The second was his imprudent focus on strength above all else.
The intersection of those two issues manifested as If you want to give me orders, then first you’ll have to put my rump on the ground. Moreover, whenever he spotted someone strong, he would say, “You look like a tough customer. Let’s see who’s stronger,” and go at it until one of them was down for the count.
As a result, Orlando often and sometimes literally bashed heads with nobles and superiors. He also frequently got demoted—a whopping ten times so far.
An army has no need for people who can’t take orders—they’re pests. Anyone else with his record would either be reformed or thrown out. The only reason that didn’t happen to Orlando was because he was strong. Also, certain people were drawn to a man like that.
Apparently, the rough guys dissatisfied with being ordered around by feeble nobles found Orlando’s way of life an utter delight, inspiring them to also grasp what their hearts desired with the strength of their own two hands.
His troops consisted of people who admired that sort of ruffian.
It was a large squad, too. There were enough members for a full company, and they were all strong—albeit not as much as their leader. Though infuriating for his superiors, the immunity Orlando enjoyed allowed him to essentially establish a rank not subject to the rules of the system.
Orlando’s eyes shifted, and when he saw the approaching man, a smile spread across his face that wouldn’t be out of place on a carnivorous beast about to pounce.
This man was as thin as Orlando was thick. But he wasn’t thin like a twig. Perhaps it was best described as slim like steel. This was the ideal lean body that was the product of training until all excess had been cut away, as if it had been built with a specific purpose in mind.
And a sharp gaze emanated from his tense eyes that made it seem as if he was about to strike. Combined with the fact that they were small and dark, there was no helping how disreputable he seemed. At best, people would assume he was an assassin. At worst, a serial killer.
“Speak of the devil. Guess it’s time for your appearance, Mr. Night Watch? Thanks as always.”
The man who had appeared without a sound and walked while cloaked in silence was outfitted quite differently.
Orlando and his men were equipped with the gear of the Sacred Kingdom’s powerful soldiers. Their heavy leather armor was made of several layers of hide that came from the magical beasts called ranker oxen. Each of them also had a small round shield and a single-edged sword. Incidentally, Orlando was the only one wearing two of those swords.
In contrast, this man was clad in enchanted light leather armor. Inscribed on the right side of his chest was an owl, and on the left, the Sacred Kingdom’s coat of arms.
“…Orlando. I haven’t gotten a report from your group. And what kind of tone is that to take with a superior? The nerve. How many times do I have to warn you?”
“Sorry, Commander.”
When Orlando finally raised a lax salute, his group followed suit. It was sincere in a way his men would have shown a random noble or someone merely higher in rank. This was a sign of genuine respect.
“Haaah…” The newcomer heaved a conspicuous sigh. He wasn’t satisfied, but he also understood that it was pointless to say anything further.
Sorry, sir, but my personality’s been like this for as long as I can remember, and it isn’t likely to be fixed anytime soon.
The reason Orlando showed what passed as respect among his group was because this man had defeated him.
I don’t want to quit without beating you at least once. On your turf. You understand, right, Commander Baraja?
The man—Pabel Baraja—was also known as the Night Watch. He was also a recipient of one of the Nine Colors, like Orlando.
The huge, sturdy bow on his back glowed faintly, as did the quiver at his hip. As his equipment implied, he was an archer—and an expert who many said could nail a hundred shots without missing a single one.
“I think all the time how hard it must be to work at night. Most subhumans aren’t fazed by the dark; it’d be rough enough just to find them, never mind fight them.”
“That’s why we’re here. Unless you were born with magic or special powers, there’s no way to get the same vision as subhumans without extensive training. And that’s exactly what we’ve been through.”
“Yeah, yeah. That daughter you’re so proud of has, too, right?”
Pabel’s cheek twitched, and Orlando regretted his remark the moment it was out of his mouth.
Pabel’s face never cracked, even when they went out drinking; the only exception was when his wife or daughter came up in conversation. If that happened, one critical flaw was immediately noticeable.
“Yes, she’s quite an outstanding girl.”
—Here it comes. Here it comes again.
Pabel continued with no regard for Orlando’s regret. “That said, I have no idea why she wants to be a paladin. She’s weak. But if you think that strength is everything— She’s the kind of girl who cries that caterpillars are scary— I know I said that strength is everything, but that’s excluding my wife…although my wife is a bit like that— My daughter looks just like me, which is so cute, though I guess I pity her for resembling me— But it’s too bad our girl has no aptitude for the sword. Still, she’s handy with a bow. She should really just keep working on her marksmanship, but instead, she’s all worked up about becoming a holy knight—”
Orlando let the rambling go in one ear and out the other, occasionally grunting in response, but it seemed he had been found out.
“Hey, are you listening?”
The predictable question had already come.
…Nope, I’m not. Probably not since the third time this happened.
By the fifth or sixth time
