Chapter 6 - History of Family and Orcs
The heated discussion between the maids and the guards continued before the laundry room suddenly fell into an unusual silence.
Not because anyone wanted silence but because everyone wanted to be the next one to speak.
I remained near the doorway, half-hidden behind stacked linen baskets while the adults continued talking as if he did not exist.
"He killed the Berserker himself," one of the older maids insisted while folding cloth with sharp, aggressive movements. "People keep forgetting that part."
"He wasn't even the household's official guard yet," a guard replied. "Just a young trainee with too much courage."
"No, he became an independent hunter before he killed the orc," another guard interjected immediately. "That's why him risking his life against it was truly courageous."
"Courageous?" another snorted. "Madness. Berserker Orcs don't stop once the frenzy takes them. They're too far gone. You cut them, they keep moving. Break their bones, they still move. They don't think properly anymore."
"They eat afterward too," someone muttered darkly. "If anything's left."
"A mindless brute of terrifying strength that exists only to kill, eat, and sleep," a senior guard added grimly.
A younger maid visibly shivered.
I listened to the room carefully.
So that was where the surname came from.
Hatar. The name of that orc.
In this kingdom, common people did not possess surnames.
We were the exception.
"He brought the skull back himself," the elderly cook said while stirring a pot. "The merchant family displayed it for years before sealing it behind glass."
"And then the daughter ran away with him anyway," one guard added with a grin.
That caused several women to laugh.
"Her parents nearly died from shame."
"They would've preferred a major merchant heir or a provisional noble."
"I heard they discovered her healing affinity was exceptional around that time."
"Really?" a younger guard asked in surprise.
"To be fair," another maid interrupted, "if I were in her position, I would've done the same."
That earned several approving hums from the women.
"They eloped, didn't they?" a younger guard asked eagerly.
The older ones immediately smirked.
"Oh, they absolutely did."
"Her father locked her inside the estate for nearly a month."
"Didn't work."
"She climbed out through a second-story storage window."
"With a staff strapped to her back," someone added proudly.
Another round of laughter spread through the room.
The women looked almost wistful while speaking about it.
The men looked impressed in an entirely different manner.
There was probably truth hidden somewhere beneath the dramatization.
But only somewhere.
Then one of the maids suddenly stiffened.
"My Lady is coming."
The room instantly scattered back toward their stations with practiced efficiency.
Buckets moved.
Cloth snapped.
Conversations died mid-sentence.
I almost admired the coordination.
Still, I continued to hear such discussions and it explained many things.
Together, they explained many things.
Because my mother's family opposed their union, my parents eloped and joined the military, serving together for ten years.
The gossip also helped me understand why people called me the "miracle baby."
My mother apparently could not have children naturally without magical or alchemical assistance. Even then, the chances were slim. Worse, alchemical pregnancies carried the risk of abnormalities, deformities, or stillbirths. The procedures themselves were ruinously expensive.
I was already certain my mother's illness was connected to magic, though I lacked the knowledge to identify the exact cause. The servants frequently mentioned her healing affinity alongside something called mana burn.
Whatever had happened in the mountains had clearly damaged her deeply.
Regardless, the mystery surrounding my conception explained the enormous fuss surrounding my first birthday.
However, public opinion regarding me remained sharply divided.
Those who called me a "Bad Omen" generally fell into two groups.
The first were simple superstitious fools. Because I was born during the Month of Ace and because my birth itself had been considered nearly impossible, they believed I was the product of some forbidden ritual.
The second group was political.
I still did not fully understand the nuances of rank, influence, and noble factions, but I understood the broad outline well enough.
My father had first served six years in the regular army during the border skirmishes between the Kingdom of Enameia and the Confederation of Vyarga.
Later, he transferred into the 5th Battalion of the Central Special Military Orc Eradication Brigade.
That name surfaced constantly in conversations.
The brigade had been formed in response to the rise of an aspiring Orc Lord whose army was initially estimated at six thousand, but later discovered to exceed ten thousand. Roughly sixty percent of the force consisted of goblins, kobolds, and lesser races, while the remainder were true orcs.
Their suprise invasion through the Shattered Mountain Range had apparently shocked the entire kingdom.
"Only three major routes exist through the mountains," one veteran explained while polishing armor. "Capt. Losa. Amlo. Each one protected by massive fortifications."
""Suspiciously, this invading army remained undetected and bastards crossed without warning," another guard muttered.
"Not crossed," the veteran corrected coldly. "Captured."
That immediately quieted the younger guards.
"They seized the forts first, then used our own defenses as staging grounds."
"Which means somebody failed."
"Or somebody sold information," another man muttered under his breath.
No one openly responded to that.
"A portion of the goblins and kobolds escaped deeper into the countryside afterward," remarked a younger guard whose family had only recently settled in the region. "Their numbers are still destabilizing entire territories."
From their discussions, I concluded that both the royal and ducal armies should have been sufficient to crush the invasion even after the initial intelligence disaster.
Instead, the situation became catastrophic.
"The Duke's sons led the first counterattack," someone said quietly.
"And got slaughtered."
"Their heads were displayed on the walls of Fort Losa."
Several people made warding gestures instinctively.
"Then the Duke himself marched north."
"And joined his sons on the walls."
The room briefly fell silent again.
I immediately understood the implications.
An entire ducal bloodline had effectively collapsed within a single campaign.
No wonder the kingdom was unstable.
"The Royal Family formed the Orc Eradication Brigade after that," the veteran continued.
"At first things improved."
"We retook the forts."
"But then Hanord the Schemer started adapting."
The name itself changed the atmosphere.
Even hardened guards spoke it carefully.
Hanord the Schemer.
In recent human-orc history, very few orcs possessed the intelligence necessary to improvise strategically during warfare.
Hanord did.
"He baited formations."
"He used false retreats."
"He attacked supply lines."
"That's what terrified people," the veteran said quietly. "He thought like a man."
They spoke about my father less like a war hero and more like a religious figure.
Through countless fragmented stories, I slowly pieced together the event that made him famous.
During one disastrous engagement, the 1st, 3rd, 5th, and 6th Battalions walked directly into an ambush and nearly collapsed entirely.
My father's squad, alongside three others from different battalions, held the line without orders.
"They stayed while everyone else retreated," one guard whispered.
"They knew they were dead men."
"The Orc Chieftain personally led the charge."
"And Hatar killed him."
"Personally."
The guard speaking actually sounded awed.
"Once the Chieftain died, the charge broke apart."
"That's what saved the survivors."
For that act, my father received the Iron Grunt's Witness.
Even speaking the title altered the tone of the room.
"This wasn't some officer's medal," an older guard explained sharply to the younger ones. "No noble chooses the recipient."
"Every soldier in the battalion votes."
"Unanimously."
"And only one person can receive it."
That distinction alone explained why common soldiers revered him so deeply.
It was not only my father who fought.
My mother served alongside him throughout the campaign.
She belonged to the Mage Class of Healers.
Apparently military doctrine only stationed husbands and wives together if their abilities directly benefited unit cohesion and battlefield performance. Emotional attachment was considered dangerous otherwise.
The war in the Shattered Mountain Range lasted two brutal years.
What began as direct warfare gradually devolved into attritional fighting before eventually descending into irregular warfare entirely.
"The mountains favored ambushes."
"The orcs adapted."
"So we adapted too."
"Small-unit tactics."
"Supply raids."
"Night attacks."
The brigade maintained superior logistics compared to the orcs, but the terrain prevented decisive victories.
My father apparently spent most of the campaign near the frontlines.
Many believed his primary motivation was my mother's worsening injuries.
When the battle dragged on with no end in sight, the State finally decided to deploy their 'Heavy Hitters'—the kingdom's most powerful assets.
The orc army was nearly annihilated.
Yet Hanord the Schemer managed to retreat with his remaining forces.
That single failure changed everything.
By surviving against the full military might of Enameia, Hanord had become a much greater threat. This achievement made him a legitimate contender for the title of Orc King, a position that would grant him the Blessing of the Gods. If he triumphed, he would go from just a local nuisance to a catastrophe, and the Kingdom of Enameia would undoubtedly be his first target.
Processing all of this was exhausting.
Still, one conclusion became unavoidable.
My mother's illness almost certainly originated during those years in the mountains.
The historians apparently called that period The Trial of the Schemer.
Some guards spoke surprisingly openly about the political aftermath, seemingly unaware of how much information they were revealing.
The orc invasion had destabilized the kingdom far beyond simple military losses.
While those at the lower levels of society may not grasp the gravity of the shift, my past-life education and reading between the lines confirmed my suspicions. The death of the Grand Duke and his eldest sons had sparked chaos in the North. The only remaining heir to the Ducal House was a mere child—the son of a maid and the Duke's eldest son. Now, rival factions of nobles as well as the royal family were warring for control over the boy, while other minor families scrambled to seize the lands of those who lost their heirs.
Our family emerged from the chaos stronger than before.
Nearly everyone discussed how my parents were granted noble status upon retirement and allowed to establish their own Noble House complete with its own Coat of Arms.
This was considered one of the premier rewards tied to the Iron Grunt's Witness.
Eventually, one particularly old guard stopped the discussion entirely.
He looked at the younger workers with obvious anticipation.
Everyone allowed him to speak.
"There is a massive difference," he declared, "between being a noble and belonging to a Noble House."
The room immediately quieted.
According to him, our family belonged to a category known as Sword-Nobles, also called Blood Nobles.
Nobility earned through merit, battle, and blood.
He explained that ancient laws established during the kingdom's founding granted such houses permanent noble status unless the bloodline itself vanished.
This sharply contrasted with lesser forms of nobility.
The nobles who bought their way into the nobility could hold their title for only two generations. If the third generation could not sustain the wealth or perform a deed of merit, the name reverted to commoner status.
On the topic of an independent knight, he explained to them that these people earned nobility for themselves and their children through the blade. But for the grandchildren, the clock reset. To maintain the title, the parents had to perform their own deeds of valor according to the ancient laws. If the parents failed to prove their worth, they remained noble for their lifetimes, but the children—the grandchildren of the original Knight—were born as commoners, unless they could strike out and carve their own legacy through a deed of their own.
The third method that he mentioned was Anchor of Marriage. A provisional noble could secure their status by marrying into a blood-noble house. This extended the title to the spouse, their immediate children, and future lineage—a legal anchor against the descent. But the path was still guarded by rules.
Then the old guard entered what one maid jokingly called his "scholar mode."
The old guard seemed almost offended that none of the younger ones understood heraldry properly.
"You lot think those symbols are decoration," he scoffed. "That's because none of you can read them."
That immediately caught everyone's attention. Few who knew how to read them smirked.
Even the workers pretending to focus on folding cloth slowed down enough to listen.
The old man pointed toward the faded insignia stitched onto one guard's sleeve.
"Take the provisional nobles for example."
"The pentacle?" the younger guard asked.
"A pentagram," the old man corrected instantly. "Learn the difference before you embarrass yourself in front of an actual noble."
A few chuckles spread through the room.
Then, to everyone's surprise, he crouched down near the floor and began tracing shapes into spilled flour with his finger.
I leaned slightly closer.
"Look carefully."
He drew a pentagon first.
"The center."
Then five elongated triangles branching outward around it.
"The outer territories."
The younger guards stared blankly.
The old man sighed heavily.
"Gods, your generation is hopeless."
One of the maids smirked.
"Then explain it properly, old man."
He grunted before tapping the central shape.
"The pentagon represents the Royal Family."
Then he pointed toward the five surrounding triangles one by one.
"North."
"East."
"West."
"Southeast."
"Southwest."
"The five Grand Duchies."
As he spoke, the design immediately clicked into place inside my mind.
Five congruent isosceles triangles surrounding a central pentagon.
I was amazed by how simple, elegant, and ruthlessly political the crest was. A person's loyalty was literally written on their body.
"The gold markings show loyalty," the old guard continued.
"On provisional nobles, whichever territory they belong to gets colored gold."
"Where?" one maid asked curiously.
"Everywhere important."
He began counting on his fingers.
"Shield."
"Left chest."
"Breastplate."
"Sleeves."
"Lapel."
"Sash."
"Surcoat."
"Official uniforms."
"Livery badges."
"If a noble serves the North, the northern triangle becomes gold."
"And if they serve the crown directly?" another asked.
"The central pentagon becomes gold instead."
That drew several impressed murmurs.
One younger guard frowned thoughtfully.
"So nobles can identify each other instantly?"
The old man barked a laugh.
"That is the entire point. And you should too."
I silently agreed.
The brilliance of the design lay in its simplicity.
Even peasants could recognize political allegiance at a glance.
Then the old guard's expression shifted slightly.
"In contrast," the old guard continued while tapping the flour-drawn pentacle with his finger, "Blood Nobles cannot simply wear the standard provisional crest."
A younger guard frowned.
"Why not?"
"Because Blood Houses are recognized differently under the Ancient Laws," the old man replied. "A provisional noble borrows legitimacy from service, wealth, or marriage. A Blood House possesses legitimacy of its own."
"So they need separate heraldry?" a maid asked.
"Exactly."
The old guard nodded approvingly.
"Every Blood House must possess its own registered crest. The pentacle still exists beside it, but the family crest becomes the true identity of the house."
"And the gold markings?" another servant asked curiously.
"They still matter."
The old man traced over one of the triangles.
"If a Blood House serves a specific Grand Duke, the corresponding territorial section is colored gold."
"And if they serve the Royal Family directly?"
"The center pentagon becomes gold."
A younger maid tilted her head.
"Then what about House Hatar?"
The old guard's lips curled faintly.
"Colorless."
That answer immediately caused confusion.
"Colorless?"
"As in none of the sections are gold?" one guard asked.
"Correct."
"Doesn't that make the crest incomplete?"
The old guard barked a dry laugh.
"Only to people who don't understand politics."
His eyes moved briefly toward the door.
The old guard quickly stood up and excused himself by claiming he had forgotten something the Lady had personally ordered
This realization brought to mind the two rings my parents always wore. One bore the Pentacle, the mark of our rank; the other featured our House crest. The crest was a masterwork of symbolism: a heater-style shield in the foreground, backed by a heavy two-handed broadsword. The sword's crossguard was uniquely shaped like a balanced scale, and at the center of the grip sat a shining pentacle. Embossed upon the shield's face was a hunter's dagger.
It was a perfect visual metaphor for our family's legacy: the strength of the blade, the precision of the hunt, and the cold, calculated balance of trade.
Because our pentacle remained colorless, it signaled to the world that while my father held the Iron Grunt's Witness, he had not yet pledged our house's 'eternal soul' to a specific Grand Duke or the King's inner circle.
To the Provisional Nobles and commoners—and even some Blood Nobles draped in regional color—our colorless mark implied we were 'rootless,' having served no single province for generations. To them, my father's pentacle looked empty. But to those who truly understood the Ancient Laws, that emptiness was terrifying: it represented a Blood-Noble House that owed favors to no one.
We are truly independent.
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