Raising the Princess to Overcome Death

Chapter 351: Childhood Friends – Reinforcements

In the Kingdom of Aisel, there is a proverb that says, “Tradition is learned from grandmother, and letters from grandfather.”

This saying reflects the unique societal customs of the Aisel Kingdom, which was formed by a mix of matriarchal barbarian tribes and exiled imperial citizens.

While noble families had adopted the paternal surname system since the arrival of the royal family, for commoners—who had no surnames to pass down—the grandmother remained the head of the household.

As a result, the social landscape of the Aisel Kingdom was quite different from that of other nations.

At least, that’s what Gilbert thought.

Half of the soldiers marching in the army were women.

Unlike the Kingdom of Bellita, where such a sight was unimaginable, here in Aisel, female soldiers marched side by side with male soldiers, shouldering military gear and chatting cheerfully as they walked.

To Gilbert, it was a cultural shock that made him feel like a stranger in a foreign land.

It was a strange sensation—a mix of discomfort and isolation.

But, to be honest, this sort of environment suited him quite well.Gilbert had always been fond of women. And when it came to romance, he had a "timelessly progressive" philosophy.

As long as the woman was attractive, he didn’t care about social status.

Of course, he did care about looks.

Still, for a man like him, the combination of a mixed-gender army and the boredom of a long march should have been the perfect playground.

However, he had been unusually restrained.

Despite having been exiled to the Kingdom of Aisel, not once had he flirted with a soldier, noblewoman, or anyone else.

Considering his past, this was nothing short of a miracle.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and the soldiers busied themselves setting up camp, Gilbert did as he always did—he grabbed his sword.

He swung the sword lightly, loosening his body. Soon, he sensed someone approaching from behind.

Not a large man, but one whose presence seemed to compress the very air around him.

It was none other than Sir Rev Bizaine.

"You’re here."

"..."

Rev answered with a nod.

He was a man of few words.

His sharp gaze had once made Gilbert think that the man disliked him.

Of course, that wasn't the case. They had been strangers back then, and it hadn’t taken long for Gilbert to realize that he had simply been too sensitive. He laughed it off.

As he looked at the knight who had come to train him, Gilbert reflected on the past.

It was thanks to this man that he had taken up the sword again.

He vividly remembered the moment his mother had called this suspiciously youthful knight to their home.

"As you requested, I’ll help your son meet Count Herman Forte. But it won’t be at a dignified negotiation table. It will be on the battlefield, with swords in hand. Your son will need to wield a weapon if he wishes to meet his father."

That’s what Rev had said.

At the time, Gilbert had laughed out loud.

"I’m going to meet my father on the battlefield, with a sword in my hand?!"

He’d thought it absurd.

If anything, his head would be the first to roll.

It was clear that this knight didn’t understand who Herman Forte was or what it meant to face a Swordmaster.

But Gilbert hadn't argued.

If this man wanted to meet his end at the hands of Count Forte, that was none of his concern.

In fact, he had looked down on Rev back then.

But now…

— Srrng!

Sir Rev Bizaine drew his sword.

Gilbert ended his daydreams and stepped forward, ready to face him.

This was how training with Rev always began—with a sparring match.

Rather than lecturing from the start, Rev observed how his student used the techniques taught the day before.

It was a generous teaching style, one that encouraged the student's creativity rather than stifling it.

As Gilbert gripped the familiar hilt of his sword, he felt a nostalgic rush of memories.

The burning pain in his palms. His childhood, spent relentlessly training under his father's strict gaze.

If only his father had taught him like this.

If only his father had been this patient.

If only his father had been this kind.

Would his parents still have divorced?

He didn't know.

Sweat began to bead on his forehead as the sparring match reached its climax.

Without thinking, he activated the secret technique of the Forte family.

The technique involved incorporating a spin into his footwork, deflecting an opponent’s strike, and launching a diagonal upward slash in one seamless motion.

— Boom!

"Ugh!"

It didn’t work.

Rev reacted as if he had seen it a hundred times before.

The moment Gilbert began to spin, Rev's body moved like lightning. He lunged forward, slamming his shoulder into Gilbert’s chest.

Gilbert lost his balance and crashed to the ground. The spar was over.

"TChapter So close. Thanks for the lesson. …Give me a hand, will you?"

Lying flat on his back, Gilbert smiled (he liked to think of it as his "charming smile") and held out his hand.

Rev hesitated for a moment but eventually grabbed his hand and pulled him up.

"Thanks. So, how was it today? I think I did better than yesterday, don’t you?"

He wasn’t fishing for compliments. He genuinely believed he had improved.

And it was true.

His skills had grown rapidly in a short time.

Of course, Rev’s instruction was excellent, but there was something else.

A part of Gilbert's past self, long buried, was reawakening.

His youthful talents, once hidden under years of inaction, were shining through.

— [ Leo, you became the strongest swordsman on the continent, but Lena could not catch up to you. As consolation, you have been granted the skill {Swordsmanship Master}. ]

Perhaps that message had something to do with it.

Whatever the case, his hands, now calloused once more, felt like a clean canvas upon which the art of swordsmanship was being freshly painted.

Rev did not deny his progress.

"Yes, you’ve improved. But remember this—what I want from you isn't complex swordplay. Keep it simple. Slash clearly. Stab cleanly. Everything else is just excess."

"Yes, yes, I hear you. So, should we continue the same training as yesterday?"

Rev nodded, his silence implying agreement.

But instead of talking further, he glanced around for a place to sit.

However, since it was early spring and the snow was starting to melt, the ground was still too wet to sit comfortably.

If it were anyone else, they would have ordered a soldier to bring a chair.

But Rev was a man who rarely ordered others around, and this sometimes annoyed Gilbert.

“What’s the point of pretending to be some lowly knight when you made up the last name ‘Bizaine’ for yourself?”

He never said it aloud, though.

"Rev! Here, take a chair!"

It was then that a bright, lively voice called out.

Lena.

She appeared, carrying two wooden chairs with effort.

Apparently, one of them wasn’t for him.

"I told you not to come."

"I came to bring Sir Rev Bizaine a chair, that’s all~"

"…Thanks. Now go back."

"Nope. The weather’s nice, the sunset’s pretty, so let’s hang out for a bit."

…So, the chair wasn’t for him after all.

At that moment, Gilbert lost all interest in their conversation.

It wasn’t jealousy or anything like that.

But for some reason, Rev always hated it when Gilbert got too close to Lena.

Gilbert returned to his barracks after finishing his sword training, wiping off the sweat from his brow.

It was only after he left that Rev finally let his true feelings slip.

"I told you to stop coming here."

"So what?"

"It’s not 'so what.' I just don’t like it. Every time I see that guy, I keep thinking about that incident."

"But you said it wasn’t a big deal. Sure, he acted a bit petty. Got me drunk, thinking he could try something funny."

"..."

"But in the end, he didn’t even get a kiss. I was the one who got kicked out. I think I was really upset back then..."

Lena shrugged as if it were no big deal, her eyes gazing at the crimson sunset.

"Even so, I still don’t like it."

"Huh? What’s with this stubbornness? I told you it’s fine."

"..."

"Seriously, it was nothing. From what I see, it was Daniel who misunderstood the whole thing. He’s the only one who knew I got a bracelet from that guy, but somehow the priest interrogating me knew about it too. So, obviously, Daniel was the one who ratted me out—"

"Who the hell is Daniel?"

Huh?

Rev suddenly cut her off.

Oddly enough, he wasn’t even looking at her.

“What’s this? Is he… jealous?”

Lena grinned mischievously.

She slid her chair right in front of Rev and leaned in with a playful twinkle in her eye.

"Sir Rev Bizaine."

"...The title 'Sir' already implies respect. No need to add ‘sir’ to it."

"Are you... jealous, by any chance?"

"No. Jealousy requires a 'relationship,' which we don’t have."

"Oh, of course. As if the heir of the great House of Bizaine, soon-to-be Swordmaster, would be jealous of a lowly apprentice priest."

"Wait… apprentice priest? I thought you said he was—"

"Nope! My peer apprentice was Veronian. Daniel is an upperclassman. Haha! Look, your ears are red, Sir Rev!"

"Veronian? Now who’s that—ugh, stop touching me."

"Bleeeh~"

"Don’t pull on me either. Ow! Ow! I swear, if you keep this up—huff!"

For all his skill in martial arts and swordsmanship, Rev had no way to dodge Lena’s sudden kiss.

She caught him off guard, tilting her head up and pressing her lips against his.

His neck jerked backward in shock, but she leaned in further, deepening the kiss.

The chair she had been sitting on toppled over with a loud clang, but neither of them paid it any mind.

When Lena finally pulled away, her face hovered right in front of his, her expression lit with joy.

The glow of the sunset made her face flush as red as the sky.

"You’re finally looking at me properly."

"Wh-What do you mean?"

"Shut up. I’m happy right now, you jerk."

"..."

"Rev."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Lena traced her fingers along his cheek, staring at him with a gaze so tender it felt like she was embracing him with her eyes alone.

"Rev."

"...Lena."

"Eugh, gross. That’s too much, even for me."

"Then what do you want me to do, huh?"

Rev sighed as he pulled her forward, settling her on his lap.

Finally content, Lena draped her arms around his neck and spoke in a voice that was both low and full of meaning.

"Rev, you know… I miss them. How about you?"

  *

"Say that again. How many soldiers did you say?"

"T-Twelve thousand, sir."

"Twelve thousand, huh?!"

The Supreme Commander was on the verge of flipping the table over.

But the sheer volume of battle reports, maps, and stacks of papers atop it held him back.

Instead, he grabbed an inkwell and hurled it across the tent.

With a sharp clang, it hit the canvas wall, the ink splattering like bloodstains.

He brushed back his hair and glared at the messenger.

"Hah, haah… You’re joking, right? This is a joke, right? I was told we’d be getting 25,000 reinforcements."

"..."

"I knew it was a lie. I knew it from the start. But still, even lies have a limit! When a commander hears he’s getting reinforcements, even if it’s false, morale goes up, you know?"

"..."

"But twelve thousand? You expect me to fight with that?! That’s barely half of what I was promised, you scum-sucking bastards! GET OUT! Get your ass back to the prince and tell him not to show his face here until he brings me at least 20,000 troops!"

The messenger bolted out of the tent like his life depended on it.

The Supreme Commander—Margrave Maxinus, Warden of the Western Frontier—tried to calm his breathing.

Surely that courier wouldn’t repeat his words to the prince.

He wouldn’t, right?

But still, the number 12,000 left him seething with rage.

Their enemy would deploy at least 30,000 soldiers.

The Kingdom of Bellita had numerous noble houses with power rivaling royal families, and they could reinforce their army depending on the situation.

And worst of all, Count Herman Forte, the Swordmaster, was leading them.

"Dammit… this is hopeless."

Margrave Maxinus lit a pipe and took a long drag, letting the smoke swirl around him.

As he sat there, his thoughts growing darker, he heard footsteps outside his tent.

"Who’s there? Whoever you are, stay out. I’m not in the mood for visitors."

"...Pardon my intrusion."

"I told you not to—oh, it’s Baron Trudi. Did the prince send you?"

"Yes. He figured you'd be in a foul mood, so he asked me to check in."

"Ah, so he’s aware. Well, then, I hope you don’t mind if I vent for a bit."

"Of course. Vent as much as you like."

"...Kind of takes the fun out of it if you agree so easily. Have a seat. Let’s hear this 'brilliant plan' of yours."

"What makes you think I have a brilliant plan?"

The margrave scoffed.

"If the prince wanted to send a message, he’d have used a courier. If he sent you instead, that means there’s something he didn’t want the courier to hear. Are you going to drink with me?"

"I’ll pass."

Maxinus shrugged and lit his pipe. His chubby frame and short limbs made him look like a puffed-up frog, but his lung capacity was impressive.

Smoke filled the tent in no time.

Through that haze, Baron Trudi shared something meant only for Maxinus’ ears.

It was information that even the courier had not been told.

After delivering the message, Baron Trudi quietly left the warfront.

This happened while the border between the Kingdom of Aisel and the Kingdom of Bellita was on the brink of war.

As the storm of battle brewed on the horizon, soldiers, supplies, and the heavy air of war piled up along the frontlines.