The Lord Just Wants to Have Fun

Armand raised an eyebrow at Herox’s words.

Seeing his master’s curiosity, Herox smirked slyly and continued his explanation.

“The brat blew up the upper Amire River dam, correct? Doing so without prior notice must have caused tremendous damage. We can use that to our advantage.”

“Aha, I see what you’re getting at!”

Armand clapped his knee, impressed by the idea.

The Amire River originated in the Prill Mountain Range, flowing through a portion of the Viscounty of Mirabeau before reaching Baron Brandel’s lands.

In reality, the restoration of the river’s natural flow had caused no harm.

But that didn’t matter.

If they fabricated claims of damages and pushed hard enough, they could demand compensation.

And in this world, the one with the loudest voice—and the most power—won.

“A sudden flood caused massive loss of life and property. We must demand reparations.”

“That young baron will surely refuse.”

“Kuhuhu. Then we’ll have no choice but to apply for a territorial war to claim rightful compensation.”

“With such a just cause, even the central government won’t interfere.”

With perfect synergy, the two schemers began drafting a detailed war scenario.

*****

“My lord, another batch of letters arrived today.”

As usual, Helen entered Philip’s office, carrying a bundle of letters from the messenger.

“Hah, more letters of gratitude, I assume?”

Philip opened the pile and smiled in satisfaction.

Ever since returning from the Prill Mountain Range expedition, a steady stream of thank-you letters had been arriving.

Most were from those who relied on the Amire River, including farmers and merchants from neighboring territories beyond Baron Brandel’s lands.

“Hmm? This one is from a bishop in the western kingdom.”

After returning from the expedition, Philip had turned over the dead necromancer’s staff and belongings to the Laterran Orthodox Church.

The items were useless to anyone but a necromancer—and worse, they were tainted with Negative Dimensional Mana.

Keeping them could bring curses or plagues upon the territory.

Leaving them unattended risked attracting other necromancers or demons sensing the corrupted mana.

“But the church is different.”

The Laterran Orthodox Church had long waged war against necromancers, and its high-ranking priests possessed the power to purify Negative Dimensional Mana.

Unexpectedly, the church not only accepted the items but also sent back a certificate of necromancer extermination and an official letter of gratitude.

“I must have made quite an impression.”

<“Naturally. A no-name rural lord slaying a necromancer is no small feat. And necromancers are the sworn enemies of the church.”>

“Why do they hate necromancers so much? Did something happen between them?”

<…>

There was no response.

Philip turned his head to see Mau buried in a bowl of popcorn, munching absentmindedly.

“Hey, Mau. At least answer while you eat.”

Philip snatched away the bowl, causing Mau to bristle.

<“Give it back, Apostle!”>

“Answer my question first.”

<“Er… what was it again?”>

“Why does the church despise necromancers so much?”

<“Simple. Necromancers are those who have sold their souls to demons. The church, which believes that humanity was created by the Primordial God, considers them utterly unforgivable.”>

“That makes sense for humans and other races, but what about demons? Aren’t they on the same side?”

<“Just as most humans are not absolute paragons of virtue like celestial deities or angels, not all demons are embodiments of evil. Especially those who live on the surface under the sun.”>

Even among demons, there were differences in beliefs and loyalties.

A traitor like a necromancer—who had already betrayed their own kind—was not to be trusted.

If they could betray once, they could do it again.

“I get it now.”

Mau continued munching on his popcorn as he spoke.

<“Anyway, even a minor necromancer, if left unchecked, could have done something far worse than drying up a river.”>

“He was muttering about using the suffering from the famine and chaos to cultivate despair.”

<“Yes, death, hatred, and despair generate Negative Dimensional Mana, which fuels necromancers.”>

“Maybe… maybe he was planning something even bigger.”

Philip doubted the necromancer had built the dam just to gather mana.

Perhaps he had been using the aquatic nature of the lizardmen to amass a massive force.

“What if, years later, an army of tens or hundreds of thousands of lizardmen had swarmed down from the mountains…?”

With the western region already weakened by famine, even the entire Arteria Kingdom could have been shaken.

And the necromancer—empowered by the chaos—would have grown even stronger.

“Did I just nip a future Demon Lord in the bud?”

The thought had barely crossed his mind when a translucent system message popped up in front of him.

[Eldir is greatly pleased with the Apostle’s efforts in spreading the glory of the Fire God. You have received 2,000 points as a reward.]
[Valian is displeased with the Apostle’s actions. Trouble may arise soon—be on guard.]

“Huh? Trouble?”

Philip was grinning over his 2,000-point reward when his face darkened at the following warning.

At that moment, the office doors swung open, and a retainer rushed in.

“My lord, we have a problem!”

“A problem? Did a bakery—or rather, a blacksmith’s forge—catch fire?”

“No, sir! A messenger from the Viscounty of Mirabeau just delivered a letter…”

Philip took the letter and scanned its contents.

His brow furrowed in an instant.

“That fat viscount bastard has lost his mind.”

Philip immediately summoned his retainers and shared the contents of the letter sent by Viscount Armand.

“They’re claiming that the destruction of the dam caused a flood disaster. According to them, hundreds of villagers and 1,000 sheep were washed away.”

“That’s absurd!”

“We haven’t heard anything about that!”

At most, some farmers fetching water from the river or livestock drinking by the banks might have been swept up in the sudden rush of water.

But the Amire River only passed through a small northwestern section of the Viscounty of Mirabeau.

If their claims were true, the lower reaches of the river would be filled with bodies of people and livestock.

Yet no such reports had come from anywhere in Baron Brandel’s territory.

The only corpses found were those of lizardmen, slain by Philip’s forces.

“They’re demanding 1,200,000 Dalants—our territory’s entire five-year budget—as compensation. If that’s not a declaration of war, I don’t know what is.”

“They’re picking a fight, plain and simple.”

“If we refuse, they’ll declare a territorial war. They’ve always been eyeing our pastures, and now they’re using this as an excuse to take our land by force.”

Their intentions were as transparent as glass.

But neither Philip nor his retainers had any intention of backing down.

After the lizardmen subjugation, they had personally witnessed the combat effectiveness of their forces—and the overwhelming power of their new weapons.

The most eager among them was Carpenter.

“Screw it! Let’s fight, my lord! Mirabeau may have numbers, but we have better weapons!”

“Exactly! Once they get hit with musket volleys, they’ll scatter in terror!”

The knights, who had seen the Flintlock Muskets in action firsthand, enthusiastically agreed.

Some even started suggesting they seize 3,000 sheep from Mirabeau—or just take over the whole territory altogether.

No one seemed to think they could lose the war.

It was this overconfidence that concerned Treasurer Buchini.

“Even so, we mustn’t underestimate our enemy. They may not know about our muskets, but they are familiar with our forces.”

“That’s true.”

“Especially Viscount Armand’s advisor, Viscount Herox. He’s no fool. He’ll be looking for a way to exploit our weaknesses.”

Carpenter, nodding in agreement, turned to Philip.

“My lord, how is musket production coming along? If we have enough, the battle will be an easy victory.”

The Viscounty of Mirabeau’s military strength lay in its cavalry.

With 30 knights and over 200 squires, their cavalry unit was among the strongest in the region.

Thus, if they could neutralize the cavalry, victory would come easily.

“As of now, we can only produce two muskets per day. And even then, the cost is too high to mass-produce them.”

“A shame.”

“But… I have another way to counter them. Want to hear it?”

“Another way?”

Seeing Carpenter’s curiosity, Philip began explaining the strategy he had devised to his retainers.

******

Inside the Arkina Temple, located within Baron Brandel’s castle grounds, chaos reigned.

The temple, dedicated to the Goddess of Water, was filled with refugees—the very people Philip had rescued from the Prill Mountain Range.

“Help me set up this tent!”

“We need more blankets!”

“The water jars are empty! Who was supposed to refill them?”

“Unbelievable! A Water Temple with no water…”

The temple priests had little choice but to house the displaced people, but their leader—the High Priest—was far from pleased.

“Sigh… A temple meant for devotion has become a marketplace…”

“Do you have a problem with it, High Priest?”

The voice made the priest turn sharply.

There stood Lord Philip, arms crossed and smirking.

“Rumor has it fewer people are visiting the Water Temple lately. Maybe I should ban entry entirely—then it’ll be peaceful and devout, just like you want.”

“L-lord Philip! That would be… blasphemous! Even as a blacksmith—no, the Apostle of the Fire God, you cannot oppress another deity’s temple!”

“Why not? It’s not like any divine punishment would fall on me.”

Unlike Valian, the War God, who had sent a cryptic warning about impending disaster, Arkina had remained utterly silent—whether Philip spoke behind her back or insulted her outright.

“In fact, I wish divine punishment would come. Maybe then, we’d get enough rain to wash away the whole castle.”

“Please, my lord, have mercy…”

The High Priest’s desperate plea only made Philip chuckle.

“Anyway, it’s not just me. The people’s trust in the Water Temple is crumbling—you should handle your affairs more carefully.”

“…Understood.”

“And those refugees? They’re victims of the drought. Since it’s your goddess’s failure that led to this, your temple should shelter them until they find new homes.”

The High Priest had no way to argue.

The drought had indeed occurred under Arkina’s domain, and Philip’s logic—while brutal—was undeniable.

With that, Philip left the temple, returning to his estate while thinking about how to put the refugees to work.

His retainers had debated the issue the night before.

“My lord, with the territorial war against Mirabeau imminent, why not conscript the refugees to bolster our army?”

“A crash-course training wouldn’t make them useful in battle. We’d be better off handing them shovels and axes to clear land.”

“The mines need more workers as well.”

The sudden influx of mouths to feed was a burden.

But if used correctly, they could become a valuable labor force.

The retainers had all wanted control over the refugees for their own areas.

“Whether for the military, farming, or mining… isn’t there another way to use them? Ah!”