Klose and Little Donnie left the office with frequent backward glances, their faces practically spelling out we want to hear the gossip. Only when Hank’s oppressive gaze swept through the crack of the door did they flinch, shrink their necks, and bolt.
Bang. The heavy wooden door shut, leaving the room filled with the faint crackle of a burning cigar and the thick scent of tobacco.
Hank pointed to the chair across from him and spoke curtly. “Sit.”
Nolan did not stand on ceremony. He sat, leaning back comfortably.
“Nolan.” Hank lifted his head. “You’re the hero of this campaign. Your ability and command are clear to everyone. This guard unit, even all of Rosenberg, needs someone like you to protect it. You’re better suited to this position than I am.” He paused, and for once there was a trace of expectation in his eyes. “I’m not young anymore. I want you to take over.”
Nolan raised a brow. The offer was unexpected. He shook his head. “Thank you for your trust, Captain Hank. But I have to refuse.”
“…Why?”
“Rosenberg is only my starting point. There are more important things I must do. Once the basic safety here is secured, I’ll leave.”
The faint hope in Hank’s eyes vanished, replaced by gravity. All the arguments he had prepared died in his throat, cut off by that blunt refusal. The air in the office grew heavy.
“So,” he finally said, his voice low and rough, “who are you, really?”
Nolan smiled. “Does it matter? A war orphan, a fallen noble, an exiled prince, or the acting captain of a militia in Shire Town—if I wished, I could be any of them.” His tone turned more serious than ever. “What defines me has never been those labels. I’ve always been Nolan of the Elfin Kingdom. That has never changed. What you should really be asking isn’t who I am.” He continued, his words striking straight into Hank’s core, “But what I intend to do.”
Hank stiffened. Once again, he felt his thoughts being led by this young man, as if held firmly by the nose. From their first meeting to the tactical briefing, and now this conversation, Nolan had always taken control without seeming to. Whether in strategy, in blood-soaked combat, or in quiet discussion, he moved with unsettling certainty, as though he could see through everything. It sent a chill through the seasoned veteran.
An acting militia captain? Who would believe that? Given the kingdom’s current level of common education, Nolan’s refined swordsmanship, his intimate understanding of the undead, his tactical awareness and battlefield instincts, and even the composure in his speech now—none of it should exist in a barely grown village militiaman. Everything about Nolan felt profoundly at odds with his age.
Since matters had already come to this, Hank no longer bothered to hide it. “Hmph.” He let out a heavy grunt, leaning forward, his imposing presence pressing down all at once. “Go on. I’m listening.”
Nolan straightened as well, his gaze clear and unwavering. “My goal has been the same from the beginning.”
He paused, then spoke words Hank would never forget.
“I want to save this kingdom.”
They fell with the weight of a hammer.
Hank froze for a moment, then his brows knit tightly, his expression turning strange. “Save it?” he echoed, incredulous. “The kingdom has its troubles, sure, but… save it? That’s a bit arrogant, don’t you think?”
“Arrogant?” Nolan shook his head, a trace of pity in his eyes. “Captain, the sea is always calm before the storm. You’re a veteran, but what you’ve seen are only the waves at the shore—not the undercurrents beneath.”
Nolan’s voice was not loud, yet every word struck like a thunderclap.
“Two years ago, His Majesty the former king passed away. The struggle between Princess Flina and Prince Kruh over the succession is no secret to anyone with decent sources. They haven’t torn the veil completely yet, but the six archdukes who hold real power have already begun to choose sides in secret. I’d wager that within a year, the conflict between the royalist faction—represented by the three southern provinces—and the northern traditional aristocratic bloc will erupt and surface in full. And that’s only the internal trouble.”
His speech quickened as scenes of blood and fire replayed before his eyes.
“To the south lies the Shiva Empire. There’s no need to elaborate—they’ve been quietly building strength for years, sharpening their blades. The Elfin Kingdom sits in a prime location, a strategic buffer between them and the northern Rus Empire. If Shiva decides to expand while the kingdom is mired in internal strife, who do you think will be their first target?
“Should we seek aid from the Rus Empire, fellow humans? Don’t even consider it. The proud Rus people may also worship the Mother Goddess Sethis, but their ambition to annex this kingdom is an open secret. Their military is formidable; inviting them in is easy, sending them away would be another matter entirely.
“As for the elves of the west, the Holy Osu Empire—yes, the royal line of Princess Flina does share blood ties with them. But between us lies an endless great forest. Even if they wished to send troops, the distance is too great. Distant water cannot quench a nearby fire.
“The dwarven kingdom in the mountains is no more reliable. They’re still locked in a long-standing stalemate with the Abyss Lords of the Underground Dungeons. Besides… ever since ‘the incident’, the alliance has been nothing more than a scrap of paper. Their attitude toward humans now is cold at best.”
Leaning back in his chair, Nolan looked at Hank, who stood frozen with his mouth half open, unable to speak, and delivered his final conclusion.
“Trouble within and without, wolves on every side. The kingdom… hangs by a thread. To repel external threats, one must first secure the inside. And I intend to be the one who breaks the deadlock.”
The office fell into a deathly silence.
Hank felt his mind go blank. Succession disputes, north–south tensions, continental geopolitics—concepts that belonged in royal councils were now being laid out by this young man, shattering the belief he had held for over forty years that the kingdom was stable. These were matters for royal advisors and ruling dukes, not for someone like him. Overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it all, Hank stared at Nolan and suddenly found him terrifyingly enigmatic.
Nolan’s voice broke the silence. “Do you still think this kingdom doesn’t need saving? Oh, right.” He flashed a grin, white teeth gleaming. “For the record, I really am a war orphan. I’ve never lied about that.”
A war orphan…
Yes. The son of a fallen soldier from the Southern Legion. If that were true, then his extraordinary patriotism and that chilling resolve seemed to have a source. He must have had some unknown encounter in his past.
In truth, Hank had misunderstood. What Nolan meant was something else entirely—the orphan of an entire kingdom, from another timeline.
“Haah—”
Hank shot to his feet and began pacing the room restlessly. He needed time to process, to think. The shock this young man had delivered surpassed any battlefield he had ever endured.
This young man wanted to shake not only the kingdom, but the balance of the entire continent with his own hands. What kind of arrogance was that—and what kind of audacity?
More unsettling still, though he knew how absurd it sounded, he could not suppress a gut feeling: Nolan might actually pull it off.
After a long while, he stopped and waved a hand impatiently. “Enough! Thanks to you, my head’s a complete mess. Every plan I had for the guard is going to have to be redone from scratch! Now get out of my sight.”
Nolan laughed and rose to his feet. He could tell that despite his harsh words, this hardened captain was already in turmoil inside. For a true soldier like Hank, once you had fought and bled together, that bond ran deeper than life itself. The fact that he had been willing to entrust him with the Guard said enough. He just needed time to come to terms with everything.
Nolan reached the door, his hand already on the handle. Then he suddenly turned back, blinking with a hint of mischief. “Oh, by the way, Captain. There’ve been two ‘pairs of ears’ outside the whole time.”
The moment he spoke, a flurry of clumsy bumps and muffled yelps came from outside, followed by the rapid retreat of panicked footsteps.
Hank snorted, though there was little anger on his face. “Those two brats—I noticed them long ago.” He turned back, his gaze settling once more on Nolan. “Tonight, eight o’clock, wait for me at the camp gate. I’ll take you somewhere.”
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