SML Ch 1

Chapter 1

The Kingdom’s Worst Fiefdom

At the northernmost tip of the Carbonel Kingdom stood Mount Lien, home to a colossal red dragon. As with most dragons in ancient tales, the red dragon was savage and greedy, and it possessed enough power to easily destroy an entire village or two if it meant satisfying its avarice.

The villages surrounding Mount Lien were plagued daily by the red dragon’s minions, who relentlessly demanded tribute. In the beginning, the villagers did what they could to prepare offerings, but as time went on, the dragon’s demands grew increasingly burdensome. For a humble rural village at the foot of the mountain, meeting the red dragon’s expectations for tribute was nearly impossible.

Eventually, the gluttonous red dragon became unsatisfied with the offerings it had been receiving. It flew south, far from Mount Lien, and set fire to the fertile grain belts, demanding tribute from the people there. The southern residents, who had long ignored the dragon’s existence in favor of living peaceful lives, now cried out in confusion and terror.

As the situation worsened, the central government was finally forced to organize a subjugation force to defeat the red dragon. To confront such a powerful beast, knights of exceptional skill were necessary. Though born a commoner, Sir Reynald, renowned as the most outstanding knight in the kingdom, took command of the subjugation force. Leading the Royal Knights and many other warriors, he set out on the journey to defeat the dragon.

The subjugation force advanced courageously. They defeated the red dragon’s minions that infested the base of the mountain, and after scaling towering and treacherous cliffs that seemed to have no end, they finally came face-to-face with the gigantic red dragon. The battle that ensued was fiercer and more grueling than any they had faced before. Countless noble knights of great skill lost their lives, and those who managed to survive were left with severe burns and wounds from the dragon’s scorching flames.

Still, the subjugation force emerged victorious. Their commander, Reynald Middleton, returned with his weary and wounded men and presented the dragon’s heart to the king as a trophy. When the king asked why he had brought the heart and not the dragon’s head, Reynald replied that the dragon’s head was too large—larger even than the gates of the royal capital—and thus impossible to carry.

The king, moved by the valor of the subjugation force, decided to reward them. The knights who had participated were granted vast riches and honorary titles, and in a gesture of generosity, the king even asked the commander what kind of reward he personally wished to receive.

Commander Reynald asked to retire from his position as the head of the Royal Knights. He explained that due to the injuries he sustained during the battle with the red dragon, he could no longer perform his duties. It was his wish to pass the title to another capable knight and spend the rest of his life in quiet seclusion. Though the king regretted losing such a talented knight, he ultimately agreed to Reynald’s request.

According to custom, a retired commander was to be granted a fiefdom befitting his honor. The king bestowed upon Reynald a domain he deemed worthy of such distinction. Reynald bowed deeply in gratitude for the king’s benevolence. At last, he would be able to live the life he had always wanted—a peaceful life in a quiet rural fief, far removed from the blood and death of the battlefield.

But then—

“You son of a bitch.”

Reynald, having finally arrived at his fiefdom, could not help but compare the king—his lifelong friend and comrade from youth—to an animal’s genitals. It was an act unbecoming of a knight, but under the circumstances, it was an entirely understandable response. After all, anyone who has been betrayed by someone they trusted deeply would be compelled to curse them.

“That damned bastard, screwing me over like this…”

It was true that the king’s father had passed away, but that was due to the natural frailty of old age and not the king’s fault. However, Reynald was in no state of mind to care about such trivial facts.

How could anyone do something like this? He had painstakingly led a subjugation force and slain a dragon. He had worked desperately to escape the burdensome position of commander. And this is how he gets betrayed?

[My apologies, Reynald. But you’re still too full of life to be retiring just yet, aren’t you? If that fief doesn’t suit you, feel free to return. I’ve even left the position of commander vacant in case you come back.]

Absolute nonsense. He had already passed the position of commander to Deputy Commander Bestroth before leaving. With the king’s approval, the title should have been officially transferred—so what did he mean by “left it vacant”?

Reynald tore the king’s letter to shreds and scattered the pieces into the wind. He knew it was a disrespectful act, but it was the king who had betrayed him first. The king must have known that Reynald was faking an illness out of reluctance to remain commander and had orchestrated this whole farce as a way of cornering him.

“Ha…”

Too exhausted to even shout, Reynald let out a strained breath and looked down the hill. From his vantage point, he could see the entirety of his newly appointed fief. To call it a fief was generous. In truth, it was nothing but wasteland. No, even that was too kind a term, considering the sheer number of monsters that could be seen swarming from even a distance.

It’s no different from that damned dragon’s lair I went to before. And they have the nerve to call this a fief?

In hindsight, much of it was Reynald’s fault. He should have been suspicious when the king offered him a fief in some unheard-of region. He shouldn’t have fallen for that sweet talk about a secluded location where he could live in peace, far from the public eye.

The king had never truly intended for Reynald to live quietly in the countryside. When Reynald threw a fit, demanding to retire, the king merely pretended to grant his wish. If Reynald ever returned to the capital, the king would no doubt spout nonsense like, “I knew the rural life didn’t suit you,” and then force him to stay another thirty years.

“I’m almost fifty, you bastard! You think I’m coming back?!”

Reynald Middleton, a 47-year-old middle-aged knight, shouted into the air with clenched teeth. It was a fierce outcry echoing the rage of a man who had just been scammed.

Though his immediate goal had been to reach the castle beyond the wasteland, it hadn’t even been an hour before Reynald began to sincerely regret everything.

While riding atop a galloping horse, Reynald nocked an arrow and shot it, aiming precisely at the eyes of wyverns swooping down from the sky. Even a single misfire could lead to him being torn apart by those ferocious creatures. It was absurd, really. He had only brought this bow and arrows on a whim, thinking he might do some hunting on the way to his fiefdom—and now, they were saving his life.

Of course, this was only possible because Reynald was exceptionally skilled. To shoot one arrow per wyvern and blind them in one eye was a feat beyond the reach of ordinary archers.

Each time Reynald released an arrow, a wyvern would plummet to the ground with an arrow lodged in one of its eyes. It was a level of precision hard to believe from a middle-aged knight who always complained that he needed reading glasses nowadays.

Despite being attacked by wyverns, his sturdy warhorse showed no signs of panic and ran steadily forward. A normal horse would have panicked, thrown its rider, or bolted aimlessly in fear, but this seasoned horse—having fought in countless battles—galloped forward as if it were running across a tranquil green field.

This is bad. It’ll be hard to shake them off alone…

Though the situation wasn’t yet critical, the longer it dragged on, the more disadvantageous it would become. Reynald quickly estimated the number of wyverns filling the sky.

With the arrows left in his quiver, he could maybe handle about twenty wyverns—assuming every shot hit its mark. But the wyverns chasing him numbered at least fifty, possibly more. It was clearly not enough.

It would have been better if he could flee into the castle, but the fortress he had seen from the hill was still over an hour’s ride away. Reynald wondered if he could really fend off the wyverns until he reached it. It wasn’t going to be easy.

Where the hell are these bastards coming from? Just a moment ago, there wasn’t even a cloud in the sky, let alone a wyvern!

Grinding his teeth, Reynald urged his horse onward. Just because one man showed up in the wasteland, dozens of wyverns came swarming? No matter how he looked at it, there was something wrong with this fiefdom. If this many wyverns were out hunting, there must be at least three wyvern nests within the territory.

In most fiefdoms, the emergence of even a single nest would prompt an immediate mobilization of all military forces for a subjugation operation. But here? They had let three nests grow unchecked. What kind of mismanagement had the previous lord subjected this place to?

Should I just go back?

That thought briefly crossed Reynald’s mind, but he quickly shook his head. Strategically, retreating might be rational—but it would also mean playing right into the king’s hands. The king was probably hoping Reynald would run. If word got out that he couldn’t even enter his own fiefdom due to a flock of wyverns, the king would surely burst into tears laughing.

No way. I killed a dragon—do you really think I’d back down from a few wyverns?!

Reynald’s pride hadn’t dulled to the point where he’d flee in fear. At the very least, he wouldn’t be satisfied until he had spent one night in the fief he had been given. With that thought in mind, he spurred his horse forward, charging toward the castle without hesitation.