Chapter 40: Lord Bolgan

  It wasn’t that the man was named "Bolgan" and addressed with the honorific "Lord"—his full name was simply Lord Bolgan. Fittingly, he seemed born for the role. Bracada had once been no more than a tiny frontier post, yet under his governance, it had grown into a town of considerable size in just a few years. He had risen from an official so lowly he was barely worth mentioning to the administrator of a thriving settlement.

  Lord Bolgan was in a foul mood. He sat in his large chair, propping his big head up with both hands, lost in a daze.

  The merchant caravan—a front for the thieves—had departed a month earlier. Lord Bolgan had stood at the checkpoint and watched them leave, seeing Ethan and Sophia disguised as merchants mixed among the group.

  It took roughly twenty days to travel west from Bracada through the Barbarian Highlands to reach the Western Kingdoms—but that was only through the narrowest southern section of the highlands. Farther north, between the Lizard Marsh and the Sanderfirth Mountains, lay vast stretches of unclaimed land. Devoid of valuable resources or ancient ruins, it was a wilderness of scattered forests, rolling hills, and roaming beasts. Few had set foot there since the imperial army had wiped out orc tribes years earlier. If the orcs were indeed building a fortress, that wilderness was their most likely location. By now, the group should have arrived.

  What was the truth of the place? Was it truly a rational, organized nation? And how would the orcs—who had long been hunted by the empire—view their old enemy? He hoped Ethan would return soon. Though unlikely, he prayed the news Ethan brought back might turn the tide of the coming war.

  Footsteps echoed in the corridor. There must have been several people—shouts could be heard—but only one set of footsteps dominated. Each step was loud, heavy, and steady, a thud that overpowered all others, announcing the arrival of someone with immense size and authority.

  Lord Bolgan sighed. What had to come had come—he just hadn’t expected it so soon.

  The door was pushed open, or rather smashed open. The two wooden panels flew back and slammed against the wall with a crash, and a colossal figure filled the doorway.

  If anyone ever wondered what "majestic ferocity" looked like, this man was the living definition. He seemed forged from the very concept of "might": every inch of him, from the tips of his hair to the heels of his boots, exuded the fearsome aura of a seasoned warrior. Golden hair spilled out from under his helmet, merging with a thick golden beard. His face was crisscrossed with scars and lines of hardship—war, not time, had aged him. A head taller and a shoulder broader than most men, he wore modified steel armor that protected only his vital organs; the rest of his body was bare, revealing rock-hard muscles etched with old wounds. At his waist hung two double-edged axes—so heavy most men could barely lift one.

  Lord Bolgan waved a hand at the town hall staff trailing behind, dismissing them. The general had barged in without a word, and they’d been powerless to stop him. Lord Bolgan stood and nodded. "Greetings, General Sanders."

  "I am not well," General Sanders replied, fixing Lord Bolgan with a sharp gaze. "I rode two thousand li from the southern border, killing ten horses in the process. I am exhausted, and my mood is foul. So no—I am not well."

  "Where is your army? Would you not like to rest first…"

  The general did look weary, but even a tired lion oozed dominance and menace. "I told you I am not well. That means I want no empty pleasantries."

  Lord Bolgan nodded. He had dealt with the general on difficult terms ever since taking over the post ten years earlier, and knew better than to argue.

  "Do you know why I rushed here?"

  "No."

  "Because I heard strange rumors—about the Barbarian Highlands to the west. Rumors of an orc fortress being built there."

  "I know."

  "Then do you know about Captain Sanders of the Paladin Order recruiting mercenaries in your town half a year ago?"

  "I know."

  "Do you know why he was recruiting them?" The general’s voice grew deeper with each question.

  "No." Lord Bolgan felt as if those were the only words he could speak.

  "Have you heard any news of him or his unit since then?"

  "No."

  "No?" The general’s flame-shaped eyebrows knitted together, his voice a low growl like a beast’s. "Do you know what that unit was sent to do?"

  "No."

  "They were secretly dispatched by the Paladin Order’s Grand Master and myself to scout orc movements in the western wilderness." The general’s voice rose to a roar. "Yet I have received no word from them in half a year—and now I hear the orcs have built a fortress in the highlands." He slammed a fist on the desk. "In my last letter from him, he wrote that you refused to lend him your soldiers. That is why he had to recruit mercenaries here. And now, an entire unit has vanished near your town—and you claim to know nothing about it?" The general stared into Lord Bolgan’s face, each word sharp as a blade. "Explain this to me."

  Lord Bolgan took a deep breath and explained calmly, his words measured: "Captain Sanders never told me the nature of his mission. He only asked to borrow the town’s guard, but he had no official documents. So I could not hand over my men. He gathered his own soldiers and the mercenaries he’d recruited, then marched deep into the Barbarian Highlands. The region is far too remote for us to maintain contact. I assumed they had returned to the empire via another route, so I paid it no mind. As for the orc fortress… I only heard rumors of it recently."

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  The general stared at him in silence, then asked: "You refused to give him soldiers just because he had no documents? You know a Paladin Order captain outranks you. And what could be more important than a military mission related to the empire’s safety?"

  Lord Bolgan replied: "No matter what mission he claimed to pursue, without official papers, it was a private request. I could not hand over my troops to anyone, no matter their rank. My duty is to maintain local order—I am the magistrate of this town."

  Crash! The axe that had hung at the general’s waist split the desk in two. The fine wooden table collapsed entirely, as if it were made of flour. "Your duty, my ass!" The general’s voice threatened to tear the short man before him to shreds. "If we soldiers did not fight and die on the front lines, you petty officials would have no power to play with! It is because of us that frontier people do not suffer orc raids, that trade routes to the west remain open! Your wealth and comfort are bought with our blood—do you understand that?" His voice shook with rage. "But because of obstructionists like you—petty officials who care only for power—I was stuck in that damned south, unable to come here. He had to recruit mercenaries for a scouting mission… and now he’s missing for half a year. The orcs built a fortress right on our empire’s doorstep…"

  The axe had struck only the center of the desk, yet even the legs had shattered. Lord Bolgan stared at the blade inches from his nose—one foot closer, and he would have been mixed with the splinters on the floor. Sweat dripped from his chin.

  The general’s eyes blazed with murderous fury and grief, but the fire slowly dimmed. He pulled his axe back and hung it at his waist, then pulled an official document from his bosom and threw it in Lord Bolgan’s face. "This is the paperwork you wanted. The empire is now at war. I have full authority over all frontier affairs. Trade with the west is halted immediately—Bracada will be used as a military outpost. You are no longer the magistrate of this town."

  "An envoy of Duke Mrak has already gone to the fortress to gather information," Lord Bolgan said. "If we wait for their report, perhaps war can be avoided…"

  "I do not repeat my orders," the general said, his jaw tight—his patience had reached its limit. "I will tell you one last time: my mood is foul. Get out."

  Lord Bolgan said nothing. He silently picked up the scattered pages of the document, walked to the door, and paused. "I am truly sorry for your son. But I had no choice—it was my duty."

  The general remained standing in the center of the room, motionless as a stone statue. Lord Bolgan’s footsteps faded down the corridor, followed by his voice summoning the town hall staff.

  The general slowly sank into the chair, burying his face in his hands. The long journey and emotional turmoil had aged him a decade in an instant.

  It had all begun two years earlier, when the current emperor ascended the throne and appointed a new Chancellor. A royal edict had arrived shortly after: the west had been pacified, so no more troops were needed there. With southern kingdoms growing restless, all imperial forces were to be redeployed to the south. Since Bracada shared no borders with other nations, no army would be left behind—the local guard would suffice.

  The general had known at once the edict was the new Chancellor’s doing. The Chancellor’s family had long coveted the trade routes to the Western Kingdoms, and the general had always clashed with them, rigorously inspecting their caravans. They would never let him remain in such a strategic position. But it mattered little—he had never cared for politics. If the edict ordered troops to the south, he would obey.

  Half a year earlier, his son—who served as a captain in the Paladin Order—had brought a secret letter from Grand Master Roland. It warned that orcs had been spotted once more in the Barbarian Highlands on the western frontier, and ordered a scouting mission.

  But with tensions rising in the south and war imminent, the court had forbidden any troop movements. The general had sent several petitions requesting additional funds to split his forces and garrison the west, but had received no reply. Politicians were sabotaging him—he loathed them for it. Yet he was a soldier first; without orders, he could not move.

  The Paladin Order was the empire’s elite force, requiring approval from both the emperor and the church to deploy. Thus, Grand Master Roland could only send men secretly. But scouts either vanished without a trace or returned with no useful information—the Barbarian Highlands were too vast and dangerous for small parties to survey thoroughly. A faction of politicians, led by the Erney family, had long sought to seize control of the military, and they had worked tirelessly to undermine military leaders like the general and Roland. The orc rumors had reached Roland through informal channels, with no solid proof; if they deployed troops openly, the politicians would seize the opportunity to attack them.

  The general had doubted the orcs—he had nearly wiped them out years earlier—but he knew Roland was not one to overreact. He had quietly transferred a small contingent of his own soldiers to his son, ordering him to gather local troops and scout the west. But his son had vanished like a stone dropped in the ocean, leaving no trace for half a year. Bound by his duty to defend the southern border, the general had dared not leave his post. He had searched for news in every way possible, but found nothing—until Roland finally obtained concrete evidence and reported it to the court. A royal edict had arrived soon after: the orcs had built a fortress in the western highlands, and the general was to march west at once.

  The moment he received the order, he knew his son was dead. His youngest son—his last remaining child.

  He would kill every last orc, no matter the cost.

  It was a vow he had made over twenty years earlier, silently asking the gods to witness it. This time, he made no prayers. He would have accepted help from the devil himself.

  News of the war hit Bracada’s residents like a summer downpour—sudden and overwhelming.

  Yet they quickly recovered from their shock and disbelief, packing their belongings to flee. Few had lived in the town long enough to feel attached to it. In just three days, the town’s prosperity vanished.

  Lord Bolgan stood on a street corner, watching numbly as the last group of residents left, carrying their bags. Tavern doors hung open, their interiors empty save for abandoned tables, furniture, and garbage. Upstairs windows creaked in the wind, occasionally slamming together with a sharp crack.

  The vanguard of the army had arrived. The glint of swords, spears, and armor filled the streets; even the fatigue of their forced march could not hide the troops’ ferocity.

  "So there’s going to be a war?" A robed figure emerged from the corner of a building and stood beside Lord Bolgan, gazing at the scene. His voice was harsh, almost inhuman. "I just arrived a few days ago—why is there suddenly talk of war?"

  "Yes. A war is coming," Lord Bolgan replied absently.

  "So many soldiers," the figure murmured, staring at the troops. Lord Bolgan’s voice was unpleasant, but next to this man’s, he might as well have been a great singer. "If they fight here, the whole town will be flattened, won’t it?"

  "Yes," Lord Bolgan said, glancing at the figure. He seemed to be a sickly wanderer, wrapped head to toe in a robe, revealing only the upper half of his face.

  "Do you know when the fighting will start? When these men will march?" The figure’s dull eyes wandered over the passing soldiers.

  "Tomorrow, probably," Lord Bolgan thought. The general would likely send the men to scout first, after a night’s rest.

  The wanderer made a sound of acknowledgment. "So soon? Then I must leave quickly."

  "Yes. Go," Lord Bolgan said, turning to leave. He still had to go to the town hall and brief the officers on the surrounding terrain, the town’s layout—where to store grain, where to station troops, where to post sentries. It was his final duty as magistrate.

  He smiled bitterly as he looked at the empty taverns. He had personally planned every building in the town, watching them rise brick by brick. When he’d first had the idea to combine taverns, inns, and brothels in the city, he’d even admired his own cleverness. He kicked a small stone; it flew and hit a door, making a dull, lifeless thud.