Count Sandwi.

A knight who rose from serfdom to the level of High Sword Expert. Common enough in the Empire.

But in a kingdom starved for talent, he was one of only five of the most elite knights.

Thanks to that, the man who once was nothing more than a peasant was granted the title of count.

He even grew into a border lord who governed the eastern territories of the kingdom.

Simply put, he acted as the bridge between the royal family and the eastern nobles.

It’s similar to the military.

Just as an ordinary soldier can’t directly approach a regimental or division commander without issue—

The rural nobles of the east were also restricted from seeing the king directly.

Instead, they went to Count Sandwi, and even paid taxes through him.

In name and in practice, he was the ruler of the east.

Why the past tense?

The answer’s simple. Count Sandwi no longer belongs to this world.

A massive black greatsword, far too large for a human to wield, was stabbed into the ground.

At the reversed end—on the hilt of the sword—something rested.

A human head.

The head, impaled on the sword, was displayed right in front of the castle gate for all to see.

Displaying severed heads after battle isn’t uncommon.

The problem was that this particular head belonged to Count Sandwi, not a criminal.

"Lord, that head is...?"

"..."

Of course, I had never met the count before. Yet I was certain.

That was Count Sandwi’s head. There was no other explanation.

To think the first thing I’d see upon stepping into his domain would be the count’s severed head.

"I am Thomas, captain of the guards overseeing this fortress. What brings you here?"

"I am Kain Blackguard, lord of the Blackga territory. I came seeking refuge from the Empire’s army."

"…Proof?"

"This is the deed to the Blackguard lands. The royal seal is affixed."

"May I take a look?"

The once-arrogant tone immediately softened. No matter how remote this place was,

A noble was still a noble—ranked higher than any mere captain of guards.

Without a word, I handed him the deed I had brought from my estate.

Thomas checked it briefly and returned it with a respectful nod.

"I’ve confirmed it. My apologies for my earlier rudeness. Please forgive me."

"You can read?"

"Regretfully, no. But I can recognize the royal seal."

"…What happened to Count Sandwi?"

The sensible choice would’ve been to turn away the moment I saw that severed head.

But I didn’t have that luxury.

Our food was nearly gone, the refugees were exhausted—and most of all, we had nowhere left to go.

Thomas, who still stood guard at the gate, was clearly once loyal to the count.

So I believed he could tell me the truth.

He didn’t betray that trust. With a heavy sigh, he forced his trembling lips to move.

"There’s nothing for me to hide, my lord."

"Then tell me everything from the start."

"The count welcomed all nobles and citizens who fled from the Empire."

Listening to Thomas, I could tell—Count Sandwi was an inflexible man.

To put it kindly, he was dutiful. To put it bluntly, a stubborn old man.

But at least he was no coward who bent before power.

"The count wished to fight for the kingdom and His Majesty until the very end. But… those bastards…!!"

"I understand your anger. But speak clearly. That’s the only way to honor the count’s death."

"Forgive me. I let my emotions get the better of me."

The way his neck veins bulged as he grit his teeth told me there was more to this story.

As expected, the fall of the count’s domain held an ugly truth.

"Some of the nobles the count sheltered opened the castle gates at night to the Empire’s army."

"So they betrayed him? All the eastern nobles?"

"Not all. Those who stayed loyal fought beside the count until death… or now rot in the dungeons."

"…"

"Honestly… I don’t even know what’s right or wrong anymore. Weren’t nobles supposed to be noble and honorable?"

His voice trembled with barely contained rage.

I couldn’t bring myself to answer.

In the end, we had no choice but to camp near the count’s land. There was nowhere else to go.

The refugees were in terrible shape. They hadn’t rested properly in over a month.

And after marching through storms and rain, exhaustion was written on every face.

Reality and ideals.

Never had that gap felt so painfully clear. F*ck.

To be honest, I don’t think surrender itself is wrong. Wanting to live isn’t a sin.

‘The real problem is that this f*cking regression won’t just let things be.’

At first, I had wanted to surrender too. What else could I do?

Otherwise, I would’ve died. I even tried to run away later. Failed at that, too.

Do I really have the right to condemn those who opened the gates at night?

‘I don’t know. I’ll think about that later. For now, focus on surviving.’

The place I chose was a charcoal burner’s worksite in the forest near the count’s land.

To make charcoal, you need kilns and water—thankfully, there was a stream nearby.

And the fleeing workers had left tools and wood behind. Enough to get by for now.

"How are the villagers?"

"They’re better now that we have fire. But… we’re running low on food."

"It can’t be helped. Hunting is allowed. Catch anything that moves and make it food."

"What? But hunting without permit is punishable by hanging!"

"I’ll take responsibility."

Even in modern times it’s a crime, but in the Middle Ages, poaching was a hanging offense.

But so what? We’re starving. Hanging? They can try, if they catch us first.

Though first we’d have to drive the Empire out of the kingdom.

"Anyone among the villagers still capable of fighting?"

"Yes, a few."

"Select twenty. They don’t have to fight—just arm them and have them stand guard around camp."

"Understood."

Before, I’d drafted a hundred people—young, old, anyone who could move.

This time, there was no need.

Just having guards so the soldiers could rest for a bit was enough.

Of course, it wasn’t free. Those who volunteered would receive extra rations.

Fortunately, we caught some fish from the stream and some game from the woods.

Not much, but for us, it was a blessing.

As everyone worked together, the sun set, and another cold night arrived.

"Mom, why aren’t we going into the castle?"

"Because bad people took it over, dear. But don’t worry, our lord will fix everything."

"…"

While on patrol, I overheard that conversation. It made me laugh quietly.

The reason I hadn’t entered the castle wasn’t loyalty or honor.

It was instinct. A bad feeling. If I entered that place, something awful would happen.

‘The Imperial troops occupying the castle are still inside. Walking in would be suicide.’

I’m sorry to anyone who sees me as some noble hero or loyal subject.

But my survival comes first. I refuse to go through that hell again.

…Still, watching the refugees finally sleep peacefully tonight—

‘It doesn’t feel all that bad.’

Not that I’d ever want to do this again.

Anyway, that night passed without incident.

But the unexpected came faster than I imagined. The very next morning.

The castle sent a messenger—with a letter bearing the count’s seal.

[Lord Blackguard, I’ve long heard of your valor. There’s much I wish to discuss. Please, come to the castle.]

"…"

That familiar stench of death rising from the letter… was no illusion.

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