It won't work.
This entire ceremony... it just won't.
Why would anyone waste this much time, money, and manpower for a glorified title change?
There were multi-colored banners hanging from every post, musicians playing some overly ornate melody, and flower petals—real, fresh flower petals—scattered across the street like they were rice at a wedding. I overheard someone saying those flowers came from a mountain range five days away. Five. Days. Just to be stepped on by drunk nobles and horses.
Meanwhile, people here are still dying from spoiled water and untreated wounds.
I stayed silent on the carriage ride. It was bumpy, the kind that rattles your bones even when you're not moving. The "paved road" was more like a suggestion—loose gravel, random holes, and sudden jolts that could break a wagon wheel. In front of us, Gerhart rode his massive white horse like some kind of fairy tale prince.
He looked the part, at least.
Apparently, he earned the right to be Count of Tharros Vale after defeating a champion of the demon king. That still sounds like a story they tell children, but nobody here's laughing. They believe it. They cheer him like he's some blessed savior.
And Gerhart... well, Gerhart is Gerhart.
Super strong, immune to most magic, heals fast, and wields a glowing hammer that looks like it came straight out of an endgame raid. The Gleaming Hammer, they call it. Even wrapped in thick cloth, you can see the faint gold aura bleeding out from underneath. I'm half-convinced the damn thing hums when you get close enough.
That's the man they're giving a territory to.
Problem is, he chose Tharros Vale.
It sounds grand. Vale. Like something lush and noble. In reality? It's a godforsaken stretch of frontier land barely clinging to civilization. Brigands rule most of the forest routes. The mines are either abandoned or cursed, depending on who you ask. Villages dot the landscape like failed experiments, just surviving out of habit.
If this were my world, we'd file it under "high-risk, low-return assets."
But Gerhart? He smiles like he just won a castle made of gold.
"I will turn Tharros Vale into a beacon of hope," he said earlier.
Sure. Good luck with that.
Finally, we arrived at the absurdly lavish castle.
And I mean absurd.
We were greeted by a red carpet that stretched at least two kilometers long. Two. Kilometers. That's not grandeur—that's a logistical nightmare. How are they going to wash all the stains, the mud, the horse dung? Not to mention the effort to roll it back up, store it, and carry it around like it's a reusable prop.
Then I noticed something... odd.
Lurking at the edges of the crowd were these peculiar figures—half-human, half-goat. Not part of the celebration. Not even standing. Just working. Lifting crates, cleaning messes, getting yelled at.
Beastmen, someone whispered.
Former soldiers of the demon king's army. Now reduced to slaves under the Duke's domain.
I didn't flinch. Didn't feel anything in particular, to be honest. Just... observed.
I mean, the HR policy here must be insane.
So let me get this straight:They hand out noble titles to glorified muscleheads, slap the word "meritocracy" on it, then dump them into the worst possible regions to "prove themselves." When they inevitably fail? They strip their title, seize the lands, and walk away with all the credit. No severance pay. No accountability.
Elegant exploitation wrapped in gold and ceremony.
Honestly... this entire system is just so inefficient.
But hey, I'm just a foreigner. What do I know?
The Duke finally arrived.
Duke Morton of the House of... something. Honestly, I stopped paying attention.
He waddled in like a bloated peacock—draped in layers of silk and velvet, gemstones stuffed into every finger, and a golden chain thick enough to make modern-day rappers look minimalist. And the smell. Good God, the smell. I'm convinced I could catch a whiff from ten miles away. Musky perfume mixed with sweat and privilege.
Then came the speech.
Sweet heavens, the speech.
It was the most boring, pretentious, and utterly useless speech I've ever heard in my life. Imagine putting that into the Management Discussion section of an Annual Report! No mention of macroeconomic indicators, no strategic reasoning for Gerhart's appointment, no detailed review of his war record. Just... fluff. Page after page of meaningless fluff.
He droned on and on—so long that I think the war ended faster than this pompous monologue.
Eventually, Gerhart took a knee.
The crowd roared. Cheers filled the air. Trumpets sounded. Flower petals flew.
I gagged.
I swear I saw a bird fall mid-flight from all the collective bad breath in the plaza.
No official contract. No deed of title. No written record. Just a pat on the back and a title thrown in the air like it was confetti.
So, I did what any sane person would do.
I whipped out a scroll and drafted a basic appointment letter right there on the spot.
Just to be safe, right?
I approached Gerhart and the Duke with a smile that barely hid my exasperation. I handed over the scroll I just wrote.
"Excuse me, M'lord. May I kindly get your noble signature on this contract?"
The Duke squinted at the paper. "Signature? What is that?"
"Your name. Or a mark. You can review the contents first, M'lord..."
"Bah! I don't write! I don't read! I don't even count! I am a Duke, after all!" he said proudly, puffing out his chest.
...More like Duke Moron, I muttered internally.
"Sure, M'lord. In that case, please dip your thumb in this inkwell and press it here."
He obliged immediately, as if signing away his soul meant nothing. Imagine what kind of fraud you could pull on this guy. Honestly, it's like stealing candy from a royal baby.
Then I turned to Gerhart. "Your turn."
He took a glance, nodded, and scribbled his name in surprisingly decent cursive. Huh. So the musclehead can write.
There's hope for this place yet.
And finally, the feast.The Duke's dining hall was packed with his retainers and extended family, dripping in the same over-the-top pretension as the rest of the castle. I sat far at the end of the table, with Gerhart's entourage. Good folks, actually. A little rough around the edges—veterans, most of them—but at least they weren't fake or full of themselves.
The same tired music from earlier echoed through the hall while we waited for food. Then it finally came.
Beastmen servants arrived, loading our table with roasted meat, some kind of dark bread, raw vegetables, and... apples. Lots and lots of apples. Apparently, that's considered fancy here.
The meat? Tough, dry, bland. The bread? Serviceable. I ended up filling my stomach with bread and vegetables. Then came the soup—or should I say, broth. More like boiled sadness in a bowl. Horrendous.
But the drinks? The ale... was surprisingly good. Sweet, malty, a pleasant bitterness. I was genuinely impressed! Only downside? It was light. Like, embarrassingly light. But these people? Two mugs in and they were out cold. The Duke was already snoring on his high seat. The whole room turned into a tavern disaster.I just sat there silently, drinking by the bottle like a man in exile.
Then Gerhart approached me—sober, somehow.
"Leooo!!! Never imagined you can drink!"
"You're not too bad yourself," I said.
"I'm immune to poison. That means... I can't get drunk."
Wow. What a nerf.That really sucks. I mean, drinking is one of the core joys of post-work life. Take the effect away? I'd never survive.
He sat beside me, talking about random things like a kid on a school trip. For a war hero, Gerhart really was... pure.
"So," I asked, "why do you want to be a Count?"
"I don't wanna be. I just have to, Leo."
"Then what do you want to do as a Count?"
He looked straight ahead, eyes gleaming with sincerity."I want to make a place of justice, equality, and happiness. I just don't want anyone suffering because of me."
"Not even beastmen?" I asked, watching him closely.
"Especially not the beastmen. They've suffered enough."
His childlike stare didn't flinch. Innocent. Honest. And for the first time today, I wondered...Maybe this guy is worth helping.