at the reception room, loaded resin non-lethal rounds into his rifle.

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"We still don’t know what’s going on!?"

In the servants’ break room located in one corner of the ducal mansion, Cordelia let out a scream-like cry. In truth, her cry was almost indistinguishable from an actual scream. After all, it was an extreme emergency—within the ducal residence's reception room, the lord of the house, his heir, and even the ducal lady who had married into another house were currently being held captive by bandits. The head maid, who came from a noble family and was not accustomed to rough affairs, deserved praise simply for not fainting. The break room had become an emergency countermeasure headquarters, with many people coming and going and information in total confusion. Even though the incident had occurred within the mansion, rumors were flying about, making it extremely difficult to grasp the situation accurately.

"Has the lord’s safety still not been confirmed!?"

"We are attempting rescue from both inside and outside the mansion, but the bandits’ strength is formidable, and suppression is proving difficult…"

"How about contacting the combat unit stationed in the ducal territory?"

"Calling armed airships and troops into the royal capital? The royal family would never allow it. On the contrary, they would suspect rebellion and seize the chance to abolish the ducal house."

"If only we could use firearms capable of piercing armor."

"Weapons that dangerous are prohibited from being brought into the noble residential district. If we use them carelessly, we will be the ones punished."

The weapons that can be brought into the royal capital—the heart of the kingdom—are restricted by law. If armed equipment were easily allowed, it could invite rebellion against the king. It was customary for Holfort nobles to either park their armed airships at the nobles-only airport or to own an obviously unarmed transport airship. No one could have imagined that Viscount Bartfort would attack the ducal house with weaponry that skirted the very limits of legality. If they were concerned that he was not a suitable husband for Angelica, the daughter of the duke, then they should not have let down their guard.

Everyone had dismissed that man as nothing more than a docile dog of the ducal house and grew complacent. Struck at their emotional blind spot, the people of the ducal residence were shaken by the unexpected counterattack from someone they had looked down on, and this shock made them overly fearful of Leon Fou Bartfort.

"Is infiltration from inside the mansion impossible?"

"The two bandits guarding the door are tremendously strong. If we attack recklessly, the number of injured will only increase."

"Can’t we use riot-control tear gas?"

"If used poorly, Lord Vince and Lord Gilbert, who are being held hostage, will be harmed. We must not expose Lady Angelica, who is with child, to any risk."

"…Is there no way to remove just the armor somehow?"

"There are no weapons within the mansion capable of such firepower. In the first place, to prevent conflict between nobles, the law strictly limits what weapons may be owned within the residential district."

"Then what about airships!? Airships!"

"Impossible. Armed airships are legally banned from flying over the residential district other than during wartime."

"Even if it were permitted, Bartfort’s airship is merely floating above the ducal mansion. If we recklessly shot it down, the debris would crush the building. If the bombardment misses, it could harm other nobles. Neither bombardment nor shooting it down is allowed."

The head butler, head maid, guard captain, and others serving the ducal house exchanged ideas, but no conclusion could be reached. It was unavoidable—they were all people hired for administrative support, clerical work, or maintaining the ducal mansion. There were no specialists in strategy or tactics, and the guard captain was experienced only in escort missions, with no background in coordinated operations like this.

"Reporting!"

"What now?"

The guard captain responded with a weary tone to the servant who came to report. The thought of any further complications was enough to make his spirits sink.

"Envoys from surrounding nobles, having heard the commotion, are arriving in great numbers to ask what is happening. Several houses whose lords had personally visited earlier are among them."

The situation was deteriorating rapidly. If they hesitated any further, the commotion would grow even larger and impossible to conceal. In the worst case, the royal family would intervene. It was an open secret that the Redgrave ducal house harbored distrust toward the Holfort royal family. From the attitudes of visiting nobles, the staff of the ducal residence had sensed vaguely that the duke was plotting something. What would happen if that plot was rebellion against the royal family?

The punishment inflicted upon Marquis Frampton, who betrayed the kingdom years earlier by colluding with Fanoss, was nothing short of brutal. The marquis and his direct blood relatives—regardless of age or gender—were executed, and the families connected by marriage received severe penalties. Many nobles of his faction were stripped of their titles or had their houses abolished, and the city was flooded with former nobles and former servants connected to the marquis’ family, reduced to pitiful states.

Would the ducal house be next?

No—many nobles adore the current duke, Vince Redgrave, and the ducal faction’s power is currently not inferior to that of the royal family. Then what will happen if this situation continues?

Is there a chance that nobles will rush in to save Vince and resolve the situation?

Or will the royal family intervene and judge the ducal house in some form?

No one could predict what would occur. The only thing certain was that if things remained as they were, the Redgrave ducal house faced a high risk of ruin. Those serving the ducal house were highly educated and skilled in assessing situations. And because they were skilled, they trembled at the approaching footsteps of destruction and could not think of an appropriate course of action.

"I shall receive the visiting nobles. Everyone, please focus on resolving this situation."

The elderly head butler, who had served the ducal house for many years, mustered his voice and rose resolutely. Responding to his words, the personnel of the ducal house resumed their work. They had assumed, somewhere in their hearts, that as long as they served the ducal house, their own futures would be secure—and they felt ashamed of their naivete. They would do their utmost so as not to disgrace the name of the Redgrave family. With renewed vigor, the servants prepared to rescue their lord. Cordelia too, strengthening her resolve, began to act, praying earnestly to the gods for the safety of the lord, the heir, and the ducal lady she admired most.

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Authors Note

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This is an episode explaining the situation at the duke’s estate.

Even for characters in our own army who are close to level-cap, dealing with regular mobs (elite ones) is difficult.

If the original Leon overturned situations using Luxion or knowledge from his previous life, the Leon in this story overturns things by sheer grit and reckless action.

A coup, if it fails, ends with one branded as a traitor—that is the way of the world. Betrayal must be done cautiously and with planning.

Postscript: At the request of the client, DanZr-sama, ianzky-sama, and Hanekawa yi-tsubasa-sama drew illustrations. Thank you very much.

DanZr-sama: Pixiv

ianzky-sama: Pixiv 1  Pixiv 2

Hanekawa yi-tsubasa-sama: Pixiv

I would be grateful to receive your opinions and impressions to use as encouragement going forward.