Reincarnated as the Descendant of a Fallen Noble

Chapter 53: Shadow

Peace had returned to both castles—Daphne and Calpion.

“Alright, let’s get to work again today.”

“Oof, here we go!”

The farmers farmed, the merchants sold goods, and the blacksmiths repaired and crafted.

As if the territorial war had never happened, everyone had returned to their daily lives.

The one thing that had changed was that the two castles had become one.

The most visible sign of this was the freight carts that traveled daily between the two castles.

“Here’s the payment for the surplus grain, Third Young Master.”

“It’s the right amount. What about the lumber I requested?”

“It’s stacked neatly next to the warehouse.”

“Well done. Please deliver it to Engelmann on your way.”

“I’m delivering it… personally?”

“Yes. Who else would do it?”

“...Understood.”

Thanks to Third Young Master Malion’s coordination and Syllot’s labor (?), the supplies of both castles were being swiftly and properly distributed under a unified system.

The distribution of resources had clearly improved, and with the proceeds from copper sales, much of Daphne’s delayed administrative work was being handled.

Maybe it was because of that.

“Alright then, let’s work hard again today.”

“We must. Ho ho!”

Instead of anxiety and worry, the faces of the retainers and the people of both castles now showed stability and smiles.

It was peaceful.

So peaceful, it felt like one could melt into the scenery.

However, there’s always an exception to everything.

“Haahhh, damn it.”

“We’re screwed, so screwed.”

At the Daphne training grounds.

The knights were sighing heavily, anxiety written all over their faces.

At that moment, one knight asked their drill instructor Manton,

“Are we going to be alright, Instructor?”

“What could possibly happen.”

Click! Click!

Manton replied, but nervously chewed his nails.

‘The Young Master is coming.’

Today, right now—Hardin was returning.

He had regained his mana, defeated Great Young Master Donfel, and led Daphne to victory in the territorial war. He was Daphne’s hero.

In normal circumstances, everyone would have welcomed him with enthusiastic cheers.

But we—the knights of Daphne—weren’t in a position to do that.

‘Why the hell did we treat him that way?’

‘Damn it… There’s no way to turn back time now.’

The things they had done to Hardin over the years surfaced in their minds one by one.

 That’s no way for a Young Master to act.

 Tsk tsk tsk, if only he were even half like the Third Young Master.

 There’s a reason people called him the Recluse Young Master, right?

The Recluse Young Master—Hardin Daphne.

They had openly scorned and insulted him in the past.

And now, those memories were driving them crazy.

It wasn’t as if they had any ill will.

He was a Young Master who didn’t fulfill his role, just a burden to the family.

That’s what they had heard, and it was what they thought they had seen—so at first, it started with a bit of discontent.

But once a person starts to dislike someone, that emotion only sharpens with time.

Only after things turned out this way did we realize it.

At some point, we had crossed the line, and the water had already been spilled.

‘Look at those sour faces.’

‘Tsk tsk tsk.’

At that moment, the Maw mercenaries standing nearby twitched their lips as they watched.

Especially the youngest, Mikkelsen, who seemed thrilled and began teasing excessively.

“That’s why people should treat others kindly to begin with. Don’t you agree, sirs?”

“Hey, if the knights had that much sense, would they have done something like that? And to the ‘Young Master,’ no less.”

“Well, that’s true too, ahaha!”

The knights frowned deeply and glared at them.

‘...Those bastards.’

But Mikkelsen, clearly intent on provoking them, exaggeratedly made a frightened face and shouted.

“Are you angry, sirs? Oh no, I’m so scared.”

“Mikkelsen, tone it down.”

“Hey hey, I’m not teasing. You’ve got it all wrong, Beryl. I really was scared—look, I got goosebumps on my arm.”

Even Beryl, who tried to stop him, twitched his lips, and the other mercenaries burst into grins.

‘Yeah, like you’re in any position to say anything.’

‘If it bothers you, why don’t you do something impressive too!’

Knights or whatever—who do they think made a difference during the territorial war? We did.

Or at least they could have aligned themselves properly when it mattered!

‘If you think about it, we’re actually the ones closer to the Young Master.’

That’s right, no doubt about it!

Then, a voice came from the entrance of the training grounds.

“Hey, long time no see?”

When they turned their heads, they saw Hardin strolling over with his hands behind his back.

“You’ve arrived.”

“Young Master!”

The knights responded with tense faces.

“Oh my, look who it is! Isn’t it the Young Master himself? Ho ho ho!”

“You’re looking sharp! Actually, were you always this handsome?”

The Maw mercenaries responded relatively cheerfully.

“Hmm…”

Standing before them, Hardin scratched his chin, then scanned them all with his eyes.

“Did you all train well while I was gone?”

“……”

As the knights remained tightly lipped, Mikkelsen stepped up.

“Of course we did. Ho ho, Sir Mulgybson pushed us real hard, you know? Isn’t that right, Beryl?”

“He did. Oh yes, he did. To the point that I was shedding tears of blood.”

As Beryl quickly agreed and nodded, Hardin let out a puff of air through his nose.

“Why are you bragging about something so basic.”

“It’s true! That old man trained us harder than you ever did, Young Master.”

“Old man? What old man, you punks.”

“Ah! Sorry!”

When Hardin made a motion like he was going to kick, Mikkelsen quickly jumped back.

The knights’ expressions turned increasingly sour as they watched the group jest and laugh.

“……”

At that moment, Manton seemed to have come to a decision. He gulped and then walked straight up to Hardin with a serious look on his face.

“Um… Young Master.”

“Hm? What is it?”

As Hardin stared at him, Manton fidgeted with his fingers and his eyes darted around.

He looked like a puppy about to poop.

Hardin, puzzled, urged him on.

“Speak.”

"Um, I just… wanted to say thank you."

"...For what?"

"During the territorial war—you saved us. If it weren’t for you, Young Master, we’d probably all be dead right now."

Hardin folded his arms, speaking with a nonchalant expression.

"The war ended ages ago. Why are you only saying this now?"

"...I'm sorry."

"Forget it. I didn’t do it to hear thanks."

Then it happened.

Thud.

Manton slowly fell to his knees and bowed his head.

"And I’m also sorry."

"For what?"

"I’d like to formally apologize for the disrespect I’ve shown you until now, Young Master."

"Specifically, for what?"

"We misunderstood you, Young Master. We didn’t know who you really were, or what you were thinking. We just mocked and slandered you. It's shameful, but if you choose to punish us, I’ll accept it without complaint."

A serious air hung around Manton’s face.

‘Hmm…’

Hardin looked at him silently, deep in thought.

Then—

"I-I’m sorry too!"

"I also was greatly disrespectful!"

Thud!

The knights standing behind began to drop to their knees one by one, bowing their heads low.

Hardin stood there silently, staring at them.

How much time passed like that?

Smirk.

Hardin raised the corner of his lips and patted Manton’s shoulder.

"Sheesh, no need to go overboard over something like that."

"...Huh?"

"I don’t even remember what you all did. No need to apologize for every little thing."

"But—"

"I said it’s fine. Relax, relax. It's not like you committed some unforgivable sin."

"…Young Master!"

Manton looked up at Hardin with a moved expression, and similar looks spread across the faces of the other knights.

But just then, Hardin's smile briefly twisted into something bitter as he muttered under his breath.

"Sure, everything’s fine if you just say the right words, huh."

"Eh? What did you just—?"

When Manton asked, Hardin waved his hand and returned to a casual expression.

"Nah, nothing. Enough useless chatter—get up. Time for training."

"Understood."

Manton rose to his feet, and the other knights slowly followed suit.

Then Hardin pointed at Manton and said,

"Alright, Manton. Let’s start with you."

"...Start what?"

Caught off guard, Manton looked confused.

"You and me. Let’s spar."

"A spar? Why all of a sudden…?"

"Why do you think? I need to see how well you’ve all been training while I was away."

A broad smile spread across Hardin’s face.

‘This feels… ominous.’

With anxious eyes and a trembling voice, Manton replied,

"I’m not sure how that relates to sparring, but—"

"Yeah? Then I’ll help you understand now."

Tap!

Hardin lifted the wooden sword from his waist.

Then, twitching the corner of his mouth—

Whoooosh!

A blue glow erupted from his eyes and sword, and his blond hair fluttered in the air.

The problem was…

‘W-what is that?’

‘The Young Master’s aura…’

The energy radiating from Hardin’s body was incomparably stronger than before.

Everyone felt it instinctively.

If they went up against this Hardin head-on, they’d truly… die.

“If you don’t come quick, I’ll go to you?”

“C-could you please wait a moment? I’m not mentally prepared yet!”

Manton shouted with a face full of panic.

“Three, two, one—!”

“W-wait just a moment!”

Thwack!

“Ughhh!”

As the wooden sword struck Manton squarely on the forehead, his body flew far backward and smashed straight through the training ground’s wall.

“Guhuhk… gak…”

“Sir Manton!”

The knights rushed to the collapsed Manton, whose eyes had rolled back as he lay sprawled on the ground.

“C’mon, what’s the point if you drop in one hit? I can’t even gauge properly.”

Watching the scene, the Maw mercenaries laughed with satisfaction.

‘So, how do you like it now?’

‘Serves you right.’

Then it happened.

Tap!

“You’re next.”

Hardin pointed his wooden sword at Beryl.

“M-me?”

“Yeah, you.”

“We’re sparring too?”

“Of course. Didn’t I tell you? You’ll be training ‘just like’ the knights.”

“But…”

“I’m coming.”

Hardin took a battle stance.

“W-wait a moment, Young Master!”

Moments later—

“AAAAAAHHHH!”

A series of frail screams began echoing from near the training grounds.

---

On a cloudy, overcast day, somewhere inside a castle.

Clang! Clang!

“Pour the molten metal over here!”

“Yes, sir!”

Hammering sounds rang out from every direction.

Dozens of strong men moved without rest, crafting something.

The smell of sweat, burning, a reddish glow, and intense heat—

All of it blended together, forming a massive forge that resembled a vision of hellfire.

Located at the far eastern end of the Fabian Empire, in the Luden Shire—a large administrative region—it was known as the largest forge in the area, called “Salamander’s Tongue.”

At its center, a man walked through, attended by retainers and knights.

“Is the supply proceeding without delays?”

A man in his late twenties with a pale face, narrow, straight eyes, a slim figure, and a neatly pressed black uniform.

Vernian Paul Tread.

The newly appointed Lord of the Count of Tread and owner of the forge, he asked in a flat tone.

A grizzled old retainer walking alongside him bowed deeply and replied,

“Yes, at this rate, we’ll be able to fulfill the requested volume within three months.”

“Good. That should be enough to satisfy the ‘higher-ups’.”

“Y-yes, of course…”

As Vernian nodded, the retainer let out a sigh of relief and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

A subtly tense expression.

With his hands once again clasped behind his back, Vernian strolled slowly through the forge.

Shhhk.

As he walked, he picked up a sword lying nearby and asked the retainer beside him,

“The quality is acceptable, I presume?”

“Yes, of course. It's a product from our forge—naturally, it's top-grade.”

“Top-grade, huh…”

Count Vernian rotated the sword back and forth, examining the finely honed blade.

Vuuuum!

Suddenly, his eyes emitted a blue light, and he began infusing the blade with a blue aura.

Weapon Enchant—channeling mana into a weapon.

The faint blue light soon intensified and blazed more fiercely.

“C-Count, sir…”

A chill ran down the spines of the nearby retainers and blacksmiths, their faces tightening with fear as sweat trickled down.

‘I-I can’t breathe…’

‘…Hhhhnng!’

The brighter the blade glowed, the more overwhelming the pressure became, as if crushing their entire bodies.

Then, all at once—

Claaaang!

The sword in the count’s hand let out a sharp crack and shattered into pieces.

“This is the best you could do?”

“P-pardon? B-but…”

“Remake them. All of them.”

“U-understood!”

Without another word, Count Vernian let out a deep sigh.

“Anything else to report?”

The retainer glanced nervously at him, hesitating before finally speaking up.

“There is… something to report regarding the Viscounty of Daphne.”

“Daphne? What, were they wiped out or something?”

With a cold smirk, the count asked again, and the retainer answered cautiously.

“They… apparently won the territorial war.”

“Is that so? It’s not some baseless rumor?”

“I couldn’t believe it either, so I checked just in case. But it seems to be true.”

“……”

“M-my apologies.”

Count Vernian’s eyebrows twisted in irritation.

‘This is something I’ll need to report…’

It might become a bit of a nuisance.