The expected retribution from Duke Morton never comes.
Mathilda's spy network tails the Duke's entourage to the city of Kloben—an overly renamed settlement meant to please the vanity of House Morton. What they uncover is less a sinister plot and more… a comedy.
The Duke's spymaster, if one could call him that, attempts "espionage" by stopping random townsfolk on the street and asking them blatantly about "any juicy secrets." He then pays top coin for rumors so absurd they'd make tavern drunks blush. In short: the Duke bleeds money for gossip, and gains absolutely nothing in return.
There is no mobilization of any kind.
Mathilda herself infiltrates the Duke's court, disguised as a masked contortionist during one of their never-ending feasts. She witnesses the pitiful report firsthand.
"Okay, so… Count Gerhart said that? Right. I'll… do something about it. Later. If I remember. I don't need to bother with this now, yes? Just keep the tax as it is, and the rest can wait."
With a disinterested flick of his bejeweled hand, the Duke waves off his chancellor, who looks as bewildered as a priest in a brothel. The party resumes, drums and wine drowning out any trace of governance.
Anticlimactic? Absolutely.We expected a showdown.But reality has a strange sense of humor.And for now—no war.
At first, the influx of people into Tharros Vale was seen as a pure economic boon. But soon, it became clear we were drawing more than just honest workers. Opportunists and shady figures began arriving, hoping to capitalize on the county's prosperity.
Thankfully, we had filters.
Karl and his immigration office—though it goes by no such formal name in this world—served as the first line of defense. His team worked tirelessly to screen newcomers, grant permits, and weed out troublemakers. Those who slipped through were quietly observed by Mathilda's spy network.
Should any rabble-rousers stir too much, they were reported to Marshal Ziegler. And Ziegler, well... Ziegler handled things.
But not everyone came with ill intent.Some sought genuine opportunity.
These individuals were directed to Franz and his training halls, known now informally as the "Recruitment Guild." There, they were educated, trained, and funneled into fields that matched their skills. Out of every hundred recruits, only two ever left. The rest stayed—integrating seamlessly into the fabric of Tharros Vale.
As our realm grows, so does its appetite for labor.We make sure of three things:
There is always work to be done.
There are always learning centers to prepare workers.
And there is always money flowing just enough for everyone to live with dignity.
On the other hand, our guests—Klaus and Graf, heads of the merchant and blacksmith guilds—have returned with permits to operate in Tharros Vale.
We are sorely lacking in smiths, so Graf is more than welcome. His guild's expertise will prove useful as we expand our infrastructure. Meanwhile, Klaus and his merchants have agreed to our terms of operation—including price regulations.
This means: prices of essential goods will now be jointly set and controlled by Franz, representing the county, and Klaus, representing the merchants.
I've seen a nation collapse under the weight of runaway inflation and unchecked speculation. I will not let that happen here.
Beyond economics, I also learned more about the Duchy from these two. Apparently, the Duchy of Luthenwald has existed for over three centuries. It is considered one of the four founding duchies of the Stahlmark Kingdom, along with three others formed during the kingdom's unification. Two more duchies were created later, but we'll set those aside for now.
Luthenwald, despite its age, never developed a lasting ruling dynasty. Instead, the duchy has passed from one house to another, each rising and falling with the times. These days, Luthenwald is no longer a seat of power—it is regarded as a frontier duchy, a buffer zone between the heartland and the unknown.
The current ruling house, House Klobenturd, is a recent addition to the nobility. They rose to power after the previous house was wiped out during the last Demon War. The Duke now rules directly over three counties—a break from tradition, as counties were historically governed separately, unless in times of crisis.
Today, he personally misrules the counties of Solmar and Lautern, along with his seat in the newly renamed capital: Kloben. In Lautern, the Duke directly controls the mining operations, monopolizing its iron ore and selling it at exorbitant prices through his merchant allies. The blacksmiths are then forced to craft his armaments under crushing debts and rigid quotas—ensuring their continued dependency and stagnation.
As for Tharros Vale, this is a newly established county—created specifically for Count Gerhart after the war.
It was once an unclaimed region within Stahlmark, de jure part of Luthenwald, but de facto ruled by whoever had the largest band of armed men. Bandits roamed freely. Bovinids kept to their own territories, isolated from human affairs. The woodkin considered it a no-man's land—a natural buffer not to be disturbed.
Until we arrived.
Now, what was once a forsaken land has become a thriving center of community, trade, and cooperation.
As Klaus and Graf departed from Tharros Vale, new guests arrived at our gates—seeking not trade or permits, but purpose.
They called themselves the Free Companies—a wandering militia formed by discharged soldiers from the last demon war. Veterans without a banner, looking for a place to finally call home.
At their head was a man who looked as though he'd stepped right out of a Three Musketeers stage play from my old world—feathered hat, flowing cloak, and a smile far too charming to belong to a mercenary.
"Greetings from the Free Company Militia, my good Count!" he began with a theatrical bow."I am Ludwig, the chosen leader of this merry band. I have travelled the realm in search of a land where my company might serve and settle."
I returned the gesture with a smile. "Welcome to Tharros Vale, Ludwig. I am Count Gerhart Ironwill. We are always in need of capable people to help build this realm. Though I must warn you—as a former mercenary myself—I won't tolerate unruly behavior or wanton indulgence."
"Warning well received," he replied with a wink. "We are fully aware of the… colorful reputation former mercenaries carry. But rest assured, we are cut from a different cloth. Think of us less as rough soldiers, and more as swordplay enthusiasts."
And indeed, I had to admit—there was something too clean, too polished about them. They were well-groomed, well-spoken, and frankly, too well-dressed for wandering sellswords.
"Fancy swordplay, eh?" Ziegler cut in, already grinning like a boy who spotted mischief. "I'll be the judge of that. Win, and you'll be drafted straight into the militia. Lose, and Franz will have you running drills till next season."
Before I could object, they were already headed to the training yard. The timing was almost too perfect—our last batch of trainees were just finishing their session.
Ziegler, the grizzled warhound in full armor and greataxe in hand, stood across from Ludwig, who looked more like a duelist at court than a battlefield veteran. With a flourish, Ludwig unsheathed a slender blade I later learned was called a rapier.
"En garde!" he called, one hand behind his back, eyes locked with gleeful confidence.
Ziegler bellowed and charged like a raging bull. Ludwig moved like a dancer—light, precise, every step measured and elegant. He parried only when necessary, dodging with theatrical grace, always a step ahead.
"Stop moving and fight like a man!" Ziegler roared, breath growing heavy.
"And let myself be manhandled? At least buy me dinner first!" Ludwig answered, with sass sharp enough to cut steel.
The crowd burst into laughter, and even I couldn't help but smirk.
Eventually, with Ziegler sluggish and his swings growing desperate, Ludwig made a final stride forward and placed the tip of his blade gently beneath the Marshal's chin.
Silence. Then cheers.
Ziegler huffed and dropped his axe. "Alright, you got this one."
Count Gerhart clapped, impressed. "A fine show, Ludwig. I'll gladly welcome your company into Tharros Vale. Though with your skill, I'd imagine you'd have no trouble finding a home elsewhere."
His smile faltered just slightly. "Yet we are turned away wherever we go… once they learn of our preferences."
Then it dawned on me. Of course. They weren't just swordplay enthusiasts.
They played "swords" as well.
The Free Company was… colorful. Rainbows, as we'd say in my old world.
I glanced at them again. The subtle gestures. The camaraderie. The way some of them looked at each other.
"What can be so bad about preferences?" he said at last. "Some like ale, others prefer wine. Our scribe Leonhart drinks bitterbeans like it's water. So long as you don't force your choices onto others—and follow our laws—you are welcome in Tharros Vale."
I am not sure if our naive Count knows the full truth of things... But one thing is certain: the Free Company erupts in cheers at the Count's blessing.
"I wonder though, Ludwig... The battlefield is a different beast than the dueling ground," Count Gerhart asks, stroking his chin. "How do you move around so freely, without armor, all while arrows rain down?"
Ludwig smirks and bows. "Ah, that, dear Count... We have our secrets. Not magic—but allow me to demonstrate."
He turns sharply to his men.
"Company! Take positions!"
With precise movements, the company forms a line formation. Then, to everyone's surprise, each member draws a flintlock from their belt—sleek, compact, and well-maintained.
"Fire!"
The order echoes, followed by a chorus of gunshots. Smoke bursts in sync, the sharp tang of gunpowder fills the air. In a land of swords and sorcery… these men wield fire and lead.
"Wait—Ludwig… you have firearms?" I ask, half in awe.
"They're light, discreet, and easy to use," he replies calmly. "Not as powerful as the Crown's muskets or the Dwarves' thundersticks, true—but they're enough to break a charge, or tear through enemy flanks. Especially when used by men who dance."
Note to self: ask around about gunpowder. This could change things.
By sundown, the Count names them men-at-arms under the banner of Tharros Vale. They are now officially our "Free Company Militia"—a swift and deadly shoot-and-slash force.
The only thing I worry about now... is whether these well-groomed gentlemen can get along with our foul-mouthed, ale-guzzling, bionic bishop.
Bishop Stefan "Steve" Austin has never been subtle.