Chapter 2 - The Leather Notebook

'Just one bag. That's all I have.'

Galahad gave the leather bag in his hand a shake and clicked his tongue softly.

He had prided himself on working fairly hard, yet in the end, this one leather bag was all he had to show for it. He had even returned his dress uniform and was back in the shabby shirt and trousers he had worn when he first arrived.

'I'm the first to get out alive.'

There was a famous story in the Intelligence Bureau: to leave the Bureau, you had to give up your life. In fact, once you joined, you could never transfer to another department.

That was how pathologically obsessed the Bureau was with security. If not for the political circumstances, they would have tried to erase Galahad's memories too, even if it meant taking a hammer to his head.

'They said someone would come get me.'

Galahad put a cigarette between his lips.

Just then, a carriage came clattering toward him. The glossy horses snorted, startling passersby. Some stopped to stare as though they were seeing something exotic.

'A horse-drawn carriage, in this day and age...?'

Galahad narrowed his eyes.

Advances in magical engineering had made mana-powered vehicles fashionable. Instead of horses, they used magic circles and mana reservoirs. They cost about as much as horses, or less, and were easy to maintain, making them popular. Horse-drawn carriages were indeed gradually disappearing from the capital.

'The Grand Duke's carriage.'

He had to travel all that way in a carriage? Clicking his tongue, Galahad approached it. A man with narrow, slanting eyes sat on it.

Thick iron armor, a long sword at his waist, a dagger against his inner thigh, and a helmet beside him. A knight through and through.

“Are you Master Galahad Ambertan?”

“I am. Was this carriage sent by His Highness the Grand Duke?”

“Yes. You may call me Gilberton. I'll escort you.”

The man yanked the door open. The inside was even worse than the outside. The seat, draped with a scrap of cloth, looked less comfortable than a tavern chair, and even the walls were stained.

'This won't be easy.'

Sending such a shabby carriage and just one man meant they were no happier to welcome Galahad.

“It's made from demon hide. You'll find it softer than you expect,” said the man who had introduced himself as Gilberton, amusement in his voice.

Knowing complaints would change nothing, Galahad nodded and climbed aboard.

BANG!

The carriage door slammed shut. Before he could even sit down, the carriage started moving.

“Soft, my ass. Feels like someone's kicking me in the backside.”

His quiet grumbling drew laughter from outside.

“Sharp ears,” Galahad muttered, rummaging through his inner pocket.

He took out a small leather notebook. From the outside, it looked like any shabby notebook, but it opened by itself when he fed mana into it.

Its pages were filled with handwriting that ranged from crooked scrawls to neat, well-formed letters.

The sentence at the very top read:

[I have transmigrated into a novel.]

It was written in crooked Korean letters.

Galahad had certainly written it himself, but it had been so long that his memory was hazy.

At first, he had thought he had been reincarnated with memories of his previous life. After all, he had been learning to walk when those memories returned.

Only after hearing about demons and some familiar names did he realize he had transmigrated into a novel.

He had hurriedly combed through his memories and written down what he remembered of the story. This leather notebook was the result.

By the time he realized he had transmigrated, quite some time had passed.

His memories of the novel were incomplete. He hadn't read it particularly closely to begin with. And who read a novel trying to memorize every detail?

Still, he remembered the broad strokes. For example:

[The world is destroyed by the Demon King.]

The novel had a sad ending. No, even calling it a sad ending didn't do it justice. It was a fucking shitshow of an ending.

[Important figures: Blonde Swordmaster, some Archmage, Mother of the fairies, axe-wielding barbarian, Half-demon...]

He had jotted things down roughly as he remembered them. He was certain of the ending, but couldn't be sure of anything else.

Below that were annotations in the imperial language.

[The Archmage is most likely the master of the Twilight Mage Tower. Whereabouts unknown. The Blonde Swordmaster is likely the eldest daughter of the Grand Duke of the North. The Mother of the fairies should be in the Fairy Forest. The axe-wielding barbarian is unknown.]

This was information Galahad had gathered while working for the Intelligence Bureau.

His goal was a warm, comfortable retirement. To achieve it, he had to prevent the Demon King ending, whatever it took.

Originally, he had intended to prepare for the Demon King from within the Intelligence Bureau. It was such a powerful institution that people said it moved the continent.

'And now I'm to be the northern Swordmaster's kept man...'

Galahad smiled bitterly. It was hard to call this a good turn of events, but it wasn't the worst, either.

The Blonde Swordmaster had been the most prominent of the heroes, and the North was where the front against the demons lay.

Didn't they say you had to enter the tiger's den to catch the tiger?

Galahad kept rereading the well-worn notebook, retracing his memories.

* * *

The carriage stopped after sundown.

“Please step out.”

Gilberton gestured behind him. They were right beside an empty road.

“You intend to camp out?”

Galahad narrowed his eyes. He was a son of a count's house.

With villages or castles a day's journey apart, he couldn't understand why they would deliberately sleep outdoors.

“My orders are to avoid contact with the Empire as much as possible.”

“On His Highness's orders?”

“I serve Lady Adrianna.”

Adrianna was the name of the woman Galahad was to marry.

“Of course. One must listen to one's wife.”

An ominous grinding came from Gilberton's teeth.

'He doesn't like me.'

In a way, that was only natural.

Galahad was a mage, the very thing they hated most, and a count's third son. They could hardly welcome the prospect of the Grand Duke's eldest daughter marrying a man like him.

Countless power struggles and competing interests must have been tangled up beneath it all. Judging by the outcome, the Grand Duke had lost.

“You aren't married yet.”

Gilberton smiled, baring his molars. His killing intent prickled against Galahad's back.

'This could be dangerous.'

Galahad smiled bitterly and put a cigarette between his lips.

Gilberton silently prepared their campsite. His practiced hands suggested he was well accustomed to sleeping outdoors. Galahad watched without interfering.

He gathered firewood and had a fire going in no time. Then he set a pot over it and tossed in some meat. Stew followed.

'I don't want to eat that.'

Galahad clicked his tongue softly. He already knew the people here had a shit sense of hygiene, but turning meat with the same hands that had dug through dirt and handled firewood? This was the worst.

“Eat. It's northern cooking.”

Gilberton picked up a piece of meat and offered it to him. It was a huge, uncut chunk, seared only on the outside. Red blood dripped from its raw interior. This wasn't just rare. It was super rare.

They called this crap cooking? It was ridiculous, but unfortunately, he wasn't in a position to be picky.

“Thank you.”

Galahad tore into the meat with his teeth. Sour blood with a rank, meaty smell filled his mouth. He chewed thoroughly and swallowed.

Apparently Gilberton hadn't cooked it that way solely to screw with him, because he tore into the meat too. He even drank the dripping blood as though it were a beverage. Watching that barbaric meal made Galahad even less eager to head north.

The meal continued in silence. When Gilberton finished, he offered Galahad a bottle of liquor.

“I don't drink.”

Galahad gave a slight shake of his head. Alcohol dulled the mind and made the hands sluggish, making it taboo for mages.

“A mage through and through, I see.”

Gilberton stressed the word “mage.” It wasn't a pleasant inflection.

“Yes. An exceptionally gifted mage.”

Galahad answered without looking away, meeting his gaze. Gilberton's brow creased slightly.

“You'll need to be careful in the North. Ignorant northerners have trouble telling mages and demons apart.”

Was that the best threat he could muster? Galahad found it childish.

“Surely the Grand Duke can protect a single son-in-law in his own lands.”

This time, Gilberton gave a short chuckle. He was more patient than Galahad had expected.

“I hear hunting mages is fashionable in the Empire these days. A mage's heart fetches a very high price, they say.”

Gilberton grinned as though nothing had happened. He wasn't wrong. Quite a few reports of mages being hunted had come in recently.

“Don't worry about that. I happen to be rather valuable merchandise. This is His Majesty the Emperor's first exchange with the Grand Duke in twenty years, isn't it? Things were so tense there was even talk of rebellion. What if something happened to me, the living proof of that exchange?”

Now it was Galahad's turn to grin. Unlike before, Gilberton was no longer smiling.

“I'm quite an important man. Take good care of me.”

Galahad didn't know the story behind it either. Perhaps he had simply lost his backing, but there was no reason to mention that.

“If you've finished eating, let's get moving again,” Gilberton said, rising.

“You intend to keep going without sleeping?”

“Yes. You're an important man, after all.”

“Will you be all right?”

“I'm a knight. I can go a few days without sleep. Will our important passenger be all right? The carriage will shake quite a bit.”

Gilberton narrowed his eyes as he asked.

'He's sulking.'

Galahad clicked his tongue softly and nodded.

The carriage seat was indeed hard, and it shook violently. Sleeping in it was out of the question.

This was clearly a petty scheme to make Galahad suffer however he could.

But Galahad was a mage. In this era, mages were more suited to support than combat.

Turning a rattling carriage into a wonderfully soft, quiet bed was quite easy.

For the first time in ages, Galahad slept so soundly that he even snored.

* * *

KNOCK, KNOCK.

The alarm spell woke Galahad. He had slept so deeply that his body felt refreshed.

He tidied up and opened the door.

Gilberton, looking more haggard than before, narrowed his eyes.

“You seem to have slept well?”

“Very well indeed. Are you all right? You don't look well.”

“... I'm fine. Going days without sleep is common on the battlefield.”

“I see. I'm perfectly fine, so do keep up the good work.”

Gilberton's face twisted further. He was fun to tease.

“Let's stop at a castle or village along the way.”

“... A castle?”

“I think I need to buy a coat.”

Galahad rubbed his goosebump-covered arms.

“Mages feel the cold?”

Gilberton sounded genuinely puzzled. Galahad narrowed his eyes. What exactly did he think mages were?

“I'm human. Of course I do.”

He could, of course, use magic to maintain his body temperature. But spells that affected a mage's body were several times more difficult than shaping a bed or blocking out sound.

“Isn't Garseton Castle on our route? I hear they have good coats. Let's stop there.”

“Garseton?”

There was something oddly unsettling about the question, but Gilberton was unsettling by nature. Galahad nodded.

“Understood.”

One corner of Gilberton's mouth rose.

Yes, he really was an exceptionally unsettling man.

* * *

'It's cold.'

Galahad grumbled as he swept back his hair. The central region had been warm every day, but here it was cold enough to raise goosebumps. He even had to use mana to maintain his temperature.

His breath came out in clouds without a cigarette in his mouth. Merely keeping himself warm was draining mana at an alarming rate.

The ground wasn't paved with stone, and mud caked the bottoms of his shoes. Was it mud? Galahad sniffed. An unpleasant odor wafted up. Mud. It was mud. He hurriedly put a cigarette between his lips and lit it. The fragrant scent of lemon drove the other smell away.

“It'll get colder the farther north we go,” Gilberton said sharply, dark hollows beneath his eyes. He had produced a fur garment from somewhere and was wearing it; it looked like an animal pelt.

“Don't you have some tradition of enduring the cold bare-skinned on the front lines?”

Gilberton's eyes narrowed at Galahad's question. On closer inspection, it was a smile.

“No. Soldiers dress warmly too.”

“A pity,” Galahad grumbled softly.

Just then, a fat man came running toward them. He carried so much flesh that it jiggled with every step. He wore high-heeled shoes that had long since gone out of fashion.

“Oh, goodness! Why stop in the outer ward instead of coming straight to the inner castle?”

The fat man wiped sweat from his forehead as he spoke. Galahad glanced at Gilberton, who averted his gaze as though this had nothing to do with him.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Aren't you His Highness the Grand Duke's guest?”

Galahad looked at Gilberton. Gilberton shrugged and said, “It wasn't me.”

'They were told someone from the Grand Duke's side would be visiting.'

Gilberton had actually opposed visiting a castle. The visit this man meant was probably not Galahad's.

“Please come inside! His Lordship is waiting!”

“Do you have a soft bed?”

The fat man tilted his head at Galahad's question, then nodded.

“Yes, and a hot bath too!”

“And thoroughly cooked meat?”

“Of course! Our cook is the finest in the area!”

“Excellent.”

When Galahad nodded, the excited, piglike man led the way, his backside wobbling.

“Be careful. Quite a few people have disappeared around Garseton Castle. Some of them were mages, I hear. It's a very dangerous place for a mage.”

Gilberton had sidled up beside him and spoke with amusement in his voice.

“Why mention that only now? You should have told me earlier.”

“You didn't ask, did you?”

“True enough.”

Gilberton chuckled at Galahad's quiet grumble.

“Then would you like to go somewhere else, even now?”

“Are you any good in a fight?”

Gilberton's brows furrowed at the unexpected question.

“Quite good.”

“Then protect me properly. I'm an important man.”

Chewing the cigarette between his lips, Galahad walked on.

'Is he reckless, or bold? Or does he know?'

Muttering under his breath, Gilberton sent a hand signal off into the distance.

It was an unusually dark night.