Letter From The Bishop
The early morning sun of Loriana usually illuminated a scene of medieval routine: merchants opening shutters, blacksmiths stoking fires, and sleepy mercenaries stumbling toward the mess hall.
Today, however, the sun illuminated an abomination.
In the center of the town square, a crowd had formed. Mercenaries, refugees, and confused chickens stood in a wide circle, staring at the object sitting in the middle of the plaza.
It was a skeletal frame of iron pipe and sturdy oak, sitting atop four spoked wooden wheels. But these weren't ordinary carriage wheels. The rims were coated in a thick, translucent, rubbery substance that smelled faintly of sulfur and mint—the result of boiling down the excretions of Giant Forest Slimes and curing it with alchemical salts. At the rear of the frame sat a brass lung of a machine, a mess of pistons, gears, and glowing runic glass that hissed steam like an angry kettle.
There were no horses attached to it. No harness.
It looked like a carriage that had been stripped naked and then subjected to cruel torture by an insane clockmaker.
"Behold!" Treste shouted, standing on a crate and flinging her arms wide. Her oversized witch hat was askew, and a smudge of grease still marked her cheek. "The pinnacle of magi-mechanical engineering! The harbinger of a new era! I present to you: The Glorious Lumite-Driven Carriage of Absolute Velocity Mark I!"
The crowd stared blankly. A chicken pecked at a drop of oil leaking from the differential.
"It's a Quadricycle. A simple quadricycle, Treste." Asep corrected, leaning against the vehicle. He looked tired but undeniably smug. He patted the bicycle-like saddle seat. "Or 'The Horseless Carriage' if you want to be poetic."
"Horseless?" Karl, who was munching on a meat skewer in the front row, squinted skeptically. "But Asep, if there's no horse... what pulls it? Ghosts?"
"Physics" Asep grinned. "And fire. Lots of fire. And Lumite."
"Wait wait wait, but if there's no horse, who do I feed the apples to?" Clara asked, genuinely concerned for the non-existent animal's dietary needs.
"You eat the apple, Clara," Asep sighed, then turned to Treste. "Alright, Witch-let. Fire it up. Let's see if this baby purrs or explodes."
Treste hopped off her crate and fiddled with a series of brass levers near the engine block. She muttered an incantation, channeling a pulse of mana into the ignition rune.
Hiss...
The crowd leaned in.
Put-put-put...
The brass lung coughed. A puff of steam shot out of the exhaust pipe.
PUT-PUT-PUT-BANG!
A loud backfire made half the mercenaries draw their swords. The Nords in the back cheered, assuming the vehicle was challenging them to a duel.
"Steady! It's just indigestion!" Asep yelled, vaulting into the driver's seat. He gripped the tiller—a simple metal rod used for steering. "Treste, engage the transmission clutch!"
"Engaging!" Treste slammed a heavy iron lever forward.
With a lurch that nearly gave Asep whiplash, the machine groaned. The leather belt connecting the engine to the rear axle tightened.
And then, it moved.
Slowly at first, rattling over the cobblestones with the grace of a shopping cart falling down stairs. But it was moving. Without horses.
"It's alive!" Asep laughed, feeling the vibrations rattle his teeth. "Eat your heart out, Henry Ford! We're doing... maybe four miles an hour! Catch me if you can, pedestrians!"
He steered the contraption in a slow circle around the square. The crowd gasped and scattered as if he were riding a dragon.
"By the Radiant Sun..." Stark murmured, watching the noisy, smelly machine putt-putt past him. "What in the world...?"
"It's loud," Karl noted, covering his ears. "And it smells like burnt slime. I love it. Can we mount a ballista on it?"
"Only a small one, Karl! Only a small one!" Asep yelled over the engine noise. He waved at Adeline, who stood near the fountain with a basket of bread. She looked absolutely bewildered, her mouth slightly open. Asep gave her a cool thumbs-up.
Looking cool, Asep. You are definitely impressing the girl. He thought.
Meanwhile, behind a building, Matthew—or Ludwig—stared at the scene. His eyes were wide open in shock. Internal Combustion Engine? How? Not only that... The car looks very much like Henry Ford's Quadricycle. Is someone from Earth reincarnated here? Beside me?
That dark-skinned dude... I thought he was one of the locals with a weird accent... Could it be...?
____
The noise from the plaza was muffled by the thick stone walls of the keep, but the occasional bang and hiss of the infernal machine still managed to rattle the windowpanes of Zachary's office.
Zachary stood by the window, watching the scene below with a mixture of awe and trepidation. The crowd's reaction had shifted from fear to a raucous confused delight as Asep took a corner too sharply, nearly tipping the vehicle onto two wheels before correcting it with a laugh.
A carriage without horses, Zachary mused, the corner of his mouth twitching upward slightly.
Four weeks ago, I was worried about basic supply lines. Now, I have 'combustion,' 'pistons,' and a machine that moves by drinking fire and water. The world is changing faster than ink can dry.
He turned away from the spectacle, stepping back into the quiet gloom of his office. His desk was littered with the usual debris of command—reports on grain stores, duty roster requests, invoices from Darian for "excessive experimental brass." But amidst the mundane paperwork, two documents demanded his immediate attention.
The first was a technical update from Treste's workshop, written in her chaotic scrawl.
Subject: Project Velocity - Phase 1 Assessment
Viability: Confirmed. The energy conversion ratio is stable, though Asep insists on calling the measurement unit "Horsepower," which is frankly insulting to horses given the noise. Current output is roughly equivalent to two sickly mules.
Potential Applications: Infinite. If scaled up, this 'engine' could power sawmills without rivers, pumps without wind, and yes, sturdy transport wagons. Asep has already sketched plans for something called a 'Tank,' which appears to be a metal box with a big cannon. I suspect he is a violence enthusiast disguised as a mechanic.
Resource Needs: High-grade Fire Lumite. Brass. Steel. And patience. Mostly patience.
Zachary tapped the parchment. A metal box with a cannon. Mobile artillery that didn't need beasts of burden. It was a terrifying thought, and an intoxicating one. If they could build such things before the Empire or Albion...
His gaze drifted to the second document.
This one was different. The parchment was heavy vellum, creamy and expensive. The writing was elegant calligraphy, executed with a practiced hand. And the seal stamped into the crimson wax was unmistakable: The Golden Sunburst of the Papacy.
It had arrived an hour ago via a courier who looked more like a spy than a postman.
Zachary sat down heavily in his high-backed chair. He broke the seal with a slow, deliberate crack.
Honored Leader of the Castalia Company and Guardian of Loriana,
Greetings in the Light of the Everlasting Sun.
We have learned of your initiative to unite forces against the Eclipse heretics. This noble effort to gather strength through virtue and to combat evil closely aligns with the sacred tenets of the Radiant Church. Your well-organized and effective resistance demonstrates both your exceptional leadership and the resolute determination of all those who vow to dispel the darkness. For this troubled land, your actions represent the most genuine hope for positive change.
However, the Children of the Eclipse have spread their corruption far and wide. We must assemble a force powerful enough to deliver a decisive blow or risk losing control of the situation entirely. They have recently seized Anthill town east of Ardenia's Southern Crossroads and show clear signs of further expansion. The Papal States stand ready to dispatch our Judges to join the Castalia in cleansing operations against the Eclipse in Anthill town, in order to halt the advances of these malevolent heretics.
Ingrid, Bishop of Gallia, The Papal States.
Zachary leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he reread the seemingly polite words.
The Bishop of Gallia. A province directly bordering Ardenia to the south. A region known for its fervent piety and its hardline inquisitors, as well as the Hierophant's seat of power in Avganon.
The letter was a masterclass in diplomatic double-speak. It praised him. It acknowledged his authority and validated his actions. But beneath the flowery praise lay a veiled threat. The Empire viewed the Cult not just as a religious problem, but as a territory to be "managed." They were subtly reminding him that the Church was the ultimate authority on heresy. Not a mercenary commander. Not even a Princess.
And the offer of "Judges."
Zachary didn't need a spy network to know what that meant. Judges weren't just priests. They were also the Church's secret police, they are executioners sanctioned by divine law. If he accepted, he was inviting the Empire's wolves into his fold. If he refused, he could be labeled uncooperative, or worse, complicit in allowing heresy to fester without proper "oversight."
It was a dilemma. On one hand, accepting aid from Judges capable of obliterating heretics was certainly advantageous. But on the other hand, inviting another armed force with a different ideology into his coalition would compromise his position, or worse, endanger Asep and Treste. The risk was too high.
But looking back at Albion. At the Knights like Alistair and Orwella. There must be people in the Church who genuinely wanted to do good, just as how Orwella and Alistair were appalled by William's actions.
The question was, was this Bishop Ingrid one of the "Good People"? Or was she another zealot with a hidden agenda?
And then there was Hank's warning about the "Sleeping Giant." Was this the stirring? A polite letter before the hammer fell?
Zachary rubbed his temples.
Suddenly, a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Enter."
The heavy oak door swung open. It was Adreana. Lately, she had been involved with training the new recruits in sword technique, but her usual grace was untarnished by sweat or dust. She walked in holding a small basket of baked goods.
"It has been so lively outside," she commented, placing the basket on the edge of his massive desk. "Is that... Asep's horseless carriage? The sound is atrocious."
"Atrocious indeed. But the long-term project would help us to gain industrial power better than Albion's steam engine," Zachary replied, gesturing to the chair opposite him. "Though I suspect Asep enjoys the noise. He calls it 'the sound of freedom'."
Adreana chuckled softly and taking a seat. "Freedom sounds like a dragon with indigestion. But I suppose we must embrace progress, however loud it may be."
Her smile faded slightly as she noticed the open letter on his desk. The crimson wax seal was hard to miss.
"Is that... from the Holy Empire?"
"A letter from Bishop Ingrid." Zachary slid the parchment across the desk toward her. "They are offering 'collaboration' against the Eclipse. Specifically, they want to send Judges to help us 'cleanse' Anthill."
Adreana scanned the letter quickly and it made her brow furrowing. "Anthill... That's uncomfortably close to both our border and the Empire's. If the Cult entrenches themselves there, they could control the southern flow of trade."
"That's what worries me. The Empire doesn't usually move this fast unless they have a direct interest. But refusing them isn't an option. If we say no, they'll simply march in anyway, claiming we lack the conviction to deal with the threat. And once their armies are here..."
"...they may never leave," Adreana finished the thought grimly. "Just like Albion in Merlesia."
She looked up at him. "So, we accept?"
"We have to. But on our terms," Zachary leaned forward, his fingers steepled. "We cannot allow them to send a detachment. A full unit of Judges would destabilize the Coalition. We know how Ardenians have a deep-seated distrust for the Empire after a very long occupation and exploitation. Even the refugees would riot."
"Agreed. Then, what do you propose?"
"We limit them," Zachary said, a glint of steel entering his eyes. "We reply with gratitude. We welcome their spiritual guidance and legal authority. But we insist that due to logistical constraints and the 'fragile political climate' of the region, we can only accommodate a single representative."
"Just one? Will they accept that?"
"A Judge is worth a hundred soldiers, Your Highness. Their individual power is immense. Sending a single high-ranking Judge is a show of force in itself, without the political baggage of an army. It appeases their need to be involved, gives them eyes on the ground, but keeps their physical footprint negligible."
"And a single Judge is easier to... manage. Or watch," Adreana added, finally catching his drift.
"Precisely. Orwella can handle the religious optics. We keep this Judge busy killing cultists, isolated from our command structure, and far away from our... more sensitive projects." He glanced pointedly at the diagram of the combustion engine.
Adreana nodded slowly. "It's a gamble. A single Judge could still cause immense damage if they decide we are heretical."
"True. But it's a better gamble than an invasion." Zachary pulled a fresh piece of parchment and dipped his quill into the inkwell. "Or do you have a better idea?"
"No," Adreana admitted, standing up and smoothing her skirts. "Your logic is sound, Commander. Write the letter. I will have Finlay authorize the diplomatic seals to make it official."
She paused at the door before looking back. "Just be careful, Zachary. The Empire's 'justice' is often just a prettier word for execution."
"I know," Zachary murmured as he began to write, the scratching of his quill the only sound in the room.
To Her Holiness, Bishop Ingrid of Gallia...
...We humbly accept the Empire's gracious offer. However, to ensure the most effective integration with our current forces...
He finished the letter with a flourish, poured the blue wax of Castalia, and pressed his signet ring into it.
___
Ludwig... or rather, Matthew, was still reeling from the sight of the quadricycle. His mind was a scramble of history class notes and sheer disbelief. Henry Ford. 1896. Quadricycle. Two-cylinder ethanol engine. That thing was a replica. A barely-functioning, steam-hissing replica, but unmistakable.
He leaned against a rain barrel, watching the crowd disperse. That guy... He built it. He knows about pistons. He knows about internal combustion. He is definitely from Earth. Is he a Reincarnator? A Transmigrator? Or just some guy who fell through a wormhole like the protagonist in 'Chronicles of Narnia'?
He was merely a NEET back on Earth. A man who wasted his youth on video games, anime, and porn. His parents had been nothing but supportive in trying to make him a better man, to make him a functioning adult in society. However, he never had the chance to repay their kindness as he died due to a sudden heart attack, likely due to his unhealthy lifestyle.
But God had given him a second chance. He was reincarnated as the third son of a powerful Duke. He swore to live his life better, to be a man worthy of respect. That's why he ran away. To forge his own destiny.
And now, finding another Earthling... it sparked a strange mix of camaraderie and rivalry. Is he like me? Or is he the protagonist?
Lost in thought, Ludwig almost walked straight into a pillar of blinding, ethereal beauty.
She was standing near the entrance of the recruitment office, looking around with a slightly confused, yet gentle expression. She was an elf. A stunningly beautiful, high-fantasy archetype elf. Long, silken silver hair that poured down her back like moonlight. Pointed ears that twitched delicately. Eyes the color of emeralds that seemed to hold the wisdom of centuries yet the innocence of a fawn. She wore a simple, elegant blue Mage robe that hugged her curves in all the right places, and held a staff topped with a glowing blue orb.
Ludwig's heart did a literal backflip. His brain short-circuited.
Main Heroine Alert! Main Heroine Alert!
This was it. The trope. The fateful encounter. The beautiful elven mage looking for a party. It was destined.
He straightened his posture, ran a hand through his hair to achieve maximum 'effortless cool', and flashed his 'Matthew' smile.
"Forgive me, my lady," he stepped forward, bowing slightly. "You seem lost. Perhaps a humble adventurer such as myself could offer assistance?"
The elf turned to him. Her smile was like sunshine breaking through clouds.
"Oh! Hello!" Her voice was melodic, like wind chimes. "Yes, I am a bit lost. This place has grown so much since I last visited. I am looking for the mercenary barracks? Specifically for Captain Stark's squad?"
Ludwig's internal monologue cheered. Stark's squad! I was just assigned to Stark's squad! We're going to be in the same party! It's fate!
"As luck would have it," Ludwig beamed, offering his arm like a true gentleman. "I have just been assigned to Captain Stark's unit myself! We appear to be comrades-in-arms already. Allow me to escort you. I am Matthew."
"It is a pleasure, Matthew," she said, though she didn't take his arm, instead clutching her staff with both hands. "My name is Lisa. Thank you for your kindness."
"Lisa," Ludwig repeated, tasting the name. Simple. Elegant. "A beautiful name for a beautiful Mage. Tell me, are you a specialist in elemental magic? Or perhaps healing?"
"I dabble in healing," Lisa admitted as they began to walk toward the barracks. "Though I prefer support magic. Barriers and buffs."
A Support Mage! The perfect partner for a Spellblade like me! Ludwig was already planning their wedding. A nice spring ceremony in the Elven forest. Maybe they'd adopt a dragon.
"Splendid! I myself am proficient in Academy Sword-Arts," Ludwig bragged subtly. "With me on the front line and you providing support, we shall be unstoppable. Perhaps after we report in, I could show you the town? There's a bakery that—"
They turned the corner into the training yard.
The yard was a hive of activity. Mercenaries sparred, grunted, and shouted. In the center, Stark was overseeing a drill, his face stern as he barked corrections at the recruits.
"Captain Stark!" Ludwig called out, waving enthusiastically. "I have brought a new recruit for our squad!"
Stark turned, his eyes narrowing slightly as he saw Ludwig. Then, his gaze shifted to the elf beside him.
The stern mask shattered instantly. Stark dropped his clipboard.
"Lisa?"
Before Ludwig could process the sudden shift in atmosphere, Lisa squealed.
"Honey!"
She dropped her staff. She ran. She practically tackled the stoic, rugged Captain Stark, throwing her arms around his neck.
Stark caught her effortlessly, stumbling back a step but holding her tight. He buried his face in her silver hair, letting out a breath that sounded like sheer relief.
"You're here," Stark whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I thought... I told you to stay in the village."
"I couldn't wait!" Lisa pulled back, peppering his face with kisses. Stark, the man who stared down Thralls without blinking, was blushing furiously but grinning like a complete idiot. "The traders said the battle was over, and I missed you so much! I rode the first wagon out!"
Ludwig stood frozen. His hand was still half-raised in a wave. His brain was trying to reboot, but the error message was flashing in neon red letters. ERROR: WAIFU ENGAGED.
"Wait..." Ludwig croaked and stepping closer. "Captain? You... know her?"
Stark looked over Lisa's shoulder, still holding her waist. He gave Ludwig a confused look.
"Know her? She's my wife, kid."
WIFE?!
The word echoed in Ludwig's soul like a dropped gong.
"W-Wife?" Ludwig stammered. "As in... married? Holy matrimony? Till death do us part?"
"Yes," Lisa beamed, leaning her head on Stark's armored chest. She looked up at her husband with adoration that was physically painful for Ludwig to witness. "We've been married for five years!"
"But... But you're an elf!" Ludwig pointed at them. "He's... well, he's Stark! He's a human! The lifespan difference! The cultural divide!"
"Love transcends all barriers," Lisa sighed dreamily.
Ludwig felt his knees wobble. My main heroine... is a married woman. It's NTR. No, wait, it's not even NTR because I never had a chance. It's just... tragic singleness.
Stark seemed to remember something. He gently pulled back, looking Lisa up and down with concern.
"Lisa, you shouldn't be traveling. You just gave birth two months ago. Is Rina okay? Did you bring her?"
"Of course not, silly," Lisa flicked his nose playfully. "The road is too dangerous for a baby. Eve insisted I come to heal you up—she sensed you got hurt again, didn't she? That woman has a nose like a bloodhound when it comes to your injuries."
Stark winced guiltily. "It was just a scratch. A few scratches."
"Eve said 'shattered ribs'," Lisa scolded him, putting her hands on her hips. "So she told me to come down here, fix you up properly, and bring you some of her famous venison stew. She's watching Rina back at the lodge."
Ludwig, currently picking up the pieces of his shattered heart, suddenly paused.
"...Eve?" Ludwig asked weakly. "Who is... Eve?"
"Oh, she's my sister-wife!" Lisa chirped happily. "Stark's first wife. She's a human battlemage and former Castalia member. Very protective. A bit scary when she's mad, but she's great with the kids."
SISTER-WIFE?!
Ludwig stared at Stark. The rugged, quiet, dependable Captain Stark. The man who wore a helmet ninety percent of the time. The man who looked like the background NPC soldier in every game ever.
He had a harem.
A human battlemage MILF. And a bubbly Elven healer. And apparently children.
"You..." Ludwig pointed a shaking finger at his captain. "You... You Harem Protagonist!"
Stark blinked. "Harem Pro-what? Boy, are you feeling alright? You look pale."
"How?!" Ludwig grabbed Stark's shoulders, shaking him slightly. "How did you do it?! What is your secret?! Do you have a cheat skill?! Is it the helmet?! Do women love the helmet?!"
"What are you talking about?" Stark gently removed Ludwig's hands, looking genuinely baffled. "I just... Oh, you want some relationship advice, do you?"
"Yes! Please, teach me your ways, Master Stark!" Ludwig practically fell to his knees in a dogeza.
Stark sighed, scratching the back of his head. He looked at Lisa, who was giggling behind her hand.
"Look, Matthew, there's no secret. You just... be a responsible adult. You treat them with respect. And you do the dishes without being asked. That's about it."
Ludwig stared up at him. Respect? Dishes? Listening? That's just basic decency... Oh? Oh...
In his entire life, Igurashi Shouto never had any chance to learn about romance in real life. He only knew from romance light novels or manga where the protagonist would easily get attention from any girl just by being nice... or being a jerk... or just simply existing. Back then, he always thought if he did nice things for girls, they would open their legs for him. This mindset was so rooted that even when he reincarnated with his current handsome face, he still struggled to get laid. Sure he had sex with prostitutes, but a genuine relationship? Never.
He realized it now. The "Chad" energy Stark radiated wasn't a skill. It was maturity.
"I see..." Ludwig whispered, feeling a profound existential defeat. "I have much to learn."
"O-Okay..." Stark muttered, clearly uncomfortable with the hero-worship. "Just... go do some laps, boy. Clear your head."
As Ludwig walked away, dejected and alone, he watched Lisa stand on her tiptoes to kiss Stark again. The scene was wholesome, beautiful, and utterly devastating to his delusions of grandeur.
Turns out, Ludwig thought bitterly as he started running laps, The real Protagonist was the NPC Captain all along.
___