Clarice Elford stared at the mountain of parchment piled on her office desk, lapsing into a long, heavy silence.
There were contracts to officially bring the Black Claw Mercenaries into the service of House Razgrim. Ledgers tracking the penal labor of former bandits. Explanatory notices for the village. Blueprints for watchtower placements. Lists of timber used for Southern Highway repairs, the quantity of bandages and medicinal herbs for the wounded, and the volume of grain pulled from the granary. Every document was necessary—she knew that. She understood their importance, yet these weren't the kinds of papers that usually crossed a desk in a typical noble household all at once.
"...This is unprecedented," she muttered.
Clarice set down her quill and massaged her temples.
Employing bandits instead of executing them. Feeding them. Having them build their own barracks. Paying for the treatment of those injured on the job. On top of that, hiring a female mercenary captain with a sordid reputation along with her entire troop, then entrusting them with the discipline of the former criminals.
Any one of these tasks would have been a headache on its own, but Vain had tackled them all simultaneously.
To make matters worse, the man himself hadn't the slightest intention of being a humanitarian. He only spent money if wasting it would cause a greater loss. He provided food because they were working. He didn't discard people as long as they remained useful. It was a cold, pragmatic philosophy. Had she still been the sheltered young lady of her upbringing, Clarice would have surely wrinkled her nose in distaste.
Yet, the ledgers spread before her didn't lie.
Traffic was returning to the Southern Highway. Complaints from the village were down. The watchtowers were being repaired, and the fences were being reinforced with fresh timber. So far, only two of the former bandits had attempted to flee. Both had been apprehended by the Black Claw and reassigned to hauling cargo, where they could be kept under closer scrutiny.
There were problems—nothing but problems, really.
And yet, the results were undeniable.
"It’s infuriating..." Clarice whispered.
As the words left her lips, a reserved voice drifted from the door.
"What is, if I may ask?"
Mylene stood there holding a tray with tea and thinly sliced dark bread. In her other hand, she clutched a small ledger from the granary.
"Come in," Clarice said. "I actually had something I wanted to ask you as well."
Mylene entered quietly and set the tea on the edge of the desk. In the past, simply standing before a noble aide like Clarice would have paralyzed her with nerves. Her posture was still a bit stiff, but at least her hands no longer trembled.
"How is the food consumption among the former bandits?"
"It’s increased. However, there’s less waste than before. When told to return their bowls, they do so, and fewer men are spilling their porridge now. Mr. Gash reprimands anyone who breaks the line."
"Mr. Gash?" Clarice repeated, caught off guard.
Mylene flustered slightly. "Oh, no... it’s just, well, I was too afraid to refer to a former bandit without a title."
"If you’re that frightened, you don't need to force yourself to interact with them."
Mylene didn't answer immediately. She lowered her eyes, her finger tracing the edge of the food ledger.
"I am scared. At first, my hands would go cold just handing them a bowl. But as I learn their names, assign them tasks, and tend to their injuries... I’m starting to see who can do what, rather than just seeing 'bandits.' Mr. Gash knows the mountain trails, Mr. Kyle is quite dexterous, and Rodo has a foul mouth, but he’s strong enough to carry anything."
"You’ve certainly learned a lot about them."
"If I miscalculate the portions, Master glares at the grain sacks with such a terrifying expression that I have no choice."
Clarice let out a weary sigh. "That sounds like him. He certainly would."
Mylene gave a small, soft smile.
Seeing it, Clarice felt a sense of relief wash over her. Mylene had truly changed. The girl who had arrived at the manor trembling after being falsely accused of theft was now managing the granary keys, overseeing the bandits' meals, and learning their names.
Had Vain intended for this growth?
No, likely not.
He probably just figured Mylene wouldn't waste food. He’d wagered that if he gave her a duty, she would perform it despite her fear. That was all.
And yet, his gamble had paid off.
◇
Clarice took the food ledger and laid it alongside her own records.
The wheat was dwindling. Salt was being used up. Bandages and herbs were disappearing faster than ever. The payments to the Black Claw were steep. To provide the former bandits with work tools, she had to draft regulations for everything from rope and nails to the use of reclaimed lumber.
A typical noble would look at these numbers and fly into a rage. Why feed bandits? Why pay for a mercenary's medical care? Why should the manor shoulder the cost of village repairs? Clarice herself had questioned it initially. But the other ledger told a different story. It showed the losses incurred when the highway was blocked. The cost of replacing stolen cargo. The fees for hiring armed escorts. The expenses of housing prisoners in dungeons, feeding them, and paying guards. The costs of disposing of bodies after executions. The economic damage from villagers too terrified to work their fields.
Each cost seemed minor in isolation, but they were heavy when combined.
Vain grasped that instinctively.
"He really is infuriatingly competent," Clarice muttered.
Mylene looked up, surprised. "It’s rare to hear you praise Master, Lady Clarice."
"I’m not praising him! I’m venting my frustration."
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"It most certainly is not!" Clarice snapped back, though even she felt her rebuttal was lacking conviction.
Just then, the office door swung open and Vain walked in, carrying a ledger of his own. He looked as ill-tempered as always.
"Mylene. The grain is disappearing too fast. Do those former bandits have the stomachs of thieves as well?"
"Their workload has increased, so their appetite has grown accordingly. When I watered down the midday porridge too much, two of them collapsed in the afternoon."
"Hmph... It’s more of a problem if they're too weak to work," Vain grumbled, knitting his brows in annoyance.
Clarice held out her paperwork.
"Losses on the highway have plummeted. Complaints from the village are down. While payments to the Black Claw and food expenses have risen, it’s far better than having the highway blocked."
"Fine then."
"...Is that really all you have to say?"
"What else is there? If we lose money, it’s a problem. If losses decrease, we keep going. If people are useful, we use them. That’s it."
Vain peered over Mylene’s shoulder at the food ledger.
"Don’t go increasing the meat in the porridge, though. Meat is expensive."
"The injured need at least a little," Mylene insisted.
"A little, then. And don't cut the pieces too large."
"Yes! I’ll mince it very finely," Mylene promised with a serious nod.
Watching the two of them, Clarice felt a fresh headache coming on. The head of a noble house and his maid were bickering over the size of meat chunks for bandit rations. If she told the high-society ladies in the royal capital about this, they wouldn’t believe a word of it.
Yet, it worked. In its own bizarre way, it was functioning perfectly.
Vain had no intention of being a savior. His evaluation of Raisa, his deployment of Gash, and his decision to trust Mylene with the granary were all based on pure utility. But those he deemed useful were given a chance to stand on their own again. He gave Mylene the keys. He didn't condemn Raisa for her "dirty" tactics. The bandits were given food and purpose. Even Clarice herself was putting her talents to use here—talents that should have been discarded after she was framed.
"...You really are a thoroughly unpleasant man," Clarice whispered.
Vain looked up. "Did you say something?"
"Nothing. Just work."
"Then finish it quickly. I don't want to see any more documents than necessary."
"You’re the one who keeps generating them..."
"Don't blame me. Blame the bandits."
"You’re the one who decided to employ them!"
"It would have been a waste not to."
Clarice gripped her quill once more. She let out another sigh—she’d lost count of how many that made today—but she didn't stop writing. These unprecedented contracts, the bandit registries, the food allocations, and the medical logs were all vital. Every time Vain made an unorthodox decision, Clarice gave it structure, Mylene managed the domestic side, and Raisa handled the security. Whether she liked it or not, a functioning system was taking shape. And the one who had seen the pieces and put them on the board was none other than the man standing before her.
"...He really is infuriatingly competent," Clarice muttered again.
Vain let out a heavy sigh of his own while staring at the food ledger.
"Hah... If I were truly competent, I should be living a life of luxury and debauchery by now."
"Excuse me?" Clarice asked.
"A room overflowing with wine... a plush bed... beautiful women... a manor that runs itself... meals served at a single command... That’s what I envisioned. I was born a noble! You’d think I’d be entitled to that much."
Clarice froze, her quill suspended in midair. She wanted to believe he was joking, but Vain’s expression was dead serious. He looked just as focused as he had when auditing the grain, genuinely mourning his lost fantasies.
"You... you were actually serious about that ridiculous dream..."
"Of course I was! But look at the reality. I’m feeding bandits, calculating medical bills for mercenaries, mending village fences, and stressing over grain levels. Instead of luxury and debauchery, I have porridge, ledgers, and a lot of injured men. Something has gone terribly wrong."
"The only thing 'wrong' is you for deciding to put criminals to work."
"I already told you, it would have been a waste not to."
"Then give up. You’re the one standing in the way of your own dreams."
Vain snapped the food ledger shut, looking thoroughly unconvinced.
"I’m supposed to be working toward a life of ease."
"And yet, you just keep creating more work for yourself."
"It’s unacceptable."
Mylene gave a small nod of agreement. "Master says such harsh things, but he sees exactly what everyone is capable of. Even I never dreamed I’d be entrusted with the keys to the granary."
"I gave them to you because it makes my life easier," Vain grumbled.
"Yes, yes. Let’s go with that," Mylene replied gently, making Vain’s expression turn even sourer.
Clarice watched the exchange and added a few more lines to her ledger. The Black Claw Mercenaries, retained by House Razgrim. Former bandits, penal labor ongoing. Food allocations, scaled by performance. Not a single entry would be found in a normal noble household, but in this manor, they were becoming the law of the land.
Vain wasn't a good man, and he didn't care to be. He’d apparently set out to be a lazy, decadent noble. But because he recognized talent, assigned roles, and rewarded effort, he’d unintentionally created a sanctuary for outcasts. He saw the truth behind people, whether they liked it or not.
Clarice smiled faintly as she continued to write. "I’m afraid your life of luxury and debauchery is out of reach for the foreseeable future."
"And why is that?"
"Because you’re just too competent."
Vain looked absolutely miserable.