Chapter 66
It had been some time since Jeon Millard was appointed as commander.
And yet, the royal knights still regarded Anette as their true leader.
At first, they seemed at least a little cautious. But the latest recruit had openly called Anette “commander” without hesitation.
The king was dumbfounded. Were the king’s orders held in such contempt by his own royal knights? He was so taken aback, he could not even find words.
The interrogation that had begun simply to confirm whether Anette truly had slain so many beasts turned into, absurdly, a litany of just how exceptional a knight she was, and the extent of her deeds.
The king found himself forced to listen to what he had no desire to hear: Anette’s natural strength and skill, her tireless leadership in the frontlines of every beast-hunt, and her refusal to spare her own body in pursuit of victory.
To the royal knights, every act of hers was a noble sacrifice, a sacred devotion… they seemed to believe without a shred of doubt that her feats were nothing short of legendary.
To them, Anette was not the spawn of a cursed beast, but a commander they could trust—and a hero.
The king could no longer even muster an expression of disbelief.
In the meantime, the officials who had been reviewing the reports submitted since the day Anette had joined the royal knights—by the king’s own order—now entered the hall, led by Baron Verdi.
They declared that the reports contained only objective facts, with no indication that any particular knight’s contributions had stood out.
The king frowned and picked up the topmost report.
It was the last one written by Anette herself.
On such-and-such day, the royal knights encountered twelve flying-type beasts near the southeast of the Swamp of Beasts. After a battle lasting about one hour, all were exterminated.
On such-and-such day, two knights inspecting the village of Ratten discovered a wolf-type beast prowling near a house. Appeared to be a cub separated from its pack. Killed.
There was no embellishment at all, only bare factual records.
Seeing this, the king suddenly remembered the first report he had received from Anette, five years ago, when she had just become commander.
He recalled how, displeased that she had survived long enough to rise to commander, he had seized upon her first report, determined to find fault in it.
And though in the end he had found no flaw, he had mocked it in his mind anyway, sneering that it showed the marks of someone uneducated.
“The phrasing was clumsy, as though she’d simply strung together words she’d seen somewhere.”
Now, her writing was much improved compared to back then.
But in any case, there was nothing remarkable about it—at least, that was what the king thought, until he was about to close the report.
On such-and-such day, encountered a scorpion-type beast… exterminated after a two-hour battle. One injured.
…Could this “one injured” refer to herself?
Somewhat shaken, the king stared at those words, unable to look away.
In fact, he had only just learned—through interrogating the knights—the true reason behind Anette’s wrist injury.
“She was struck defenseless while shielding a new recruit from a beast’s attack,” they had said.
The tearful voice of that recruit, lamenting that if not for his own foolishness Anette would never have been hurt, still echoed in the king’s ears.
And yet, Anette’s report contained none of this.
“Foolish girl.”
The king began to understand why the knights spoke so fervently of sacrifice and devotion—but he still clicked his tongue, blaming Anette’s stupidity.
His anger rose, not only at her inability to claim credit for herself but also at how this very foolishness had led things to this point.
If only Anette had spelled out her own accomplishments, if only she had proven her worth in her reports, he thought bitterly, then perhaps he would not have so readily agreed to send her off at the Empire of Alcan’s request.
Never mind that he had ignored countless assertions that Anette was the greatest swordswoman on the continent.
Never mind that, when she injured her wrist, he had never once troubled himself to learn the full story.
At the time, all he had cared about was the chance to cast her aside.
He remembered none of that now.
And when the knights had unanimously said Anette would recover swiftly from her wound, the king had stubbornly denied it.
He had been told then—had he not?—that the injury was grave, that even with urgent treatment she could never wield the sword as before.
So he clung to his decision to send her to Alcan, convincing himself it had not been wrong.
It was at that very moment of self-justification that Baron Verdi spoke up with a stunning revelation, laying before the king a report of enormous consequence—one that shifted all blame for the kingdom’s current crisis onto a single individual.
“Your Majesty, please look at this.”
“And what is this?”
“It is a report written before Princess Anette entered the royal knights.”
That meant it was from more than ten years ago.
The king scowled, ready to scold Verdi for dredging up such useless, outdated documents.
“It was strange, Your Majesty—only ten years of reports were preserved in the royal archives. So I searched the knight order’s storage myself and discovered this. Upon examination, I found Sir Gramis, the former commander, drastically changed the way he wrote reports after Princess Anette joined. I believe he deliberately concealed her true abilities.”
“W-what did you say?”
The king’s eyes widened.
He hastily took the report from Verdi and read it—and indeed, he could feel at once the stark difference.
It seemed Anette’s terse, fact-only style of reporting had been modeled on Gramis himself.
But before she arrived, Gramis had written extremely detailed reports.
“That… that wretch dared…!”
Reports of beast-hunts were not only to inform the crown of how missions were carried out; they also served as the primary record used to judge knights’ qualifications for promotion.
They were supposed to state not only what beasts were encountered and defeated, but also which knight excelled in reconnaissance, who responded calmly to ambush, whose swordsmanship had improved noticeably, and so forth.
Yet after Anette joined, Gramis had ceased writing such details altogether.
The king sighed heavily, pressing his hand to his brow.
It felt very much like he had driven a nail into his own foot.
Gramis had been the queen’s personal guard. The king had long known the man bore forbidden feelings for her.
But Gramis was the strongest knight in Heyworth. The king had been unable to cast him out, and so gave him command of the order.
When the queen had died, Gramis had thrown himself into beast-hunting, slaughtering them in droves, and his efforts had greatly aided the kingdom.
Unlike the Marquis Millard, who had walked around like a half-dead corpse, Gramis had at least channeled his grief into action.
And so, when Anette had begged to join the beast-hunts, the king had gladly handed her over to him.
He had even half-hoped Gramis might not protect her—might not help her survive.
But contrary to his expectations, Anette returned alive each time. And five years ago, Gramis had abruptly resigned his command and passed it directly to her.
The king had thought then that all his schemes had been ruined. And now…
“To think he went so far, meticulously ensuring she would never be recognized…”
The king could not see his own cruelty toward Anette, but he was quick to judge Gramis’s harshness and hatred for her as excessive.
Yet in truth, the reality was the opposite.
Gramis had done it all to protect her.
Indeed, he had disliked Anette. He had even hated her.
But she was the child for whom the late queen had given her life. He could not simply let her die, no matter his feelings.
And so, with all his strength, he tried to shield her from danger.
The irony was that, in the end, he was the one who owed her his life.
From the start, he had recognized that Anette was a peerless prodigy beyond himself.
Though she had never been formally trained, her natural strength and the swordsmanship she had honed alone were extraordinary.
Watching other knights fight just once was enough for her to instantly discern her own flaws and correct her form.
Her rapid mastery produced movements of grace, efficiency, and elegance—leaving no wasted motion in her strikes.
None dared suggest she was unworthy of the knights simply because she was a princess, nor question her appointment as vice commander, once they had seen her wield a blade.
Her sword never missed, always fast, clean, perfect.
Seeing this, Gramis made his decision.
He would hide Anette’s true ability.
If word spread of her talent, she would be condemned to a life of endless battles, wielding the sword like a slave until the day she fell dead in a pool of blood.
If someday she chose to leave, Gramis wanted her to be able to walk away without chains, to be free.
He prepared for years to make that possible.
He subtly controlled her opportunities in the hunts, making it seem as though the knight order itself was gradually improving and producing better results, rather than her own brilliance.
He kept strict control over the knights as well.
Fortunately, they had initially scorned her, treating her as the spawn of beasts and keeping their distance. Even when they later came to admire her and pledge loyalty, their guilt kept them from drawing too close.
No one had the courage to defend her openly.
And Gramis made sure that silence endured. He ensured Anette never fully blended into the order.
Everything had gone according to plan.
