30 Years After Reincarnating, It Turns Out This World Was A Rofan?!-Chapter 285: What Justifies a Knight’s Battle? (8)

The once grim and dreary atmosphere of the military camp was suddenly filled with noise and excitement.

No, it wasn't just noise—it was brimming with vitality and energy. The hardened men, worn down by society, had all vanished, replaced by people with moist eyes, as if they had turned into sentimental poets overnight.

Knights, soldiers, and servants all shared a common trait: they held letters in their hands, reading them over and over again or clutching them to their chests as if they were treasures.

Some were even sniffing and sobbing outright, but no one mocked them for it.

Why? Because their own eyes were just as red.

One wrong word, and they'd all be bawling like children.

And the one responsible for this wave of emotion nodded knowingly, as if he had anticipated this reaction.

"Letters from family and lovers are the ultimate treasure for soldiers on deployment, no matter the country."

Just spending a month in boot camp, cut off from the outside world, could make a letter from home a lifelong memory.

Now, imagine being cut off for not just a month, but five years.

At that point, going insane wouldn’t even be surprising.

They’d miss their families, lovers, friends—hell, even the people they'd cut ties with would start feeling nostalgic.

Ihan had experienced this firsthand during his past life’s overseas deployments.

"Worth the trouble of delivering them."

The letters had been stored in a magically expanded artifact—a backpack capable of holding up to 700 kilograms.

It had been "acquired" from that spellcasting slave, no, professor bastard, and had one major drawback: it applied the full weight of its contents onto the user's body and was a one-time-use item.

Once emptied...

Psssshhh.

"It really does turn to dust."

The professor had ranted furiously at the time:

"Do you have any idea how much that thing costs, you bastard?! That’s a vital piece of military equipment! If it gets destroyed, I'll be dragged to court, you miserable—!"

But what did Ihan care?

"I used it for a good cause, so it’s fine."

That professor might get arrested and punished, but that wasn’t Ihan’s problem.

If anything, it was an honor for a spellcaster to be punished for a noble cause.

A glorious end for a mage.

He dusted off his hands.

Tap, tap.

"Hmm? What’s this?"

"Did I receive one?"

"?"

"Ah, my family is, of course, in the Citadel, but I have connections outside as well!"

"You do?"

"Of course!"

Felix looked expectantly at Ihan, as if it was obvious he would have received a letter. Ihan thought for a moment.

"What was your name again?"

"Felix de Mordred!"

"...Hmm. Don’t see anything for you."

"That’s impossible! My beloved Suzanne must have sent me one! She must have!"

"...Suzanne? You mean from the bakery?"

"You know her?!"

"Yeah. Patriot who gave birth to six kids."

"???"

"Her husband’s a handsome guy, too. Made me think, ‘So that’s what true love looks like.’ Also, their bread’s pretty good. Oh, and I heard that before she got married, some crazy bastard kept harassing her, telling her to 'bear his child' or something. That crazy bastard—was that you?"

"That was not harassment! That was a confession!!"

"......."

"She even wept in response to my love!"

"Uh... Are you sure those were tears of joy and not fear?"

"!!?"

"...What era do you think you’re living in?"

Seriously, why was this guy acting like a barbarian from the Stone Age?

No, even cavemen had better social skills than this.

Even barbarians raised in the wilderness had a sense of social order.

How the hell did someone who lived in a city turn out like this?

"...Are all Mordreds like this?"

"You’re mistaken."

"He is the exception."

"Please, do not judge House Mordred based on him. That man is a unique case."

"It’s true that our family has a bit of... madness due to the Sight, but nothing like this."

"......."

...They had sharp ears, too.

As Ihan greeted soldiers with a relaxed expression, a group of young men approached him.

"Not bad."

The oldest among them seemed to be in his mid-twenties, while some were still in their teens, yet they were all well-trained.

If they were to fight against the top three prodigies of the Swordsmanship Academy, they’d probably lose by a hair’s breadth. But that was not an insult.

If anything, it was impressive that these young men had reached that level already.

"They all look pretty normal. Maybe that guy really is just a mutation?"

"The greatest mystery of our family."

"How did someone like him end up in our bloodline? Seriously."

"...He’s not your son, is he?"

"He’s my second son’s child. My second son was frail but intelligent. His son, on the other hand, is insanely strong and insanely stupid. Life sure is strange, isn’t it? Haha."

"......."

There was a faint sadness in Garnok’s voice when he mentioned his second son.

Ihan didn’t ask why he wasn’t here.

Instead—

"So, are you here just to criticize me?"

"...Hm? What do you mean?"

"Not you, old man. Him. Don’t just slide up next to me like that. I let it slide since you don’t seem hostile, but if I get annoyed, who knows what might happen?"

It was time for a more productive conversation.

And the real person in charge had finally shown up.

...Though Ihan made sure to issue a small warning first.

"Father was right. You really are amusing."

A faint mirage shimmered in the air, and a man materialized.

He looked to be in his early twenties—handsome. No, pretty.

Calling a guy pretty might feel weird, but standing before him, there was no other word for it.

He had approached without a sound, without a scent, as if he had never existed until that very moment.

And yet, Ihan had sensed him.

"How did you find me? The spirits were hiding me."

"You were annoying."

"...Huh?"

"Something about you felt off. It’s hard to explain, but... hmm, whatever. I just knew."

"......."

Just as a meteorologist predicts the weather by analyzing humidity, wind strength, and temperature fluctuations, Ihan’s senses—his smell, hearing, and touch—were constantly attuned to his surroundings.

If anything, his perception provided far more data than any weather station ever could.

So at the very least—

"If you want to hide from me, you'll need to control your scent, body temperature, heartbeat, and even your breathing. At the very least, you should’ve masked your breath properly."

"......."

"What's wrong?"

"...Are you human?"

"...?"

Being questioned about his species upon first meeting someone left Ihan more than a little unimpressed.

***

Cain Arnold de Mordred, Margrave of the Borderlands

The current Margrave of Mordred—or rather, former Margrave thanks to Ihan—Cain looked young, but in reality, he was in his mid-forties.

He was frequently cited as one of the three most powerful figures in Mordred’s history and was even known as the King of the Borderlands.

Despite only holding the title of Count, his actual power far exceeded that rank—so much so that no one would find it strange if he claimed an even higher position.

And yet—

"I appreciate this. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen their faces light up with a smile."

Instead of reprimanding a nameless wanderer for freely delivering external news to his knights, soldiers, and servants, he bowed his head in gratitude—deeply, with genuine respect.

Under normal circumstances, Ihan should’ve been scolded for bypassing military protocols.

But instead, Cain’s sincere appreciation proved that he was a ruler, not a tyrant.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

Perhaps that’s why—

"...A noble should at least act like a noble. Shouldn't you be arrogant and look down on a wandering vagabond like me? Why don’t you seem... noble-like at all? Are you sure you're really a high-ranking noble?"

"......."

Ihan narrowed his eyes, suspicion and skepticism creeping into his gaze.

Was this really the so-called King of the Borderlands?

"...I see now that your impression of nobles is quite poor."

Cain sighed, looking a little disheartened.

He hadn’t expected to receive such a low first impression.

But it wasn’t entirely unjustified.

"Ah, well... you do have one noble trait."

"...And what is that?"

"You abandoned your three-year-old child for five years like a deadbeat father."

"......I am a sinner."

Cain let out a bitter sigh and stared into the distance.

He looked like a man who truly wanted to die.

He was fully aware of his own sins.

"...Shame."

If this man had abandoned his child and remained shameless about it, Ihan wouldn’t have hesitated to beat him senseless, noble or not.

But there was no need for that.

Cain already looked moments away from breaking down completely.

He was showing clear signs of depression—if left alone, he might even commit suicide.

"Haha, enough tormenting our Lord. You already understand the curse, don’t you?"

"Of course. But knowing and accepting are different things. That kid and I are friends, and as a friend, I need to be angry on their behalf."

"...So, you are close to my granddaughter."

"Didn’t you already know?"

"Spirits are not all-knowing. I only receive fragments of information. If I could know everything, this country wouldn’t be called Pendragon—it would’ve been called Mordred long ago."

"...Isn’t that treason?"

"You didn’t know? The founding will of Mordred’s ancestor was 'revolution and rebellion.' He decreed that if the Pendragon royal family became incompetent, we should overthrow them to restore the kingdom."

"......."

"Haha, don’t look at me like that. It’s just a will. We are not obligated to follow it."

"...Your eyes say otherwise."

The old knight, a former head of House Mordred, had the gaze of a revolutionary—the kind Ihan had only seen in historical photographs.

It was the unshakable determination of a man ready to flip the kingdom upside down given the opportunity.

"Does Mordred have bad blood with the royal family?"

Ihan guessed there was some serious tension between House Mordred and the Pendragon royal family.

But it wasn’t his problem.

He had no intention of getting involved in their internal conflicts.

His attention was elsewhere.

...Boom!

"Something’s coming."

"Hm?"

"...What?"

The others were still trying to process his words when—

"Proud defenders of Mordred—prepare for battle!"

Cain’s commanding voice roared through the camp—so powerful and authoritative that it was hard to believe he had been sulking like a depressed man just moments ago.

And the instant his words fell—

[A wave is coming!]

[Boil the oil and water!]

[Ooo! Ooo-!]

Boom! Boom!

The ground trembled as over 600 soldiers stomped °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° into formation, their practiced movements turning the battlefield into a storm of activity.

Ihan watched, impressed by their discipline.

Among the chaos, he turned to Garnok, who, unlike the others, was calmly sharpening his sword instead of rushing to action.

"Just how many battles have you fought?"

"Hmm... I remember up to 1,276. I stopped counting after that."

"......."

"But the intervals between the waves are getting shorter. We just fought a battle two days ago... Haah, I’m getting too old for this."

Though he grumbled, there was no mistaking the fierce aura radiating from Garnok’s body—an aura so overwhelming that even Ihan felt its weight for a brief moment.

And then—

"Want to watch?"

"......."

It was said so casually, like an invitation to a field trip.

Ihan found himself nodding before he even realized it.

***

RUMBLE—!

[[KAAAAAAA—!]]

A swarm of 30,000 wraiths surged forward like a tidal wave.

Like a colony of white ants, they came pouring in—

A never-ending flood of death.