Chapter Title: This Goddamned Medieval World (2)
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Though it had fallen to ruin, Jeron—armed with memories of the modern world—cherished this time of day above all else.
He bathed nearly every day, earning him a reputation as an oddity throughout the territory.
In this era, infectious diseases swept through whenever they pleased, and water was blamed as the culprit.
As a result, people lived in terror of it, viewing bathing itself as an incredibly dangerous act.
When Jeron first started indulging in baths, he caught an earful not just from his retainers, but from his family too.
But could someone with modern memories really go without washing?
In the end, he secured his bathing rights by diluting drops of that precious holy water.
Splash.
Sinking into the steaming water, he felt his blood circulation kick in, easing his fatigue just a bit.
Dealing with rigid-minded folks all day had left both his body and mind utterly drained.
Jeron closed his eyes and thought.
"It couldn't be that something really happened to Father, could it?"
It was the absolute worst-case scenario imaginable.
Sure, someone might be itching to claim the lord's seat, but not Jeron.
He was still struggling to adapt to the barrage of shocking customs here, and now to lead these barbarians?
Talk about an extreme job.
He figured he could muddle through for at least ten years, but if something happened to his father?
Jeron shook his head vigorously.
His long hair whipped around, sending droplets flying everywhere.
"No point dwelling on inauspicious thoughts."
After washing up, he headed to the manor's dining hall.
The floor was laid with marble, but cracks marred it everywhere, and the chandelier hanging from the ceiling—a symbol of wealth—was rusted beyond recognition in spots.
A chandelier didn't suit this impoverished territory anyway.
He wanted to toss it out, but as a heirloom passed down through generations, he couldn't bring himself to.
In the space that had to be at least a thousand square feet, a single long table sat forlornly.
Atop the worn table lay a whole wild boar, while some unidentifiable soup featured a few floating vegetable chunks.
By some miracle, there was a bottle of sour wine—this was the noble table.
"You've had a hard day again."
"Yes, Mother."
Ophelia brushed back the hair falling over her wrinkled forehead.
In her mid-thirties, she looked at least a decade older.
It pained him to see his mother from his past life aging so rapidly, but there was nothing for it in this era.
Across from his mother sat his younger sister, Sharon.
The fifteen-year-old girl was freckled all over, giving her a tomboyish look. She was the spitting image of Jeron—anyone could tell they were siblings.
On Earth, she'd just be hitting puberty, but here, she'd soon undergo her coming-of-age ceremony and start looking for a match.
"You're back, big brother?"
"Yeah. Nothing out of the ordinary today?"
"Nope. I was diligently taking bride lessons today."
"Good girl. You'll be an adult soon, so it's time to prepare for marriage."
"Yes, big brother! I'll definitely marry into a prestigious family and be of help."
"That's right. Never forget that's the fate of a woman in a noble house."
Even as he spoke, Jeron wanted to smack himself upside the head.
Wasn't pushing marriage on a fifteen-year-old basically a crime?
Sending a middle schooler off to wed?
Yet his mother and sister saw it as perfectly natural.
Nobles in the medieval era always thought in terms of alliances. Jeron was no different.
Last year, at seventeen, he'd pursued a marriage alliance with the second daughter of Viscount Philip's prominent local house, only to be dumped.
The Philips had opted to cozy up to a count's family rather than hitch their daughter to the crumbling Pellows, issuing a unilateral breakup.
Jeron saw it as the goddess's blessing.
He had zero interest in spending life with a snub-nosed, freckle-faced girl whose personality was a nightmare—no way they'd last.
Baron Ark Pellow was scouting matches for Jeron left and right, but rumors of the barony's imminent collapse had prospects drying up.
Clack.
The butler tore off a whole boar leg and plated it.
The metallic tang of blood hit the air already.
If they were doing this, they might as well have barbecued it.
This world wasn't just primitive in laws and systems—its culinary culture was rock bottom too.
Gurgle.
Jeron doused it in wine, waited a moment, then sliced in.
The wine's tartness and faint sweetness acted as a makeshift spice, making the otherwise bland mess barely palatable.
No one spoke much during the meal.
It felt more like survival eating.
Skip it, and your stamina tanked, wrecking tomorrow's schedule—so Jeron force-fed himself.
The only highlight was rinsing his mouth with fruit and wine afterward.
"Did you hear? War's about to break out."
"Yes, I did. There's already skirmishing at the Lapis Kingdom border. If it escalates, we'll have no choice but to join."
"What a worry. Things were just starting to look up, and now war again."
"It can't be helped."
When war came, the Pellow barony—direct vassals to the crown—had to send troops.
Feudalism was a contractual bond.
The king granted land to contracted vassals; in return, the lords paid taxes and provided military service.
They wielded tax, military, administrative, and judicial rights in their domains like little kings, but war meant mustering armies at their own expense, often bankrupting them.
War wasn't all downside, though.
Victory brought slaves, loot, extra land grants, or promotions.
It was high-risk, high-reward.
'Normally, nobles capture foes for ransom, but the Lapis Kingdom savages don't play that game. Get unlucky, and you're skinned alive or your head's strung up on their walls as decor. Of course, just don't lose.'
War talk dominated the table for a good while. Once his day wrapped, Jeron returned to his room and slept.
***
Early morning.
Jeron rose before dawn and swung his sword in the training yard.
In a nobility obsessed with chivalry, swordsmanship was essential—but in this savage world, you never knew when steel would clash, so training was non-negotiable.
Especially with war looming.
Grown now, he'd march with his father.
It was a noble's duty.
To avoid capture even in defeat, he couldn't slack on physical conditioning a single day.
Jeron's swordplay was top-notch; he'd been hailed a prodigy since childhood.
Thanks to past-life fights against mutants, blended with modern techniques for true combat prowess.
He could hold his own one-on-one against most knights.
Swoosh!
The blade gleamed faintly.
Only relentless body training and practice led to strength.
After an hour, sweat poured off him.
"Violet."
"Yes, Young Lord! Right here!"
Jeron doused his head with water to cool off, then chugged some.
The heat eased; he wiped his face and body with a towel.
Regrettably, that was morning wash done.
Violet naturally handled the laundry.
The fifteen-year-old had served at his side since childhood.
She was attentive, and as she grew, her crush on him became obvious.
But unless he planned to make her a plaything, there was no reason to touch her. She was scrawny—not his type anyway.
Ignoring it entirely, Jeron headed upstairs, donned light armor.
As he laced his boots to start the day, a frantic bell tolled.
Dong! Dong! Dong!
The bell in the tower only rang for major disasters in the territory.
Something had happened.
Sure enough, Sir Garcia came running, panting.
"Young Lord! Barbarians are invading!"
"Why? Are they fleeing our forces into the territory?"
"We don't know that far yet!"
"Then what do you know besides your womanizing tricks?"
"S-sorry. More importantly…"
"Damn it! Sound the muster immediately and prepare for battle."
"Yes!"
This world was deadly beyond the walls.
There were fields outside, patrolled by soldiers from outposts, but habitual monster haunts were off-limits.
Starving barbarians or monster packs weren't rare.
But the timing was awful.
Baron Ark Pellow had taken half the knight order and three hundred soldiers to subjugate them.
If the barbarians were just routed into the territory, it was manageable—but if they'd crushed the expeditionary force and were invading?
Jeron mounted up and raced to the southern wall.
Blood's metallic scent wafted before he even arrived.
And when he reached the wall at last.
Hundreds of bare-chested barbarians, their bodies dyed vivid blue, surged through the crumbled breach.
Jeron drew his sword and muttered.
"Ha… This goddamned medieval world! I'm so sick of it!"