Derek Otis was struggling to accumulate vast wealth and exert influence over the central capital. He imposed exorbitant taxes and forced labor, and when the peasants protested, he made examples of them by having them whipped until they were crippled or left to wither away and die. Eventually, as the peasants, unable to endure any longer, began to lay down their farming tools one by one, the land that had been untouched by human hands quickly fell into desolation. As a result, many free farmers either starved to death or, unable to bear the tax burden, fell into massive debt and became serfs.
Since reclaiming his territory, Curtis had halved the taxes and granted the peasants a certain amount of land for cultivation. He recognized the rights to reclaimed land for one generation, minimized the lord’s personal profit by reducing public farmland, and took several unconventional steps, such as fully opening the flour mills and granaries.
Little by little, the Marquess of Russell’s territory grew wealthy. Even the free farmers who had been in Viscount Otis’s territory began moving to the Marquess of Russell’s lands one by one, leaving the Viscount with losses that were beyond measure.
"Taxes have been cut in half compared to last year."
"There are barely fifteen people left to maintain the castle."
"The shepherd we had under contract says he will stay in the Marquess of Russell’s territory this year."
Every time such news reached him, Derek was incensed. The heir to the House of Russell, who had been wiped out long ago and whose whereabouts—whether dead or alive—were unknown, had suddenly appeared, snatched away his territory, and was now threatening him. He had complained and pleaded with the King to overturn the situation, but the answer that returned was a cold refusal, telling him not to act so childishly.
He had invaded the border of the territory to steal potatoes planted at the castle, acting like a bandit and leaving the farms in shambles. He had been able to act so brazenly because he had cleaned up the aftermath thoroughly, leaving no traces behind.
"What did you whisper to the King to make him grant you such authority?"
"Are you curious?"
Curtis, one corner of his mouth curled upward, flicked his index finger. At the gesture, which looked as if he were calling a hunting dog, Derek’s face turned beet red with rage. Even though he had twice as many men and wanted to slit his throat right then and there, his opponent had a legitimate cause. And that was not all. Curtis Russell was a man once called the "Mercenary King." He was the one who, draped in a cloak as black as a murder of crows and leading a small band of men, had wielded his sword ruthlessly for whoever paid the highest price.
When the wealth and fame he had accumulated reached the King’s ears, he had voluntarily offered all his assets, his life, and his loyalty to the King—along with proof that the treason charge from a decade ago had been a false accusation. The House of Dalton, which had boasted immense power, was wretchedly exterminated by Curtis Russell, who had brought soldiers under the King’s support.
"I thought you were curious, but I suppose not."
As Derek stood frozen like a rock, unable to do anything, Curtis shrugged his shoulders and turned his horse’s head.
"Then I hope we don't have to see each other's faces in this forest again."
"Wait!"
Derek, who had desperately grabbed at Curtis, swallowed his humiliation and asked.
"What did you offer the King?"
"Come closer."
Curtis gestured with his head as if sharing a clandestine secret. Derek, having no choice, kicked his horse’s belly and approached him. The moment he came within reach, Curtis reached out and yanked Derek’s ear hard.
"Argh!"
With a sharp scream, Derek thrashed about. The knights of the House of Otis rushed in, causing the swords of both sides to clash. In that hair-trigger situation, Curtis whispered into Derek’s ear.
"I asked him if I could kill all the bandits frequently appearing at the border of the territory, including those behind them."
"…W-what did you say?"
"He sighed deeply and then issued me an edict. Why do you think he did that?"
With the hot breath that blew against him and the words that followed, goosebumps broke out all over Derek’s arms.
The man before him, Curtis Derek, had a hidden moniker in addition to the public title of "Mercenary King." It was "Monster Crow." It was a nickname born from the way he would mercilessly slaughter those he caught as prey.
"Aren't gatherings just boring places to share trivial stories? I’m not free enough to attend this every month, so please discuss things amongst yourselves."
He was a Marquess who participated in the balls held annually at the royal palace and the meetings of the lords with a slouching, informal attitude. He had only used honorifics, but he had acted insolently even toward him, the King’s illegitimate son. There were one or two nobles who had been sharpening their knives for him, but that was the reason they could not easily touch him: the King’s firm protection and the reputation from his mercenary days that had once made the entire country tremble in fear.
"L-let go!"
For a moment, his mind went blank with terror, but then, conscious of the gazes of the knights watching him, Derek mustered every ounce of strength he had and shook off Curtis’s hand. Curtis, who had released Derek as cleanly as if he hadn't just been threatening him by pulling his ear, smiled and handed him a small pouch.
"This is a gift."
Derek, who had opened the pouch with extreme caution, saw his eyes waver aimlessly. It contained the ears of the subordinates he had sent to commit robbery last night. He had suspected as much since they hadn't returned, but the pouch was filled with ears that no longer had an owner.
"Then, I shall see you at the carnival."
Having bestowed such a gruesome gift, Curtis turned his back without a shred of lingering attachment. The knight, fuming at the humiliation his lord had suffered, waited for the order to attack.
However, there was no justification. There was no guarantee of victory, even with the overwhelming difference in numbers. Damn it, Derek spat, throwing the pouch aside and grinding his teeth.
"I will surely repay this humiliation."
As he tried to calm his anger, filled with a desire for revenge, a messenger came running urgently from afar.
"Viscount, His Grace the Duke of Ferentz has arrived."
At the sight of Derek’s even more menacing expression, the morale of the knights quietly plummeted. It was not enough to have that insolent mercenary, but now his wretched cousin had to visit as well.
* * *
Cutting down the trees in the forest was not for the sake of clearing land, but to draw Derek Otis out. The first thing Curtis did after dealing with Viscount Otis was to have the village head identify the damage to the farms that had been ruined the previous night. Next, he ordered Derek to pay for the repairs of the destroyed houses and compensate for the stolen livestock. Some of the village youths, moved by this, even volunteered to become soldiers.
"Since I’ve issued a warning, he’ll be well-behaved for a while. Just in case, I will have them build a wall at the border."
"Thank you. Thank you, my Lord."
The village head, who had politely clasped his hands together, bowed his head repeatedly. Most lords didn't care at all about the minor damages suffered by the peasants. Having experienced Viscount Otis, he had no expectations for the Marquess of Russell, who had newly become their lord. The reason he, who hadn't even believed the various positive rumors, had pinned his hopes on him was because of the memory of the previous Marquess. The late Marquess of Russell, who had provided relief grain without any conditions during lean years and lent food and livestock at low interest rates.
After instructing two knights and his soldiers to stay in the village for the time being to restore the farms and maintain security, Curtis mounted his horse without a word of farewell. As he was about to leave, the village head stopped him.
"Your father."
"…."
"You truly resemble your father."
"Is that so?"
At the village head’s words, Greg’s face turned pale in an instant. The village head, oblivious, nodded vigorously.
"Yes! Indeed, you do. In his youth, your father was as dignified and righteous as you are now, my Lord. If he could see you now, the Marquess, he would be truly proud."
"I see. Then, let me ask you one thing."
Curtis, smiling thinly, cut off the village head, who was about to pour out more praise in his excitement.
"What were you doing back then?"
"Pardon?"
"When the House of Russell was being exterminated."
"…T-that… that is…."
"Never mind fighting alongside us; did you even gather signatures from the people to submit a petition to the King?"
While the village head was left speechless by the sharp question, Curtis, his crooked smile fading, issued a warning.
"You seem not to know, so I will let it slide this time. But if you ever utter such words again,"
"…."
"I will pull out your tongue myself."
Under a gaze that seemed to be waiting for an answer, the village head nodded, frozen in place.
Looking back, it was a pathetic display of venting his anger. Curtis, who had left the village as if fleeing, rode his horse without rest until nightfall. Greg, who had read his complex state of mind, quietly comforted him.
"You must be very tired."
"Tired, you say…."
"Please wash your body in warm water and rest well for a few days. The tribute and defense tax to be offered to the King for Lent have already been secured."
"…Yes. I suppose I must."
Curtis, massaging his temples, pulled the reins firmly. The black horse, snorting, picked up its pace.
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