The coffin lid was pushed aside. A brawny man with a golden wound on a bald patch of his head and a golden scar on his clavicle sat up straight. Bracing his hands on the coffin's edge, he shakily rose to his feet.
He lifted a long leg over the side of the coffin and stepped out. He walked over to the young lord holding a torch and watched him in silence.
Then… brushing past the lord, he bent down and picked up the scythe on the ground.
WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH. The man swung the scythe as if he were holding not a scythe, but a sharp longsword.
After he finished swinging the scythe, the man leaned against the wall and lowered his head.
"Not bad," the young lord said, very satisfied. 'The corpse made from the Warg Slayer is more agile and stronger. It even retains some of its Swordsmanship instincts. As I control its movements, those instincts merge with my own memories. It's as if I've become a master swordsman myself.'
In the torchlight, half of the handsome lord's face was brightly illuminated while the other half was completely hidden in darkness. "We have a long road ahead of us, Master Jamie."
The corpse remained motionless. 'It's a shame he didn't become a Corpse Ghost, like the ones recorded in the Necromancer's Journal.'
...
"The Four Gods bless you, my Lord!"
The young male servant bowed, his excitement plain to see.
"You are my loyal servant, Pitchfork," Leech said, nodding slightly at the manservant. 'When I was on the verge of death, only Pitchfork searched for medicinal herbs for me. The steward, Simon, pretended not to know anything, choosing to remain neutral. While it's understandable that he'd do so to save his own skin, to ignore my plight was a betrayal of his oath to his lord.'
Pitchfork nodded emphatically. "Yes, my Lord! I always have been!"
Leech glanced at the steward standing to one side, who remained indifferent to Pitchfork's display. 'Perhaps he believes that as long as he does his duties, that's enough. A fair day's work for a fair day's pay.' "Mr. Simon, could you have everyone in this castle gather here? I believe they have yet to properly meet their new master."
"Of course, but..." Simon said, "it would be better to receive them outside. It would prevent them from tracking their lowly footprints all over the castle with their filthy, dung-caked shoes."
Leech's brow furrowed slightly. 'I knew about the enormous class divide of this era from the previous Baron Leech's memories, but judging by the steward's reaction, the gap is even wider than I imagined.'
He recalled a story about a joke once told at a gathering of nobles: A farmer lay on his deathbed, and the Prisoner came to collect his soul. The deity waited behind the farmer's rear end, believing the man's soul would emerge from there. Instead, all He got was a fart.
'That's right. In the eyes of the nobility, commoners are nothing more than farts.'
The Prisoner was one of the Four Gods—the god of judgment, punishment, and death. He willingly shackled himself to bear the world's suffering, a symbol of sacrifice and devotion.
'As for the noble who joked about a god, his domain was annihilated. If any of his bloodline were lucky enough to survive, his descendants are now probably commoners in some lord's territory—just like farts.'
Leech's brow smoothed. '...At least I'm a noble lord. I have no intention of overthrowing myself.'
"To the courtyard, then," Leech said.
A few people stood together in the courtyard.
A heavyset woman in a long dress nervously clutched its wrinkled fabric.
"I hear the Lord wants to see us," whispered the woman standing beside Lady Sparrow. She was a cleaning maid at the castle. It wasn't an easy job, but working inside was better than being exposed to the elements. Besides, her wages alone were enough to feed her entire family. If she had stayed home to farm, they would be filling their bellies with wild grass, not black bread.
Another maid nodded in agreement. She was a tall, powerfully-built woman; Lady Sparrow often lamented that if she were a man, she could probably wield a longsword on the battlefield.
"Did you hear? Lord Leo and the Baroness have moved out. They left with that gold carriage that came today..."
"I heard the Lord was gravely injured. It's wonderful that he's woken up."
During the Clarence family's year in Porcupine Territory, the servants had gotten to know the family members quite well. Baron Lierde Clarence was hot-tempered and foul-mouthed, hardly an elegant nobleman.
The Baroness was acerbic and cruel, always finding ways to dock their pay.
Lord Leech was gentle and refined, with a temper so mild it bordered on timid.
As for Leo, he was only a child, but he was well-mannered. He hadn't been raised to be obnoxious by his volatile mother.
"Quiet! The Lord is here!"
Leech waved away the manservant Pitchfork's attempt to support him. 'In a world dominated by faith, there's no need to fear being dissected for miraculously recovering from a grave injury. On the contrary, it will earn me the worshipful gazes of others. People like that are called the Divine Favored.'
'It's like the founding myths of old, like a dream foretelling a great birth, or Liu Bang slaying the white serpent. A lord favored by the gods could even strengthen his rule over the territory.'
A corner of the courtyard fell silent at his arrival.
The servants of Porcupine Castle stood before him, their expressions apprehensive. His gaze swept over them. He could see their pride in working in this dilapidated castle, their nervousness at facing their Baron, and… their fear of being dismissed. No one wanted to lose their post at the castle.
The gaunt steward and the short, stooping manservant followed behind Leech like bodyguards, though it looked more as if the tall, powerful Leech were protecting them.
The impoverished Porcupine Castle couldn't support many people. The twenty-odd people before him were the entire staff, including laundry maids, a cook, a groom, cleaning servants, a personal attendant, a steward, and the castle guards—who were just local farmers.
From what Leech knew, the castles of wealthy lords employed dozens more people: carpenters, masons, attendants, and minstrels, to name a few. Their kitchens alone might have separate male servants for searing steaks, washing vegetables, chopping vegetables, and washing dishes. It was a commonly accepted truth that men could reach the pinnacle of any profession—even in a brothel.
Add in the Knights and their guard Soldiers, and the total staff could number in the hundreds.
Lierde once had a respectable force of about eighty Soldiers, but they had recently been recruited away by House Leopold of the Golden Sword. The former Baron, suffering a relapse of an old ailment, had been unable to go himself, but he had loyally sent his entire fortune along with them.
'If those Soldiers were still here,' Leech thought, 'I never would have ended up in this state. Jamie wouldn't have even dared to lay a hand on me.'
Now, Leech doubted the Soldiers would ever return. After all, Lierde was dead.
Leech asked, "Mr. Simon, who is the cook?"
Rabbit Simon immediately pointed to a bald man. "That would be Mr. Barrel."
The cook certainly lived up to his name, "Barrel," sporting an enormous belly. 'It seems,' Leech thought, 'he enjoys the same quality of breakfast, lunch, and dinner as the Baron.'
'Pitchfork, Hammer, Barrel,' Leech mused. 'Compared to commoners, nobles possess knowledge. The names they give their children are more dignified.'
Baron Lierde's father had been a blacksmith with no surname. Lierde had chosen the name Clarence after consulting a knowledgeable scholar. It marked the beginning of his family's lineage. On the Lu Leiyi Continent, "Clarence" meant "confidence."
'So,' Leech thought, 'I suppose my name should be Leech Confidence.'
'A perfect fit for the personality of Baron Porcupine.'