episode_0102

102. The Wolf Cub’s Nature

In my office, while I was hard at work…

I found myself lost in thought, not even holding onto the documents in front of me.

All because of a certain little girl.

“Amelie Eleanor…”

A child brought in by Cain, who claimed she was clever.

Given that it was our fox’s word, it was as good as fact.

For as unshakable as steel is our fox’s credibility, and he has always repaid that trust in equal measure.

I suppose the little runt called Amelie will prove useful someday.

One might wonder if I was jealous.

Well, maybe a little—but it’s not like I could possibly feel that way toward a twelve-year-old.

*“Master! Master! I don’t get this!!”*

That was how she trailed after him, whining like a spoiled child.

For two whole weeks, while our fox was busy.

Meanwhile, I was buried under a mountain of paperwork in this office…

And she had the nerve to bother him just because she was young.

Yet our fox looked after her as if she were his own daughter.

“Let’s look on the bright side.”

Maybe this was a glimpse of how he’d treat his own children someday.

If he could be so kind to such a vexing and utterly charmless brat… he’d surely be just as good to his future kids.

What a fine husband and father our fox will mak—

“…Sigh.”

Lack of sleep makes a person too emotional.

Setting aside delusions and grand future plans, I unfolded the documents.

I had to review everything that had happened these past two weeks.

The stacks were divided into two categories:

Highly important documents, and *fucking* highly important documents concerning our fox.

At the very top of the pile…

I picked up the report detailing the saltpeter project he had taken upon himself.

“…Honestly, I still can’t quite believe it.”

Saltpeter.

A key ingredient in the gunpowder for the explosive arrows and cannons our fox uses.

The project involved cultivating potassium nitrate—or whatever it was called.

The required materials were surprisingly simple.

“Who’d have thought we’d need dung fertilizer again, even after guano?”

Originally, animal and human waste was composted for fertilizer.

But now, with the guano fertilizer our fox developed, its original use had faded.

Managing the massive amounts of fecal waste became troublesome—until he found a way to repurpose it for saltpeter cultivation.

One problem solved, another on its way.

Truly, how lovable he is.

“The tanner’s district at the city outskirts. According to Arys’ report, progress is smooth.”

Next, I picked up Arys’ report on the matter.

No major issues. Distance from the city meant odor and sanitation weren’t concerns.

The only problem was that some workers carelessly dumped untreated waste—

“Whip them into shape. You’re authorized to enforce discipline in the saltpeter fields.”

From now on, if Arys decrees execution, it shall be done.

This gunpowder is vital for Grace’s military might—it demands strict governance.

Though, following our fox’s advice, we pay them more than factory wages.

I lifted the next document.

“Mining… for saltpeter deposits.”

Natural potassium nitrate deposits.

Far more reliable than cultivating waste products, but…

*“I heard from that bald blacksmith. Apparently, it’s not as abundant as you’d think.”*

And he was right.

While mineral saltpeter existed, it wasn’t enough for national-scale demands.

Unlike coal or gold mines, which seemed inexhaustible…

Eventually, these resources *would* run dry.

And with fertilizer alternatives already causing waste-management issues…

Being able to turn waste into saltpeter was nothing short of a miracle.

Then came the real highlight: weaponry.

“And that weapon…!”

A siege weapon version of our fox’s explosive arrows.

The *Singijeon*—a rocket cart.

Given this war would be dominated by Ternoben’s overwhelming numbers, expectations were sky-high.

Tomorrow, we march with an army of 2.22 million.

War is always grueling and exhausting…

But I can’t sleep for excitement over the weapons our fox described.

Mythical arms made real—I can’t wait to see them in action.

Only one thing remains now.

“That brat needs handling…”

Amelie Eleanor.

A noble-born girl, hailed as the “Eight-Star of House Eleanor,” their rising prodigy.

Though her clinging, chick-like behavior toward our fox is grating… that’s not all.

Dim-witted as she may seem, she’s undoubtedly sharp.

But…

“A wolf’s nature in a lamb’s guise…”

A chirping, vacant-eyed chick, yet with the sly wickedness of a wolf.

If left unchecked, she’ll cause serious trouble someday.

Since she beat one of Oyungje’s relatives to death with a club…

I’ve relied purely on instinct.

Even if the process eludes me, my instincts always yield results.

“Annoying as it is that our fox favors her…”

She’s still young.

I can afford to indulge her for a while longer.

────────────────────

Early morning.

My small, familiar room.

I awoke in bed, staring at the usual ceiling.

*“Master! Gooood morniiiing!”*

*“Why… are you sleeping here?”*

*“Just because!”*

Now she just naturally shares my bed.

But she’s so young—lust isn’t even a thought. Just a vague sense of endearment.

Only twelve years old.

Amelie gnawed at my T-shirt like a teething puppy.

Relentless, chewing away—who knows if her gums itch or she just won’t let go.

*“Got something to say?”*

*“I wanna go to war tooooo!”*

Her request.

What good would that do?

And battlefields are far too brutal for a twelve-year-old’s eyes.

I pressed down on the runt’s head as she clung to my shirt.

Patted gently, then shoved downward—oof.

Sensing rejection, she flopped on the bed, kicking up a tantrum.

*“GoinggoingGOING!”*

Thrashing like a fresh-caught tuna, overflowing with energy.

Bringing kids to war is just… no.

*“Why do you want to go?”*

*“‘Cause Master’s going! Me too! Inseparable! Master and disciple are one!”*

*“Is that… how that phrase works?”*

*“YES!!”*

Eventually, I relented.

Her role *is* to replace me one day—harsh as that mentality may be.

If she’s willing, and if real combat experience accelerates her growth…

*“Fine, let’s go.”*

*“Yaaaaay!”*

*“Brush your teeth first.”*

Yet a brat remains a brat.

She tried to bolt, but I dragged her to the bathroom by the scruff.

After brushing, a quick hair wash, then dressing.

I left the workshop and arrived at the Grace estate.

*“Present and accounted for!”*

*“We’ve arrived.”*

I greeted Erica directly after.

Morning formalities done, I requested Amelie’s addition to the campaign.

However favored I am, this army is hers.

Erica’s eyes narrowed upon hearing the request.

*“Hmm…”*

*“Countess?”*

An odd air about her.

Chin resting on sharp, delicate fingers, she studied Amelie.

Definitely her simulation-running pose.

After a pause…

*“Where people bleed and die without question… the battlefield, eh.”*

*“Pardon?”*

*“Nevermind. Do as you like.”*

…What was that?

Probably just telling me to watch her?

Dismissing the odd remark, I turned to the brat.

*“Whoaaa! Smoke magic?! Reeeal?!”*

*“Yeah. I’m actually the Snuffleupagus Sorcerer…”*

*“WHOOOOA! SO COOOOOOL!!”*

Already, she’d locked eyes with Adela mid-smoke.

Clueless about cigarettes, she marveled at the exhaled plumes.

Adela, surprisingly child-friendly, shaped smoke rings to humor her.

*“Stay close at all times.”*

*“Got it!”*

*“So, ‘Heaven-Sent Prodigy’s’ disciple? Let’s see what you’ve got.”*

*“Bring it ooooon!”*

Arys, joining the full-scale war effort.

And Isovel, making her combat debut.

They handled the kid with practiced ease.

More popular than I expected.

At least she won’t be bullied.

I mounted calmly—until…

*“I dunno how to ride!”*

*“What?”*

*“Daddy never taught me!”*

…I ended up seating her in front.

Light enough that even a shared horse wasn’t burdened.

Erica’s handpicked steed carried us smoothly.

Then, brushing past us—

Vivian.

*“Uh… slept well?!”*

*“…Yes.”*

*“Ahaha…”*

Awkward.

Adel, too, avoided my gaze entirely.

I couldn’t meet theirs either.

Announcing a girlfriend, then freezing up—what a mess.

And rebounding immediately after a breakup also feels… off.

Soon after, Luna passed by—

*“……”*

*“…….”*

Though we didn’t part on bad terms, not a word was exchanged.

Suffocating tension.

Thankfully, Jet eased the mood.

*“Hey! My life’s in your hands! Don’t let me down, partner!”*

*“You’ll pull through.”*

*“Hahaha! If you say so, it must be true!”*

A jovial, sociable delinquent vibe.

Laughing, Jet eyed the kid before me.

*“Who’s this? Your daughter?”*

*“Discipline of Heaven’s Prodigy!”*

*“Heafen’s—what?”*

*“Heaven-Sent Genius!”*

Jet chuckled, sidling up on horse-back to ruffling her head.

*“Sure, sure! Looking forward to your greatness, oh disciple!”*

*“Fufufu! Only disciple! No worries needed!”*

*“HAHAHA—!!”*

Was she this much of a social butterfly?

Or was everyone just nice?

Either way, pleasantries done, we dispersed.

Vivian fell back with the supply unit.

Adel moved right with the defense corps.

Luna took center as generalissimo—supreme commander.

Jet led cavalry as vanguard.

And I flanked Erica—positioned between Jet and Luna.

We advanced, ascending a high ridge.

At the summit… I couldn’t help but marvel.

“…Incredible.”

2.22 million strong.

Two weeks of mustering forces across Redmain.

Numbers so vast they dwarfed the horizon.

Soldiers cloaked in Grace blue.

Led by Vivian, Adel, Luna, Jet.

And above them all—Erica Grace.

Small wonder Oyungje dared not provoke her lightly.

As I stood awed, Erica cleared her throat—her voice laced with mana, shimmering blue.

*“Need I say much?”*

Resonating, arresting—yet pleasant.

Her masterful cadence sent hearts racing.

*“Glory shall not mark our path.”*

A speech designed to uplift… then subdue.

Morale visibly dipped—but sharp as ever, Erica smirked, continuing.

*“Would you call shopping glorious?! Must paying make you proud?!”*

Her point? Glory isn’t found in trivialities.

Our victory will come so effortlessly, claiming glory would be hollow.

Morale surged—excitement, fervor, pride, unity.

Brilliant rhetoric. Meticulously calculated.

2.22 million.

Even the sheer presence of such numbers instilled invincibility.

No warrior, no matter how mighty, withstands such odds.

Could any force topple this? Awe alone secured confidence.

Hence, troops weren’t dispatched piecemeal—but gathered en masse.

To showcase overwhelming might.

Then, with momentum rising—she yanked expectations taut.

Let spirits soar, only to drop them harder—into certainty.

Her eloquence swelled anticipation like an overfilled balloon…

Then Erica smirked—and burst it.

*“Let’s go win.”*

**(“““““ROOOOOAAAAR—!!!”””””**)

An earth-shaking cheer erupted.