Chapter 38

Lord of Vinfelt

Five riders on horseback galloped across the wasteland, scattering ashes behind them.

The soldiers lined up at the camp entrance watched in silence.
The remains of their fallen comrades drifted in the wind.

Each of them had wished to hold proper funerals according to their homeland traditions,
but the situation didn’t allow it.
With dozens of bodies, it would have taken a month just to tend to them all.

So they had reached a compromise—

Cremation.

Some closed their eyes in silent prayer.
Others kept watching, unwilling to miss the final moment.

Bwoooo—

Someone blew a horn.

It was believed that the sound would drive away evil spirits
and guide the souls of the dead to the heavens.

Before long, the riders scattering the ashes disappeared beyond the hills.

“May you find freedom…”

Günter muttered.

The faces of comrades he would never see again flickered through his mind.
Some he liked. Some he hated.

All of them—gone.

That was the end of the funeral.

“Move! Training time!”

Carlson barked like a drill sergeant.

“If you’re going to mourn, do it while you’re moving!”

Günter and the other soldiers glared at him, but soon lowered their eyes.

“What? Anyone got a problem? Step forward and prove it. I’d love to ditch this annoying captain position anyway.”

The soldiers avoided Carlson’s sharp gaze.

It wasn’t just fear of his strength.
They were men who had faced the Hell Wolves and survived.

They knew he was right.

They were full of grief—
and full of duties.

Grief solved nothing.

They knew that.

Still… it felt cruel.

“If not, move! Stop sniveling like women!”

“Tch, damn it…”

A soldier beside Günter grumbled but obeyed.
One by one, the others followed, wearing sour expressions.

The roughly fifty soldiers split into two groups.

One worked on rebuilding the camp.
The other trained.

Besimer oversaw the reconstruction.
Carlson handled the training.

As he had for the past few weeks, Carlson shouted relentlessly, drove them hard, and didn’t hesitate to use force.

They started running at dawn.
Trained weapon skills until midday.
After a brief rest, they sparred in the afternoon.

He worked them thoroughly.

As a result, not long after dinner, they dropped like flies.

With the barracks still incomplete, most soldiers lay on blankets spread over bare ground, using the night sky as their ceiling.

Grrr—

Grrr—

“The captain sure sleeps well… How can he sleep in a situation like this?”

One soldier lying next to Günter muttered, listening to Besimer’s loud snoring.

“Feels like he’s been sleeping like a baby lately.”

Exhausted bodies, but wide-awake minds—
the soldiers chatted quietly.

When the barracks had been intact, they had at least woven straw mats.
Now, lying on hard, cold ground, sleep was uncomfortable.

“Well, he fulfilled his life’s wish.”

Someone said.

Besimer had stayed in this camp long enough that no one was unaware of his past.

A mad giant who defied orders and scoured the Black Forest just to hunt the Wolf King.
A man who risked his life even in minor scuffles.

A strange one who volunteered for night watch because he couldn’t sleep.

A stubborn survivor who lived through over a decade of bloody battles against Hell Wolves and beasts, even as all his superiors fell.

Not even twenty-five yet—
but he carried the presence of a seasoned veteran.

Plagued by nightmares every night, he rarely slept deeply.
Deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth.
Dark shadows beneath them.
A shaved head and unkempt beard.

He looked like a man who could tear apart any monster—
but the soldiers knew.

What he feared most… was the night.

They knew he spent his nights gripping his axe, staring into the darkness, enduring it.

And now—

He was sleeping soundly.

“…Damn, you really see everything in life.”

A soldier let out a hollow laugh.

For those who had been in the camp long, fighting Hell Wolves was just routine.

Compared to that, Besimer’s snoring felt almost unreal.

“Yeah… no kidding.”

Günter muttered, shifting his body.

Sleep didn’t come to him, as always.

The night sky was filled with stars.

Günter blinked.

There it was again—the moon.

Memories flashed through his mind:
the moon that night…
comrades turning into wolves…
shouts and screams…
the clash of weapons…
the blaze consuming the camp.

Like always, he had to sit up in the middle of the night.

He wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep.

Some rummaged through emptied barrels of alcohol.
Others swung their swords or ran laps around the camp even at night.

Carlson didn’t stop them.

After all, aside from those on night watch,
the last ones to fall asleep in this camp were Carlson and Isaac.

“Günter, want a drink?”
“No thanks. I don’t feel like revisiting it all during tomorrow’s training.”

Günter waved off the offer.

It was strange.

The soldier offering him a drink was from a Goethe farming family—
someone who had once lost his parents to raids by tribal warriors,
and who had shown deep resentment toward soldiers from the tribes.

Normally, he wouldn’t even share a drink—
you’d be lucky if he didn’t draw his blade instead.

And yet now, after the battle with the Wolf King, he acted surprisingly friendly.

Not just toward Günter, but toward others of tribal origin as well.

They had bled together.
They had lost comrades together.

They had fought in the same place, at the same time, risking their lives together.

“Boring bastard. If your ancestors saw you now, they’d tell you to cut your balls off.”
“That’s prejudice against tribes, you countryside idiot.”
“Hah. If you need a drink later, let me know. The supply depot burned down, so what I hid is all that’s left.”
“…Alright.”

Günter exchanged glances with the soldier.

Something new passed between them—
a kind of bond that hadn’t existed before.

They now regarded each other like brothers.

It was as if they had been reborn in Vinfelt.

And it wasn’t just because they had fought through life-and-death battles together.

They had protected something together—
and gained something together.

What had made all of this possible?

Any soldier of Vinfelt could answer that easily.

“…There he is again.”

Wandering the camp, Günter spotted the still-burning flames outside.

For five days now, the blue fire hadn’t gone out—
the flames from the pit where the Hell Wolves’ bodies were burned.

And in front of it stood a boy, like a ghost, keeping watch.

There was no way to guess what he was thinking.

But just seeing him—
Günter felt reassured.

At first, he had thought the boy was nothing more than a child—
someone who would soon give up.
He had even wanted to see him get thoroughly scolded by Besimer, reduced to tears.

When the boy froze the entire Baitur village, Günter had felt fear.
It was the first time he feared a human more than the Hell Wolves.

And then, during the desperate battle—

Günter witnessed something astonishing.

When despair and terror swept through the camp,
the boy shone.

Whether there had actually been a halo around him or not, Günter couldn’t say.
But in his eyes—

the boy was shining.

Brighter than the Wolf King’s yellow gaze.
Brighter than the full moon overhead.

He illuminated the soldiers.

Drawn by that light, Günter tightened his grip on his sword.
His comrades found courage.
The soldiers were no longer helpless victims.

Even if they died, they could die fighting.
If they lived, it wasn’t because they ran—it was because they resisted fiercely.

That truth carved pride into their hearts.

Vinfelt was no longer a dumping ground for those with nowhere else to go.

It was a place defended by the sacrifice of comrades—
by their own blood.

What had made that possible?

Like all the soldiers here, Günter knew.

He looked at the boy’s back.

For once, the night felt peaceful.

That was rare.

Even though distant wolf howls echoed,
they felt like something from another world.

Günter knew—

That boy woke earlier than anyone else,
and slept later than anyone else.

He stayed awake the longest.

The reason Besimer could finally sleep in peace—
was because of him.

Günter knew.

That boy—Isaac—was the lord of Vinfelt.

That he was the one to whom he must dedicate his sword.

Günter knew.

And so did every soldier here.

***

The next day—

Twelve wagons arrived at the camp.

The lead wagon bore a shield insignia.

“We hurried as much as we could, but we’re still late.”

Schiller looked as if he had aged years in just a month.
No explanation was needed—his exhaustion spoke for itself.

“No. You’re right on time.”
“…What in the world happened here over the past month? It looks like more than half the soldiers are gone.”
“A lot happened.”

Isaac briefly explained everything that had occurred.

“…What were you thinking? Why didn’t you report this to His Excellency? Why didn’t you request reinforcements? If you had, this many casualties could have been avoided!”

Schiller’s voice rose with anger.

Though now a steward, he had once been the Count’s shadow on many battlefields.
To him, Isaac’s decision seemed reckless—foolish.

“If you want His Excellency’s recognition, this is not the way.”

Goethe already struggled to expand its forces for historical and political reasons.

Yet Isaac’s choice had led to nearly seventy men dying in a single night—
and even put his own life at risk.

“There was a need.”

Unlike the steward, who seemed ready to explode, Isaac’s voice was calm.

As if he had simply done what was obvious.

“What need?”

A deep crease formed on Schiller’s brow.

“Independence.”

For Isaac, gaining the Count’s trust through words and approval would take too long.

It was faster to generate income through Vinfelt itself—
to replace reliance on the shield tax.

Convincing with results was far more effective than a hundred arguments.

“For that, Vinfelt has to stand on its own first.”

“But it’s land granted by His Excellency. Independence—”

“We need people who have bled for this land—and will bleed for it again. My people.”

Isaac cut him off.

“Schiller, if we had relied on my father’s army, things would have been easier. But the soldiers here would never have grown attached to this place. Nothing would have changed.”

Soldiers from Goethe.
Soldiers from various tribes.

For them, this wasn’t home.
It wasn’t paradise.

Just a temporary place—
somewhere they stayed because they had nowhere else to go.

They needed a reason.

A reason to stay.
A reason to defend.
A reason to make it prosper.

And that reason—

had to begin with the blood of their comrades,
and their own.

“……”

Even as Isaac spoke, Schiller opened his mouth several times—
but no rebuttal came.

It was cold logic.

But Isaac was right.

“…That’s a very Goethe way of thinking.”

He had no choice but to nod.

“I will become the lord of Vinfelt. And Vinfelt will become the richest city in Goethe. It has to.”

“…You really think that’s possible?”

Schiller sounded incredulous.

“There’s no reason it can’t be.”

And yet—

looking at this confident young Goethe noble,
the steward couldn’t help but smile faintly.

The young master who once couldn’t even stand properly…

somehow looked like he might actually do it.