Clenching the secret letter in his hand, Kuro hadn't slept a single moment. That single page he'd received atop the city wall kept clinging to his mind. Groflik's handwriting was more refined than he'd imagined. It didn't seem like the work of a savage orc general—calculated, concise. That's what made it unsettling. ——Betray them. In return, I will give you every princess of the conquered nations. You may start with the princess of Deluxia. Before dawn, Kuro left the castle. His report to Officer Lucian was "northern inspection." Not a lie. It was indeed an inspection. Beyond the main gate of Halgeit Fortress—the military city guarding the northern edge of the Deluxian Kingdom—grassland stretched out. Morning mist still hung low, the ground hazy white. The boundary with the northern highlands. Beyond this point lay orc territory. Kuro stopped his horse. There it was, on the horizon. Grayish-green. The earth itself seemed to be moving. Looking closer, he could make out what it really was—a swarm of orc soldiers. Forty-eight thousand. The Goldra Allied Forces—what Groflik had named in ancient orc tongue "the Iron Oath," a military confederation of twelve northern highland tribes—breathing quietly in the mist. A single horse separated from the front of that mass and approached. As it drew nearer, its size became undeniably real. Even mounted, it towered higher than a standing human. Two meters forty centimeters tall. Over two hundred kilograms—you could tell just by looking. Grayish-green skin covered in complex tattoos across both arms. And the face—the left tusk broken off at the root. Without that, it would be merely savage. But because of the broken tusk, something else had been added: the presence of one who had known defeat. Yellow eyes gazed at Kuro from beyond the mist. Groflik stopped his horse. The distance between them was ten meters. "[cold]You came." His tone was commanding. Emotionless. Merely a confirmation. Kuro, mounted on his horse, felt something inside him being torn in three directions at once. The first voice—last night, on the city wall, Solange had been laughing. "It's alright. I'll take the front lines," she'd said, smiling with nothing to fear. He'd wanted to protect that smile. He'd believed he could. The second voice—thirty-five years. The memories of his past life screamed. Thirty-five years of being chosen by no one. Six princesses. The entire world stacked on that side. If he refused this chance, he'd just die alone again. The third voice—cold, but the most logical. Deluxia's military strength ranked fourth among six kingdoms. Even with buffs, the material difference of forty-eight thousand couldn't be bridged. Either way, this nation would fall. The question was only "who would take it." If he was inside, he could at least stop unnecessary slaughter. A rational choice. For two minutes, Kuro said nothing. Groflik said nothing either. He was a man accustomed to waiting. It had apparently taken fifteen years to unify the twelve tribes of the northern highlands. Two minutes were negligible. Kuro raised his right hand. The hand bearing the faintly glowing rune of buff magic. Groflik's massive right hand extended carelessly. Kuro's hand rested upon it. The general's palm was larger than Kuro's and warmer. It felt less like a handshake and more like a hand simply resting atop another. The corner of Groflik's mouth twisted. You could call it a smile, perhaps. But those yellow eyes weren't smiling. There was calculation there. ——I'll keep you as long as you're useful. Nothing more, nothing less. Kuro saw it. Saw it, and didn't pull his hand away. --- The first test for Kuro, who had joined the Goldra Allied Forces' main camp "Fernoak"—a military tent city established in a basin in the southern Volgarun Highlands—came at a tribal council Groflik convened. Inside Groflik's massive tent, called the "Iron Fang's Great Pavilion," the twelve tribal chiefs sat in a circle. All of them were larger than Kuro. All of them sat with folded arms, their eyes appraising the human intruder. "[serious]My strategist." Groflik spoke briefly. The chiefs' reactions came quickly. "[surprised]A human? A strategist?" "Some kind of buff mage, I've heard of them." The chief of the largest tribe—whose physique stood out even among the twelve, his scarred face marked with red pigment—stared at Kuro for a moment, then laughed through his nose. "[sarcastic]Weak as a picture." Internally, Kuro thought (I'm 175 centimeters tall and weigh 68 kilograms. They're just outside the normal range), but he knew speaking wouldn't change anything, so he stayed silent. Groflik said one thing. "[cold]Silence. Brains." The chief closed his mouth. There was something in Groflik's voice that made resistance unthinkable. Not intimidation, but something more fundamental—a weight that made you certain this man had killed before. (I'm being silenced by Groflik.) Kuro felt a strange emotion. Humiliation and odd relief at the same time. He was being protected. By this man. Protected while being used. An unsettling situation, but reality nonetheless. "Test him." Groflik jerked his chin. Kuro turned to face the hundred orc soldiers standing near the tent's entrance. The rune on his right hand glowed. He deployed his magical power—buff magic had a thirty-meter radius and activated through incantation without physical contact. Strength amplification, reflex enhancement, magical capacity expansion. The cost was Kuro's own physical stamina. For a hundred-strong group, he'd just feel a bit heavy until morning. White light seeped from the soldiers' bodies. The tent fell silent. Every single tribal chief stood up. "[serious]This reaches the entire army." A short declaration. It was enough. The atmosphere of the camp shifted. Kuro felt exhilaration—the sensation of being needed. But immediately after, he realized he'd felt this before. In his past life too. He was valued because he had ability. He was allowed to exist because he had power. He knew this structure was called "dependence." And now, once again, he stood in that same place. The exhilaration turned, just slightly, bitter. --- Kuro's buff was deployed across the entire army the next morning. Channeling magical power to forty-eight thousand was the largest scale he'd ever attempted. He managed not to collapse because yesterday's hundred-soldier test had taught him how to modulate his output. Still, his legs trembled slightly after activation. The Goldra Allied Forces began to move. Halgeit Fortress—boasting walls eighteen meters high and six meters thick, the continent's greatest defense—was breached by midday. Before the combined might of the buffed forces, the fortress's reputation meant nothing. Even when Deluxia's eight thousand garrison troops countered with buffed guards, the six-fold difference in numbers combined with the qualitative superiority of the buff made the calculation simple. The allied forces reached outside Blanche's castle by early afternoon. Kuro was on a small hill in the rear. A position overlooking the entire battlefield. He couldn't move to maintain continuous buff reinforcement. That was his reason for being here. He'd decided it himself. He saw figures on the castle wall. Deluxian generals. People he'd seen faces of yesterday—no, days ago—at the military council. Not as a strategist taking a seat, but in castle corridors, at the edges of audiences, he knew their faces. Kuro looked away. He turned north instead. Not toward the castle wall, but toward the highlands. Conscious of his buff output, he kept the castle wall out of his field of vision. This was the rational choice. Either way, this nation would fall. Having me inside would ultimately—— A roar came. The sound of the castle wall collapsing. Dust rising. Shouts. The clang of metal. These sounds merged into one mass that reached Kuro's ears. Solange's face appeared in his mind. Kuro closed his eyes tightly. (This is the rational choice.) He repeated it. Three times, four times. Repeating it silently. The white castle of Deluxia, "Château Blanc"—a fortress with seven towers—raised a white flag before evening. King Philibert's declaration of surrender. The voice announcing the application of "Surrender Offering Ceremony," an ancient wartime custom law passed down across the continent, could be heard beyond the castle walls. Groflik brought his horse closer. "[cold]The opening move goes well." Kuro nodded. That was all. --- The great hall was silent. The Surrender Offering Ceremony—an institution established after the continent's great war three hundred years ago, where a surrendering nation offers one member of the royal family to the victorious nation in exchange for exemption from plunder and massacre of civilians—proceeded according to form. King Philibert presented his daughter before the "designated recipient" of the victorious nation. That recipient was not Groflik, but Kuro, as the bargain had stipulated. Kuro stood before the great hall's doors. The doors opened. A figure walked from the depths of the hall. Golden hair. One hundred sixty-five centimeters tall. Armor—whether prepared for combat or as formal dress, he couldn't tell. The lustrous waves caught the light from the hall's candelabras as they swayed. Their eyes met. Solange Blanchefleur de Lux's azure eyes widened for a moment. That was all. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She didn't shout accusations. Feet that would normally rush forward without hesitation now advanced one slow step at a time. The courtiers held their breath. King Philibert stood beside his throne, watching his daughter's back. What dwelt in his eyes, Kuro couldn't see. Solange stopped before Kuro. Within arm's reach. Almost the same distance as that night on the city wall when they'd stood side by side. "[gentle]I believed in you." Her voice was small. There was no anger. No insults. Only the truth, bare and simple. Something pierced Kuro's chest. Not a sword or claws, but something finer, something that wouldn't come out. He had no words to return. No courage to meet her eyes. He tried to repeat again that this was the rational choice, but this time the words stopped before reaching his chest. Kuro let his gaze fall to the floor. Behind him, he sensed Groflik saying something. Probably laughing. Finding amusement in human emotion—and converting that amusement into "easier to control." He felt that gaze on his back. At the edge of the hall, King Philibert placed a gentle hand on Solange's shoulder. His eyes spoke something. Something wordless, from father to daughter. Kuro understood the meaning of those eyes with strange clarity. ——Endure. Solange didn't nod. She only drew her chin in slightly. --- That night, Kuro spread a map in Groflik's tent. A map of the continent. Three hundred twenty kilometers west from the center of the Eldia Plains lay Prenarde—the capital of Prevaarn Kingdom. The largest military nation among the six kingdoms. Home to "Cresta's Circle," the continent's premier knight training ground. The kingdom with military strength ranked first on the continent. "[serious]Next is Prevaarn. The continent's mightiest military nation—without your brains, we can't take it." Kuro looked at the map. The scale of the knight orders, the position of the training ground, the weak points in supply lines. His instincts as a strategist began moving of their own accord. If we control that position, the west becomes isolated. Using this mountain pass, we could ambush—— Groflik left the tent. Kuro remained alone. Outside, he heard orc soldiers' voices. Laughter. The sound of plunder being exchanged. The northern tongue was only half-intelligible, but the atmosphere of celebration came through without words. A victor's night. Kuro stared at the map, trying to shut out that sound. Consciously closing his ears to it. He succeed