According to gossip, my father was once a guard-in-training at my mother's childhood home—the estate of a middle-tier merchant family. They reportedly fell in love after he risked his life to protect her by slaying a lone Berserker Orc. Though he was not the family's official guard at the time, he just became a renowned independent hunter. That orc—a mindless brute of terrifying strength that existed only to kill, eat, and sleep—is the reason for our status. Its skull, which I saw encased in glass, is the origin of our surname: Hatar. Common people do not have surnames; we are the exception.
Because my mother's family opposed their union, my parents eloped and joined the military, serving together for ten years. There is undoubtedly more to the story, but I can already see where the facts end and the fiction begins.
This gossip helped me understand why people call me the "Miracle Baby." My mother could not have children without magical or alchemical support, as the chances of natural fertilization were slim. Even with an alchemical pregnancy, the risk of an abnormal birth was high, and the treatment for both would have cost a fortune. I am certain my mother's illness is magic-related, though I lack the knowledge to identify the exact cause. Regardless, the mystery surrounding my conception explains the immense fuss over my first birthday.
However, the public remains divided. Those who call me a "Bad Omen" fall into two categories. The first is the superstitious crowd; because I was born in the Month of Ace and the possibility was low according to them, they believe my birth was the result of an evil ritual. The second group is political. While I don't yet fully grasp the nuances of rank and power, I know the gist: my father served in the regular army for six years, fighting in the skirmishes between the Kingdom of Enameia and the Confederation of Vyarga.
Later, my father transferred to the 5th Battalion of the Central Special Military Orc Eradication Brigade. They were formed to hunt an Orc Lord whose army was initially estimated at 6,000 but actually numbered over 10,000. This force was comprised of sixty percent goblins, kobolds, and other lesser races, with the remainder being true orcs. They launched a surprise attack from the Shattered Mountain Range—a feat that had not been successfully accomplished in 4,000 years. Defending the range is usually easy, as there are only three routes—Capt, Losa, and Amlo—each protected by massive fortifications.
Suspiciously, this invading army remained undetected, captured the forts, and flowed inward, using our own strongholds as their bases. A portion of goblins, kobolds, and a few other creatures have since spread across the countryside, their rising populations destabilizing the entire kingdom.
The Royal and Ducal armies should have been sufficient to quell the threat, even with the intelligence failure. However, the force led by the Duke's two sons and their subordinate nobles was brutally crushed; their heads were displayed as trophies upon the walls of Fort Losa. Enraged, the Duke led a second army himself, only to meet the same fate and join his sons at Losa.
In response, the Royal Family commissioned the Orc Eradication Brigade. While they initially recaptured the three forts, the Orc Lord began employing unprecedented strategies. In the recent long history of human-orc conflict, few orcs have possessed the intellect to improvise on the battlefield. Because of this, he is feared as Hanord the Schemer.
During one disastrous engagement, the 1st, 3rd, 5th, and 6th Battalions fell into an ambush and faced total annihilation. My father's squad, along with three others, from other battalions held the line. They stood their ground without orders, allowing the rest of the battalions to retreat. The enemy's momentum was only broken when the Orc Chieftain and his guards leading the charge fell at the hands of my father and his squad. He personally killed the Orc Chieftain .For this act of defiance, my father was awarded the 'Iron Grunt's Witness.' This distinction is unique; it is only bestowed when every single soldier in a battalion unanimously agrees on a recipient. It can be given to only one person per battalion, making it the highest honor a common soldier can receive.
It was not only my father who fought; my mother served alongside him. She belonged to the Mage Class of Healers. It is a strict military custom to station husbands and wives together only if their abilities complement one another or fill specific roles within a squad. The command must be certain that their relationship benefits the unit's efficiency rather than creating a liability.
The war in the Shattered Mountain Range ground on for two long years. What began as a series of direct confrontations slowly decayed into a brutal battle of attrition, eventually shifting into irregular warfare.
The brigade held a logistical advantage, as their supply lines were more secure than those of the orcs. In response to the rugged terrain and the enemy's shifting tactics, the brigade mirrored the orcs' strategies, deploying small-unit guerrilla tactics to match the threat. My mother and father were at the absolute front of this conflict, leading their team through the harshest conditions.
When the battle dragged on with no end in sight, the State finally decided to deploy their 'Heavy Hitters'—the kingdom's most powerful assets. While the enemy army was nearly annihilated, Hanord the Schemer managed to retreat with his remaining forces. This narrow escape left a bitter taste in everyone's mouth. By surviving an encounter with Enameia's full military might, Hanord has become a much greater threat. This achievement makes him a legitimate contender for the title of Orc King, a position that would grant him the Blessing of the Gods. If he succeeds, he will no longer be just a local nuisance; he will be a global catastrophe, and the Kingdom of Enameia will undoubtedly be his first target.
Processing all of this information has been a heavy task. I am now certain that my mother's illness is rooted in something that occurred during those years in the mountains—a period the public has come to call The Trial of the Schemer.
The orc incursion has fundamentally destabilized the kingdom's politics. While those at the lower levels of society may not grasp the gravity of the shift, my past-life education and reading between the lines of the whispered discussions among the servants and guards confirm my suspicions. The death of the Grand Duke and his eldest sons has sparked chaos in the North. The only remaining heir to the Ducal House is a mere child—the son of a maid and the Duke's eldest son. Now, rival factions of nobles as well as the Royal family are warring for control over the boy, while other minor families scramble to seize the lands of those who lost their heirs.
We are not unscathed by this upheaval. Upon their retirement, my parents were granted titles of nobility and permitted to establish their own Noble House, complete with its own Coat of Arms. This was one of the premier rewards of the Iron Grunt's Witness.
However, there is a vast social gulf between simply 'being a noble' and 'being from a Noble House.' We are 'Sword-Nobles'—elevated by merit or, by another name, 'Blood Nobles.' According to the ancient laws established at the founding of the Kingdom, our house holds the right to nobility in perpetuity, ending only if our bloodline dies out.
This stands in stark contrast to other forms of rank:
The Wealth-Born: Those who buy their way into the gentry hold a title that lasts only two generations. If the third generation cannot sustain the wealth or perform a deed of merit, the name reverts to commoner status.
The Knight-Service: An independent knight earns nobility for himself and his children through the blade. But for his grandchildren, the clock resets. To maintain the title in perpetuity, the parents must perform their own deeds of valor according to the Ancient Laws. If the parents fail to prove their worth, they remain noble for their lifetimes, but the children—the grandchildren of the original Knight—are born as commoners, unless they can strike out and carve their own legacy through a deed of their own.
The Anchor of Marriage: A provisional noble can secure their status by marrying into a Blood-Noble house. This extends the title to the spouse, their immediate children, and future lineage—a legal anchor against the descent. Yet even this path is guarded by ancient rules.
The coat of arms for such houses, also known as Provisional Nobles is a geometric pentagram, mapped specifically to the territory they serve. This regular pentagram consists of five congruent isosceles triangles surrounding a central regular pentagon. Together, these represent the Six Power Centres of the Kingdom:
The Center (The Pentagon): Represents the Royal Family, who rule the heartland.
The Five Duke-Territories (The Triangles): Each of the five outer triangles represents a province ruled by a Grand Duke. The kingdom is divided into the North, East, West, and two distinct southern regions (Southeast and Southwest).
On a provisional noble's shield, left chest, breast, sleeves, lapel, sash, surcoat, official uniform, and livery badges, the triangle or central pentagon corresponding to their home province is colored in gold to show their regional loyalty.
In contrast, Blood Nobles are mandated to have their own unique crest, distinct from the standard pentagram. Accompanying this crest is a pentacle; the golden-colored sections within it—such as a specific triangle or the central pentagon—demonstrate their regional loyalty. However, a house like ours possesses a colorless pentacle, as we are new to the ranks of the Blood Nobility.
This realization brought to mind the two rings my parents always wear. One bears the Pentacle, the mark of our rank; the other features our House crest. The crest is a masterwork of symbolism: a heater-style shield in the foreground, backed by a heavy two-handed broadsword. The sword's crossguard is uniquely shaped like a balanced scale, and at the center of the grip sits a shining pentacle. Embossed upon the shield's face is a hunter's dagger.
It is a perfect visual metaphor for our family's legacy: the strength of the blade, the precision of the hunt, and the cold, calculated balance of trade.
Because our pentacle remains colorless, it signals to the world that while my father holds the Iron Grunt's Witness, he has not yet pledged our house's 'eternal soul' to a specific Grand Duke or the King's inner circle.
To the Provisional Nobles and commoners—and even some Blood Nobles draped in regional color—our colorless mark implies we are 'rootless,' having served no single province for generations. To them, my father's pentacle looks empty. But to those who truly understand the Ancient Laws, that emptiness is terrifying: it represents a Blood-Noble House that owes favors to no one.
We are truly independent.
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