The Northern Grand Duke's Mad Son-in-Law - Chapter 9

WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Ceaseless

◈ The Northern Grand Duke’s Mad Son-in-Law ◈

Chapter 9: Good Sword

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Since both the Academy and the Intelligence Bureau were in the capital, Galahad had spent most of his time there.

The capital was exceptionally clean. Its streets were paved with smooth stone, and its sewers kept the filth away.

Everyone walked around in crow-black suits, and perfume stung the nose. That had less to do with people washing regularly and more with the mages employed by the imperial family.

The North, by comparison, was terrible. He had heard it was bad, but seeing it for himself, it was worse than he had imagined.

Half-melted snow mixed with livestock droppings turned the streets to slush, while the people were unwashed, black with grime, and gaunt.

It was enough to make him wonder if the Black Death had swept through the North alone.

“Are the people waiting for reassignment over there?”

The place Gilbert had brought him to, where those waiting for reassignment lived, was even worse.

Most of the houses had collapsed, while crude wooden shacks stood between them. Someone with a limp crawled along the ground as a one-handed man looked at Galahad and snickered.

“Yes. Everyone useful is at the front line.”

“So only the husks who can’t go to the front are waiting here.”

“Something like that.”

“So they dumped their leftovers on me.”

‘There was a reason the Grand Duke had made those waiting for reassignment a condition.’

In other words, he had been told to pick through the recycling bin himself.

As Galahad and Gilbert walked side by side, looking clean and neat, eyes followed them. A few people shouted, “Imperial bastard living off Lady Adrianna!”

“I’m pretty famous. I should practice giving autographs.”

“You enjoy hearing that?”

“Of course. Meeting a capable, beautiful woman and living comfortably is every man’s dream.”

“Not mine.”

“What’s your dream, then?”

“I...”

Gilbert, who had almost answered without thinking, clamped his mouth shut.

“Why stop in the middle? Do you know the two kinds of people who make others angry?”

“What are they?”

“Stupid mages and smart knights.”

“I understand stupid mages, but why do smart knights make people angry?”

“When a knight gets smart, a knight’s sword slows down. Your sword must be very fast.”

“...?”

Gilbert pointed to one side. A cluster of hut-like structures stood there.

Huts, really.

‘They aren’t any different from orcs.’

Galahad wondered how anyone survived the cold in those things.

Gilbert stopped in front of the shabbiest, most pathetic hut among them.

A boy sat beneath a bundle of four or five pieces of woven straw. His hair was a tangled mess, and his clothes were ragged. He looked exactly like a beggar, but his features were quite striking.

Even the grime on his face could not hide his noble air. He looked like an aristocrat, and his eyes were remarkably clear.

Gilbert pointed at him.

“Damian. His way with a sword is strange.”

“His way with a sword is strange?”

“It isn’t swordsmanship, exactly, but he is exceptionally good at killing Demonkin.”

“He doesn’t even look old enough to grow hair.”

“Does that matter?”

“I was joking. He’s young and can fight, so why is he still at the castle?”

“Every platoon Damian has served in was wiped out by Demonkin. He’s the sole survivor.”

“If he’s the only survivor from wiped-out platoons, shouldn’t they take better care of him? But platoons...?”

“There have been about four such incidents. Other platoons refuse to take him in, so he’s waiting for reassignment. He’ll probably be sent out as a scout soon.”

Gilbert trailed off.

The sole survivor of four platoons that had been wiped out.

“Could the boy have done it?”

“No. The investigation was thorough.”

“Hmm.”

Galahad hummed. Since this was the front line, the investigation would have been even stricter. Yet if they had found no evidence, it was likely the boy was innocent.

“So his skill is useful.”

“Yes. Definitely.”

Flicking ash from his cigarette, Galahad walked toward the boy. Damian was covered in bruises and scars. Some had not even healed.

‘Is he being bullied? I don’t need someone weak...’

Galahad clicked his tongue quietly.

The boy had his mouth wide open toward the sky.

“Are you eating snow?”

“I’m thirsty.”

“I see. Does it taste good?”

“Today, it tastes like lemon.”

Galahad hid his cigarette behind his back. The boy continued eating snow. Galahad looked at Gilbert at the foolish sight. Gilbert shrugged.

Clicking his tongue, Galahad sat beside the boy. Only then did the boy look at him.

There was not a single emotion in those eyes.

They were familiar eyes.

They resembled the eyes of a man Galahad had seen in the Intelligence Bureau. Could Damian be that man’s brother? No, that man had been Black. Unlike that man’s eyes, soaked in killing intent, the boy’s eyes were still clean.

The boy opened his mouth.

“You look strange.”

At the random assessment, Galahad smiled.

“Damian, you look strange too. You have the face of a noble. Were your parents aristocrats?”

“No. My mother is a prostitute.”

For the first time, Galahad was left speechless by an unexpected introduction.

“Impressive. Not just anyone can be a prostitute. It means she has enough charm for people to pay her. So, what does your father do?”

“Hmm, he’s one of four.”

“Schrödinger’s father.”

“Schrödinger?”

“It means mysterious.”

Damian muttered “Schrödinger” several times. He seemed to like the meaning of the word.

“I came to take you with me.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I heard you’re very good with a sword.”

“Ah, I am.”

“That’s impressive confidence. I opened the Special Operations Unit today. Join it.”

“I don’t want to.”

At the blunt refusal, Galahad looked at Gilbert. Gilbert shrugged again. He had a very irritating face.

“Why not?”

“If I join, everyone dies. But you seem like a good person, mister. I think I’d regret it if you died.”

His voice was remarkably clear and composed. Galahad narrowed his eyes.

“First, don’t call me ‘mister.’ I’m your big brother. Gilbert over there is ‘mister.’ Go on, call me big brother.”

“Big brother.”

Gilbert’s face twisted as Galahad pointed at him and called him “mister.”

“Second, I’m not a good person. I’m trying to become one, but it isn’t easy. Third, did you kill your platoon members?”

“The Demonkin killed them.”

“Bad Demonkin.”

“They were bad Demonkin.”

Despite the subject, Damian’s voice was utterly calm.

“If you blame yourself for it, wouldn’t the Demonkin be upset that you’re taking their credit?”

“That’s true.”

“We understand each other well.”

“Still, if I join, everyone will die.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ve got a pretty long lifeline.”

Damian looked Galahad up and down.

“You look frail.”

“Appearances aren’t everything.”

After thinking for a moment, the boy nodded.

“Fine. I didn’t have anything else to do.”

“Damian, from this moment on, you belong to the Special Operations Unit. This is by order of His Grace the Grand Duke. Now, young man, get up.”

“Yes, big brother.”

Damian rose with a swagger. His sword dragged along the ground.

Gilbert could not understand why those two had held such a strange conversation and then stood up in agreement.

Unfortunately, neither of them asked for Gilbert’s understanding.

* * *

Damian looked badly starved, so Galahad took him to a tavern.

“Then I’ll bring the rest. Don’t cause trouble while I’m gone. Some lowlife mercenaries are mixed in here, and even His Grace the Grand Duke has given up on this place. If you die here, they won’t even find your body.”

Gilbert warned them several times before leaving.

‘They won’t even find a body.’

Galahad rolled the phrase around in his mouth.

“Do you cause a lot of trouble normally?”

“Ordinary people mistake a genius’s exceptional behavior for trouble.”

“Ah.”

Galahad patted Damian’s nodding head.

A man who appeared to be the tavern owner spat on the ground. A rusty iron club hung from one side of his belt. He looked like a Northern version of Captain Hook.

“Get the hell out! I told you never to come back! You unlucky little bastard!”

“Your reputation isn’t very good.”

“I know.”

“At your age, people like you if you greet them properly. Go on, try it.”

“Hello.”

“You need to bow more.”

“Hel...”

“Who the fuck is this idiot?”

At the crude insult, Galahad clicked his tongue softly. The tavern owner waved the iron club in his right hand. Was he threatening them?

“My name is Galahad. Nice to meet you, my handsome one-armed friend.”

“Who the fuck is your friend? You fucking...!”

Galahad casually placed a hand on the man’s club. Just as the man was about to curse again, sparks burst from his mouth.

The man’s lips moved soundlessly as he staggered and leaned to one side.

“He says we can go in. Come on.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No, he’s only asleep for a while. He’ll have very nice dreams.”

Galahad planted his foot on the man’s protruding belly as he stepped over him and entered the tavern.

Raucous noise, lukewarm heat, and the foul smell of sweat greeted them first.

“Nice.”

Men missing an eye or some other body part shouted noisily. Wrinkled women among them let out sharp laughter.

The floor was so littered with uncleared bones and broken cups that there was nowhere to step. A strange song came from somewhere inside.

The noise cut off the moment they entered. All eyes turned toward them. Red-eyed men blew their noses loudly. Someone fingered the sword tied at their waist.

“It seems you’re hated almost as much as I am.”

“It’s my fault.”

“No, it isn’t. I guarantee it.”

Galahad raised one hand and shouted.

“Nice to meet you all! I’m Galahad, commander of the Special Operations Unit! Anyone with all four limbs and confidence in their ability, apply! I don’t care about your character!”

The already tense atmosphere grew sharper.

“This place has terrible manners. No one returns a greeting.”

Damian belatedly waved his hand at Galahad’s complaint.

Galahad snickered and headed for the table in the middle. It was a fine table, marked all over with knife cuts.

“Order anything you want.”

“Really?”

“I don’t lie.”

Damian’s eyes sparkled. He must have been starving.

Galahad raised his hand to order. The person who came over was not a server, but a man drinking at the next table.

He slammed his fist down on the table.

“That must have hurt.”

Galahad muttered quietly and looked up.

The man grinned at him.

“Fuck, I wondered where that rotten Demonkin smell was coming from. There was a mage bastard here?”

The heavily bearded man placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder and stared at Galahad.

‘So it was him.’

His fist was about the same size as the bruises near Damian’s ribs. Galahad’s eyes cooled.

“First, magic and Demonkin are clearly different things. If you say that in the capital, people might call you an ignorant bastard, so be careful.”

“...What, ignorant bastard?”

“I said people might call you that. Are you perhaps an ignorant bastard?”

The man unconsciously shook his head.

“Then be careful not to be misunderstood.”

The man’s face twisted. Yellow fluid ran from his empty eye socket.

Perhaps he sensed something in Galahad’s relaxed manner, because he shifted his gaze to Damian.

‘Why do people here look down on mages?’

Galahad genuinely wondered.

After hesitating for a moment, the man turned to Damian. It seemed Damian had been his original target.

“If you have money to come to a tavern, you should bring it to me, you fucking bastard.”

“I don’t have money.”

“You don’t have money, but you came to a tavern? Bullshit. I thought you were hiding money, you bastard!”

“Does Damian owe you money?”

Galahad raised his right hand and asked. The man ground his teeth.

“None of your business.”

“He’s my unit member now. That makes it my business.”

“Then will you pay it back?”

“We aren’t that close yet.”

“Fuck! Then shut up before I rearrange that face of yours!”

“Whoa. Calm down. Who knows? I might pay it.”

“So you’ll pay?”

“Hmm, let’s hear it first.”

The man’s face creased further. His jaundiced eye darted around. Then the men behind him got to their feet and approached. The man puffed himself up again. A simple-minded fellow.

“One of the platoon members this bastard got killed was my friend. A very close...”

“Ah, I see. Is that why you lent him money?”

“Why would I lend money to a bastard who gets his platoon members killed?”

“Then why are you telling him to bring you money?”

“Because that bastard killed the platoon members!”

“Did you kill your platoon members?”

“No. I don’t want to steal someone else’s credit.”

“That’s right. Stealing is bad.”

“What the fuck are you doing, you bastard...”

“Please wait a moment.”

Galahad took a silver coin from his inner pocket and placed it on the table. The man shut his mouth. The men exchanged quick glances.

The tavern became so quiet that not even breathing could be heard. Click. The sound of the door locking rang out.

A thieves’ den.

Galahad clicked his tongue quietly.

“Was the platoon member who died your family?”

“He was a comrade as close as family.”

The man answered while signaling to someone beside him. A sharp sound came from nearby, as though someone was drawing a weapon.

“So not family. Then why are you collecting money?”

“Because he was a very close comrade...”

“Hmm. No matter how strange Imperial law is, an inheritance doesn’t pass to a comrade.”

“What law, you fucking...”

A stream of filthy curses followed. The air grew hot. Even a middle-aged woman stood holding a kitchen knife.

‘What an uncultured place.’

Clicking his tongue, Galahad looked at Damian.

“Come to think of it, you are partly at fault for your platoon members dying.”

“You said I wasn’t.”

“They died because you were weak. If you had been strong, would they have died?”

“That’s true.”

Galahad stared at Damian. Damian’s eyes sharpened.

Then noise rose behind them. Swords being drawn, excited breaths.

The song of people who did not know their place.

“Everyone makes mistakes. What matters is not making the same one twice.”

“I understand.”

Damian nodded.

“Now, I’m in danger. Save me, Damian.”

Galahad let out a small scream. The men who had been drawing their swords stopped awkwardly at his strange behavior.

“Yes, big brother!”

Damian answered brightly and drew his sword.

Damian’s sword was in poor condition. Rust covered it in places, and old bloodstains had been left on the blade. It was such a filthy sword that even a scratch looked likely to give someone tetanus.

A silver line cut through the air.

It was an exceptionally clean line.

A man whose arm had fallen off screamed and collapsed. The spray of red blood soaked Damian. Damian opened his mouth wide.

Just as he had when eating snow.

“Ah!”

Damian let out an excited sigh.

‘A butcher.’

Damian rolled forward.

The way he held the sword was very strange. His reverse grip made him look like someone who had never held a sword in his life. His movements were closer to those of a street thug than a swordsman.

They were rough and disorderly.

Yet strangely, they were sharper than any knight Galahad had seen.

The boy’s talent was not swordsmanship.

It was murder.

“Kill him! Kill him, you unlucky bastard!”

“Die!”

The tavern became chaos in an instant. Damian moved smoothly between the attacks pouring toward him from every direction.

His movements were closer to acrobatics than swordsmanship.

‘His way with a sword really is strange.’

By the time half of Galahad’s cigarette remained...

Damian was the only one still standing in the tavern.

Galahad remained seated.