"Last day of August, huh?" Murphy mumbled as he eyed the crudely made calendar on his desk in this world bereft of quality control and mass production—a rough hand-made calendar was the norm for those who could afford one, complete with missing pages and ink blots.

Time marched on, and it brought to mind a certain Albert—Alaric had just reported his dealings that noon.

While Albert was infamous for his wild gambling and womanizing, the fact that he managed two jobs and still delivered passable work kept Alaric's recognition of his capability intact, despite disdain for his personal ethics.

Thus, under Alaric's leniency, the young gambler, fresh from losing his shirt, sobered up momentarily to fulfill his duty—overseeing the grain handover between Viscount Reed's lands and the western front. He had just returned from the lawless Stucar region yesterday.

To reassure their potential ally, the western front displayed their elite guard before Albert—a thousand-strong unit averaging level forty-five. Leading them was none other than Duke Westland's eldest, and the previous Holy Maiden's brother, the level fifty war knight, Eric of Arwin.

The Guard's disciplined ranks marched before the ill-educated commoner, their synchronized maneuvers performed on the training field enough to keep any young observer awake all night.

Yet what Duke Westland and his son saw as a confidence-booster for their potential allies spelled the start of a nightmare—specifically for Alaric and Uncle Albert. Despite his frivolousness, Albert took his assignment from the Duke seriously—too scared not to.

So there was Albert in Alaric's office, trying to convey the Guards’ valor to his uncle and boss, with only his illiterate understanding. Despite his best pantomime—dancing to depict the spectacular scene he witnessed—his dramatization to Alaric and his shamefaced uncle amounted to nothing more than muddled ramblings.

Even Alaric, no stranger to pomp, had to cover his face occasionally murmuring vocabulary that any normal person would conceive, in an attempt to fill the gaps in Albert's hollow descriptions.

According to Alaric's recount to Murphy, the scenario was as follows:

"That day," began Albert, his hand hoisted as though reaching for an unseen high platform, "The Duke and I stood there—on that really high... thingy."

"The observation deck of the training field," Alaric grimaced, detecting a sense of dread but still interjected.

"Right, the high thingy of the field," Albert nodded fervently, assuming this was common knowledge. "And then they just marched forward, decked in armor, carrying long swords, all in step—it was all so, 'swish, swish,' you see?"

"Very organized?" Alaric summed up succinctly.

"Exactly! Neatly marching to the center of the arena or whatever it is..."

Alaric turned with a wordless gaze towards Uncle Albert, 'Take a look at what you've raised,' his eyes seemed to accuse, while Albert's uncle had already buried his crimson face in his arms, ears unfortunately still bombarded with Albert's torrent of useless information.

"In the middle of the field, they spread out, neatly again, and then..." Albert flailed his arms as if reliving the event, "'Swish!' All the swords, they just drew them all at once, 'swish!' and they all swung forward, releasing sword energy right in front, 'swish!'..."

Alaric felt his brain sliced by an imaginary 'swish' over and over again, and in order to prevent a mental breakdown, cut to the chase, "What color was the sword energy they released?"

"Mostly white, a few faint ones but also likely white." Albert, chastened by experience, spoke with certainty not daring to ignore his commanding officer.

"Any invisible ones?"

"None, clear as day. A few might've slacked in practice, with half-transparent energy, but everyone had it."

Alaric exhaled with relief. Murphy had once enlightened him that detached sword energy was one of the most common attacking methods for warriors, usually mastered around level twenty with focused practice.

Contrary to Albert's moronic understanding, white sword energy indicated a beginner's level. Without becoming Magic Knights, warriors' energies would become increasingly transparent with progression, becoming entirely invisible around level sixty—keeping enemies always on edge.

Learning that the elite forces didn't surpass level sixty unwound Alaric's tension. The relationship between Reed Viscount's lands and the western front was purely transactional. Even though he didn't hold decision-making power, Alaric couldn't assure he wouldn't receive orders to confront the west should the capital raise their bid.

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But thankfully, the opposition wasn't as strong as feared.

After sending the half-illiterate liaison and his mortified uncle packing, Alaric promptly reported to Murphy. As expected, Murphy lacked any interest in the western elite force—it was as if Lord Toras truly handled all (despite what he showed), but what Alaric didn't predict was how intrigued Murphy would be by this move by the west.

"Ha, he's in a hurry, wants an answer," Murphy leaned back in his familiar high-backed chair, murmuring to himself.

Sensing Alaric's confused glance, Murphy pondered briefly before asking, "Why do you think he showed that Albert his Guard?"

"To anchor us down, make us believe they can win the war," Alaric answered without hesitation.

"That's where the question lies. We're just allies of interest. Why the rush to showcase their might?"

"Perhaps they're seeking a deeper deal, more grains perhaps?" Alaric ventured.

"That’s why I say the Duke is worried. Grains, more of it for more gold—simple. His haste means he's desperate, scared we won’t side with him."

"I'm sorry, I don't follow..."

"Mr. Alaric, do you believe the western front can win?" Murphy anticipated the response and served his premeditated question.

"You mean in battle against the northern front, or—" Alaric was vague, omitting the obvious.

"Both, go on."

"If the west confronts the north, the west should win." Alaric gauged Murphy's lack of contradiction and realized he expected more.

"The four Dukes hold equal military glory from the founding war, next only to the royals. But a century ago, the Westlands’ contribution to the war was considerable, making their lands more expansive than the north’s, not to mention a quarter of the north lies in permafrost..."

"Meaning both in terms of legacy and combat experience, the west outmatches the north."

Murphy nodded, "And the capital? I know the capital could hammer either the west or north, but I'm asking if west allied with north, could they wrestle with the royal domain?"

Alaric swallowed hard and involuntarily formalized his speech, "Your implication is?"

"You've always wondered what the west is scheming, haven't you? Now, the answer is clear. The west is plotting to attack the royal domain alongside the north." Murphy declared with finality.

Murphy expounded on Alaric's muddled gaze, "Consider this—the Reed Viscount lays far from the northern front, separated by the entirety of the western domain and capital. If the west and north wage war, being on the side of the west wouldn't be so bad for us. If we sided with the north, not only could we not assist them, but we'd also face retribution once the west triumphs. So it’s best to keep it strictly business with the west—as we have no real option to harm them."

As Alaric's eyes cleared, Murphy continued, "The second scenario is easier to understand. We border both the west and the royal domain—a stark contrast to the northern front. If we don't support the west, we're automatically with the King."

Alaric's clarity turned into horror. Murphy crushed his last illusions, "Don’t forget Seth's secret mission from the King on his return from the capital."

"...If the west rebels, and we strike from the rear, all their lands will be ours... Duke’s actions imply..."

"Exactly, our dear Duke of the west is going all-in. The kinda all-in that gets your entire family erased if you fail. He's showing us his Guard to tell us they're staking everything on this battle. Help them, win and feast together, lose and die together; refuse, you're with the King, and death comes immediately."

Alaric gulped, "Then we are..."

"Yes!" Murphy grinned madly, "We, the Reed Viscount, are doomed."

"The western-northern combined forces' chance of victory, to me, is like flipping a coin and it landing on its edge. Support the west, the capital will crush us if the alliance fails. Support King Your Majesty, the old boy from the west comes knocking to prevent any backstabbing—dead either way..."

Alaric, already adept at overthinking, couldn't help but extrapolate from Murphy's words. Just as his career stepped up a rung, it might now face peril, leaving him stewing in mixed feelings.

"Do you have a plan? One to keep us alive?" Alaric asked, eyes full of yearning.

"I do have a plan." Murphy snapped his fingers. "Good or not, we'll see if Duke Arwin knows the goods."

Murphy pointed at Alaric's chest—snap—then lifted his fingers to his lips, symbolically blowing off a shot.

"You're offering him... that?" Alaric felt as though he glimpsed a corner of a grand plan, one that could turn the world on its head, shocked beyond words.

"Correct, I'm visiting personally tomorrow. And mind you, not giving—it's selling!" Full of confidence, Murphy decided to play salesman himself and fetch a worthy price for his masterpiece.

---

"Apprentice, wake up! Apprentice, wake up! Apprentice, WAKE UP!"

Dawn had barely broken when Murphy started hammering on Pepe's door.

Seconds later, a tired, bewildered voice called out, "Master? Have you finally—no, what's gotten into you?"

Murphy didn't bother with Pepe's complaints and pressed on, "Do you know what time it is? Up you get! Time to see the world with your master."

The rustling of curtains came from within, "It's barely morning! What's gotten into you? You never get up before noon!"

"That's because I haven't slept all night!" boasted Murphy, the all-nighter making him a bit jittery, needing some time to settle.

The bedroom door creaked open, a groggy head peeking out, "What are you up to? Is it because last time I accidentally saw that draft you were working on?"

Murphy certainly wouldn't admit it, quickly changing the subject, "Come on, let's take a trip funded by the state coffers, see the world out there!"

Thanks to good habits like early to bed, early to rise—in the absence of assassins Pepe always got a good night's sleep.

At Murphy's words, the sleepiness in Pepe’s eyes dissolved by half, "Seeing the world? Where are we headed?"

"Ever heard of the western front?"

"Of course!" Pepe responded with a tinge of irritation—for someone who'd been with Murphy for a while now, even the least worldly knew where the western front lay.

"Good, good. This time we'll—"

"We're going to the west?"

"We’re off to that lush and contested no-man's land between the west and north, and the royal domain—Stucar!"