# Ep13. Meeting the In-Laws
"With this, I could handle an ambush even while brushing my hair, couldn't I?"
"That's right."
Ivan trembled with joy at finally meeting someone with common sense.
It's obvious common knowledge that a man is most vulnerable to surprise attacks while brushing his hair, so there was no need to elaborate further.
This was a meeting of sensible people transcending age and era (21st century and pre-modern). People call universally applicable common sense, regardless of era or nation, truth. Indeed, at this moment, they had essentially realized a fundamental truth.
Einarr kept expressing amazement as he balanced the comb on his finger to check its weight, clicked the hidden dagger in and out, and transformed the comb into different shapes.
Wow, a transforming comb. And with that solid, reassuring weight of pure metal, without any magical assistance.
This was the same kind of excitement men feel when handling firearms for the first time. The precise interlocking of components creating that clean, functional beauty unique to metal. Any man would be impressed.
"Can I try it once...?"
"Absolutely not."
"Why not?"
"You fundamentally lack any concept of hygiene."
"...?"
Ivan looked at the puzzled Einarr with disdain.
How can this man talk when bread crumbs from this morning's breakfast are still stuck in the corners of his braided beard?
For Ivan, his beard was an attempt to somewhat emulate the style of the former king.
It could be called an "image of style." Only the former king could possess the true ideal of style.
Therefore, Ivan spent considerable time every morning and night grooming his beard. This was the best courtesy he could show. It was like paying respects.
But the men of Droan were not like that. Those fellows just thoughtlessly grew their beards saying, "Hair grows, so I grow it," then braided it, and when beer spilled on it, they'd just wring it out, shake it off, and be done. (No, that's not true.)
He couldn't possibly allow his treasure to be used by the leader of such men.
After hearing this explanation, Einarr fell into confusion, unsure whether to feel angry or wronged.
Just then, he heard a faint sniffling sound.
"Wait a moment."
He walked over with heavy steps, grabbed the headmaster's office window, and flung it open.
"..."
Below the window sat two small orphans and Isabelle, who looked on the verge of tears.
"This is unexpected."
Upon seeing Einarr's face, the orphans immediately fled, but Isabelle remained, looking up at him.
That face, those eyes were familiar even to Einarr. Remarkably similar. Einarr smiled wryly.
"Maximillian's daughter."
"...Yes, Your Majesty."
"What's with 'Your Majesty'? Call me uncle."
Einarr shrugged and briefly rubbed his brow. He had naturally assumed his brothers would control the surroundings, but what was this situation?
"How much did you hear?"
"..."
"Everything, I see. Very well."
Einarr heaved a deep sigh.
"We'll talk again later."
He closed the window and stepped back. Ivan showed no sign of surprise.
This bastard knew all along.
Einarr returned to his seat with a wry smile.
"Is there a soundproofing spell on this room?"
"No. If there were, we wouldn't be able to hear sounds from outside."
"Right. You're not that kind of person... Hmph. You knew?"
"That child should know this information too."
"Really? You let a little girl hear that her father might have gone insane? And what is this place, an assassin training facility disguised as an orphanage? Why didn't I notice children approaching until they were right under my nose?"
"That's a misunderstanding. Those children are all war orphans."
War orphans are unfortunate children who must always be mindful of others, society, and the world around them.
It's natural for such children to walk carefully. Ivan also implicitly encouraged such behavior.
Children who must eventually enter society would have better survival chances if they mastered at least one skill thoroughly.
Einarr didn't seem to accept this obvious logic. No matter how enlightened he appeared, he was still unavoidably a pre-modern person.
"What kind of orphans can infiltrate right under my chin while evading my brothers' eyes? Even among demons, few could manage that."
Einarr laughed dejectedly and walked toward the headmaster's office door.
"My reason for visiting you is probably meaningless now. But I should still check. Have you been meeting with Essie lately?"
"Mm."
"Right? I thought so... What?!! Meeting?! You're meeting her?!"
"Mm."
He even prepares meals for her and has been supervising her training recently.
Einarr looked over Ivan's impassive face, rubbed his forehead once more, and then naturally drew his axe.
"Come with me right now, you bastard!!"
The law books of Droan contain no instructions on how to peacefully resolve situations with scoundrels who lure and take advantage of a close friend's daughter in a foreign country.
A curse?
A tainted soul?
The Seven Dragon Generals and the Demon King...?
Having heard such an incredible story with not even a hint of plausibility, Isabelle felt confusion before sadness.
It was difficult to comprehend, let alone accept. God is something like a still life, hinting at existence through priests.
That's how people of this era see it. God exists, the afterlife is strict, and the Bible should rightfully take precedence over any law, but people don't live with a tangible sense of whether "God" truly "exists."
Therefore, stories about killing gods or receiving divine curses are generally regarded as vague statements from mythology.
Isabelle staggered in confusion, moving her feet aimlessly.
'Father.'
She tried to recall the hero whose features were now blurry, recognizable only in exaggerated statues.
She couldn't clearly remember his voice, manner of speaking, or any distinctive characteristics.
This could be because they parted when she was very young, because they spent so little time together after the war ended, or because he was too grand a figure for her to fully comprehend...
'No.'
She now knew that wasn't the reason. Suddenly, she felt a chill.
Her perception of Hero Maximillian consisted of colorless, transparent memories. She had briefly met her father at the victory banquet.
He was a brightly smiling, brilliantly shining man. That's how she remembered him.
But was that really true? Isabelle couldn't say for certain.
The hero, her father, was "fading away." Like gradually spreading paint, even under the brilliant chandeliers of the victory banquet. Slowly...
Her father hadn't secluded himself. He hadn't gone into hiding.
He couldn't handle himself. Yes, to put it more clearly... to interpret it mythologically. He had sealed himself away.
What would happen if a man who could split the sky alone, behead the Demon King, and break through armies of thousands succumbed to madness?
The fear Isabelle felt crawling up her spine was merely an echo of the emotion Maximillian had already experienced.
The hero must have known more clearly than anyone what he was capable of doing.
If an individual who could slaughter nations and societies wielded his power solely for madness and desire. What should we call such a person?
Demon King.
Moreover, he would become a Demon King in a world without a hero. He would become a disaster that no one could resist. Humanity could not endure another war.
So Maximillian sealed himself away. Because he was someone who could predict the consequences of his actions more precisely than anyone else in the world.
The ignorant masses gradually forgot the hero's final sacrifice.
The nobles who seized the wealth and territories left by the dead Demon King and defeated demon race mocked the vanished hero.
And Isabelle, who was left behind, resented her father.
A man who had devoted himself entirely to the world for his whole life.
"Bella? Are you crying? My goodness, what's wrong?! You look so..."
"Essie...?"
"Yes, yes, I'm here. What happened?! Come here, drink this... wipe your tears..."
"Essie... Essie... what should I do..."
Somehow she had reached the vicinity of the school. Perhaps her feet had naturally brought her along the familiar path.
Isabelle sniffled and fell into Essidis's embrace.
"What's wrong? What happened? Hmm?"
"The headmaster... what will happen to the headmaster..."
Only after painfully forcing the words out did Isabelle finally realize why she had been crying.
It was compassion for Ivan, that man. It was grief.
Her father, Maximillian, sacrificed everything to cut down the Seven Dragon Generals and slay the Demon King.
And the same was true for Ivan. He too had killed a Dragon General and lost part of his soul to the same curse.
Then one could naturally imagine that he would meet the same fate as the hero.
Either confine himself before being consumed by madness, or be consumed by madness and vanish like morning dew on the execution ground.
That clear future was so sad, so heartbreaking.
Isabelle realized the reason for her flowing tears and collapsed in sobs.
"It shouldn't be like this, right? Essie... it shouldn't be like this."
Great heroes who devoted their entire lives, set themselves aside, and achieved feats no human would dare attempt.
If the end for such great people is merely waiting for a lonely death in self-confinement. Isn't that too unfair?
While people who live in ignorance and kings who exploit heroes' achievements from behind accumulate wealth and fame so happily.
In a world where heroes who laid the foundations of society rot away alone underground, isn't something wrong?
If God exists, it shouldn't be this way. If the Lord truly loves humans, it shouldn't be this way.
Isabelle sobbed, thinking of her father, Ivan, and the unknown heroes of past wars.
Essidis wrapped her arm around Isabelle's shoulders and gently patted her.
Upon arriving at St. Vasilisha Orphanage, Elizabeta couldn't hide her blasphemous feelings and covered her face.
The orphanage had been transformed into something that was barely half an orphanage anymore.
"King Einarr."
"Oh, Elizabeta. It's been a while."
"Is this... a declaration of war?"
With a flick of Elizabeta's hand, a guard rushed to attend to Ivan, who was lying on the ground. Nothing else could be salvaged. The orphanage playground had been transformed into a crater.
"Entering the country without official correspondence, ignoring all procedures. And daring to attack my associate. Einarr. Did you find yourself and this country so ridiculous?"
Elizabeta checked Ivan's injuries.
Thanks to her extensive field command experience, she could tell that Ivan's injuries weren't particularly serious.
She sighed with relief and slowly caressed Ivan's cheek.
"Pavel."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Do what you must. Krasilov never backs down before foreign enemies who insult our sovereign."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
As Pavel stepped forward, the troops surrounding the orphanage walls simultaneously raised their weapons.
Almost simultaneously, the Huskarls standing beside Einarr also drew their weapons.
Killing intent stretched taut. Precariously, as if it might snap at any moment.
Einarr shrugged in the midst of it all.
"Is that temperament hereditary? Calm down. If I must state my purpose, it was all about that fellow, and if I must make an excuse, this was just a family matter."
"Family matter? How is my associate included in your family matters?"
"Well, it seems he might be included soon. Boys, lower your weapons."
Einarr waved his hand and stepped forward.
When Pavel raised his spear threateningly, Einarr smiled wryly and gestured.
"Put away your toothpick, little one. No one needs to see blood today. Elizabeta Kirillovna Krasilov, as the king of Droan, I express my regrets. I will certainly make amends for today's rudeness."
"I'd like to hear the reason first."
"Ask him when he wakes up. It was a mutually agreed duel, so further questioning would be an insult to me as well. And when that bastard wakes up, please be sure to tell him this."
I'll allow it, but at least see your child after graduation.
After saying this, Einarr turned to leave.
Behind his back, drops of blood fell from his arm: drip, drip.
Einarr clenched his fist and smiled wryly.
You've grown, you bastard.
He walked away with satisfaction. The Huskarls followed him, smoothly departing through the Krasilov royal guards surrounding them.