I Am a Villain, So What?-Chapter 195: No one here will die while I’m here
"Kid. Pack your bags and walk back right now."
Those were the very first words Commander Arthur Whitmore said as soon as he saw me.
Since Winterguard fell under the ultimate jurisdiction of the Lornfell territory, it was only natural for me to formally greet Arthur, the Lord of the Lornfell, the head of Whitmore household and the active Commander of the fortress.
However, Arthur, a grizzled veteran with heavily scarred armor and perpetually furrowed brows, was fiercely uncooperative from the moment I stepped into his command tent.
"Can’t you understand the situation?" Arthur growled, crossing his arms. "Your father has finally lost his mind and sent you here to your doom."
Arthur’s expression was grim. His anger seemed directed more at Count Darius than at me. Sending his own blood to Winterguard, even if the boy used to be a good-for-nothing? That thought was clearly reflected in his tired eyes.
"It seems like you’ve come to Winterguard on a whimsical holiday, having only heard of this place in romanticized rumors or heroic novels," Arthur sneered. "Go back now. Cling to your father’s coattails. If you beg and plead, even Darius might not turn you away. He’s still your father, after all."
"My father didn’t send me here as a punishment," I replied evenly. "I came here of my own accord."
"What’s that?"
Arthur’s eyebrows shot up to different heights, making his heavily scarred face look somewhat amusing. He stared at me like I had just spoken a different language.
"Then I really can’t acknowledge your presence here," Arthur sighed, rubbing his temples.
"Why not?"
"Because I don’t associate with madmen." Arthur glanced sideways at me, his eyes sharp. "Do you know the difference between a fool and a madman in a siege, boy?"
"Enlighten me."
"A fool threatens his own life by being reckless. A madman ruins the entire strategy and gets his allies killed," Arthur stated bluntly.
That makes perfect sense. "However, I came here with the formal permission of the Ashborne Count," I countered, pulling out the sealed document Darius had signed. "Even Commander Arthur can’t just throw the blood heir of the North out into the snow without consideration."
Arthur stared at the seal, then glared back at me.
"...Tch. Fine. Go to the corner room on the left side of the second floor of the officer’s barracks. That’s your room."
As expected. Despite his harsh words, he had already prepared a room for me the moment he received word I was coming.
I bowed slightly to Arthur and turned to leave.
As I walked out of the tent, Arthur’s heavy, exhausted sigh followed me into the cold air. He didn’t even bother to hide his disdain.
"...Absolute insanity."
*****
Those who fend off the endless monster invasions in Winterguard are broadly divided into two distinct categories: prisoners, and non-prisoners.
Naturally, the prisoners are used the most. But it’s impossible to hold the line with them alone. They are merely premium meat shields designed to block indiscriminate advances. The inmates sent to Winterguard are generally highly dangerous individuals who committed terrible crimes but possess the combat skills necessary to survive.
Then there are the mercenaries. They are drawn to the frozen north by the enormous bounties offered by the Empire’s defense funds. Stopping the invasions is of utmost importance to the Capital, and they pay in pure gold.
Finally, there are the formal knights and wizards. Their objectives vary greatly. There are loyal knights fulfilling their duty to the North, mad researchers willing to risk their lives to harvest rare monster cores, and wizards seeking rapid promotion in the Imperial military.
However, absolutely no one comes to Winterguard for ’training.’
Especially not an Academy cadet, not even a legal adult, coming during his ’vacation’ period. Anyone who did that would be considered completely, clinically insane.
"I heard the madman actually arrived." "Yeah, saw him walk into the Commander’s tent."
Near the barracks, a group of seasoned mercenaries and border knights huddled around a fire barrel, exchanging words fueled by the rumors from the estate.
"I heard he’s the disgraced Ashborne kid. The one who got kicked out of his own house."
"He looks too pretty for a crazy person. Skin like porcelain and wearing a coat that costs more than my entire yearly salary."
A crude conversation was followed by equally crude, bitter laughter.
"Hey, Johny. You’re from the Capital, right? You were stationed there until a few weeks ago," one of the rugged mercenaries said, nudging a knight who had been quietly standing out of the circle. "You know anything about this kid?"
Johny let out a long, visible sigh in the cold air. "Do you have any idea how many arrogant nobles live in the Capital? I don’t keep track of every spoiled brat."
"True. As if a pampered rich kid would last long enough for us to remember his name anyway."
The men laughed heartily once more, warming their hands over the fire.
"So, what are the odds?" the mercenary grinned, pulling out a small pouch of coins. "How much are you betting?"
"I give him one week before he begs to go home. 10 gold coins."
"Huh! You have that much money?" another knight scoffed. "I’ll say he lasts five days before he cries. 15 gold."
The hardened veterans of Winterguard were briefly entertained, betting their hard-earned pay on exactly how many days the madman would last before he broke.
*****
The next day, following Commander Arthur’s orders, I headed to the main barracks to formally register my deployment.
The barracks were strictly divided by rank. The first floor was crowded with the grunts, mercenaries, and penal soldiers, while the second floor was reserved for the formal knights and officers.
I paused for a moment at the base of the stone steps, then began to climb.
"Hey. You’re not supposed to be heading this way."
Someone was looking down at me with a mocking smirk from the top of the stairs.
...Who is this? I searched my memory of the game’s lore, but I didn’t recognize his face at all. Moreover, his posture was far too sloppy for a properly trained knight, and he lacked the dense aura of a veteran.
In other words, a nobody. A low-tier mercenary who had probably scrounged up enough coin to buy a polished breastplate. I ignored him entirely and kept walking.
"Didn’t you hear me, rich boy? You belong on the first floor with the rest of the fresh meat," he sneered.
Snap.
As I tried to pass, he reached out and grabbed my arm.
I didn’t even break my stride. I simply shifted my weight and casually brushed his hand off.
But the physical feedback of brushing him off felt oddly unsatisfactory. What’s with this guy? He’s definitely not a knight. His grip had been laughably weak.
"You crazy bastard!" he cursed, his face turning red with embarrassment at having his grip broken so effortlessly.
I didn’t even bother looking back. I didn’t need to waste my time or energy confronting these low-level thugs.
Creak—
I pushed open a heavy oak door with a battered sign that read ’Officer’s Waiting Room.’
It was a spacious but extremely spartan room, furnished with nothing but a few long wooden benches and a weapon rack. A dozen men were scattered inside, sharpening blades or adjusting their armor.
As I entered, the metallic scraping stopped. Their gazes slowly turned toward me, heavy and unwelcoming.
One of them, a burly man with a jagged scar across his chin, looked at me with a blank, exhausted expression.
"What? Another noble brat trying to play soldier up here?"
I looked around the room. I had assumed I wouldn’t recognize anyone, but the diversity of their equipment told a story. The knights’ armor varied wildly in style, design, and family crests. The forces dispatched to Winterguard were pulled from almost all over the Empire, but their numbers were pitifully small. True knights were a vital, expensive military asset; sending them to the frozen meat-grinder of the North was usually a political death sentence.
"Hey, kid. How long do you think you’ll last?" one of them suddenly called out from the back.
"How long?" I echoed flatly.
"Yeah, we’re making a bet," the knight grinned, flashing a set of crooked teeth. "On when exactly you’ll kick the bucket."
At that, the waiting room erupted into harsh, barking laughter. They were genuinely entertained, as if they had just heard the funniest joke of the month.
Only about four or five men didn’t laugh, including Johny, the knight from the Capital I had seen near the fire barrels yesterday.
I let the laughter echo for a moment. Then, I slowly spoke.
"Then I’ll place a bet too."
The room quieted down just enough to hear me.
"I bet that no one in this room will die for next two weeks."
The laughter stopped completely. The mocking grins vanished, replaced by glares of utter disbelief. They looked at me as if I had just spoken pure, unfiltered madness.
"Are you completely out of your mind?" the scarred knight scoffed, standing up. "Hey, do you even know where you are? This is Winterguard. ’No one dies for next two weeks? People die here every single week!"
"Really?" I tilted my head slightly, my voice perfectly calm. "Then let me ask you this: who exactly do you think is going to die? Is there anyone in this room crazy enough to actually want to die?"
The knights’ expressions hardened.
I understood why they were making such vulgar bets. This was Winterguard. In a place where you were practically guaranteed to die violently, people couldn’t help but go a little crazy just to cope with the stress. Those who didn’t find a way to vent usually broke down and died first.
I understood the psychology behind calling me a madman. But I didn’t intend to fight these guys over a bruised ego.
Rather, I needed them to hold the line while I worked.
"I’ll say it again," I stated, my voice carrying a trace of the same suffocating authority I had used against Count Darius. "No one here will die while I’m in Winterguard."
I didn’t wait for their response. I turned and walked out of the room. Soon enough, they would bitterly realize that they needed me just as much as I needed them.
