The Lord: In Another World, I Have a Summoning Card !-Chapter 40 : LETTER

Gabriel raised his eyes to Arthur with growing unease, looking like someone afraid to utter a bitter truth. He replied in a less confident tone, his words hesitant:

"Sir, we also tried with the prisoners captured by Commander Jonathan’s forces at the fortress grounds. One of them, an orc, suddenly started screaming, hurling furious curses and insulting their leader, Gerom."

He paused for a moment, then continued in a low voice:

"From his physical condition and the skill he showed during the confrontation, it seems he was a key commander in the defeated orc army. Our soldiers heard the orcs calling him ’Dugril.’"

Arthur furrowed his brows slightly, remaining silent until Gabriel finished speaking.

"We thought that outburst of anger might be a way to extract information from him... but he refused to say anything. All he said—in a firm voice—was that he would speak only to you, personally."

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment longer than usual, as if replaying the words in his mind over and over. Then he slowly opened them, gently closed the file in front of him, and returned it to its place on the table. He rose quietly from his seat, his heavy footsteps echoing faintly in the silent room.

He walked toward the window overlooking the wall, where the dark sky warned of an impending storm. He stared at the distant horizon for a long moment before speaking in a calm tone laced with mysterious resolve:

"Very well... let’s see what this orc is hiding."

Then he turned to Gabriel and said in a commanding tone:

"As for the others, keep them alive. I don’t believe they all have the same will to remain silent forever."

He paused for a moment, then added:

"Send an order to the reconnaissance units—track down the fleeing orcs. We need to reach their former camp as quickly as possible."

He paused for a moment before adding:

"And prepare a detailed report on the previous battle to be submitted to the central garrison as soon as possible. We can’t afford any delays."

Gabriel quickly bowed in a sign of obedience and replied in a steady voice,

"As you command, sir."

Then he left the room, leaving Arthur alone in heavy silence.

But Arthur didn’t remain standing for long. Once his inner voice had quieted, he turned with military precision and walked over to his desk. He pulled open the top drawer and took out a clean sheet of paper and an elegant pen engraved with the family crest.

Sitting down calmly, he began to write with intense focus, his eyes gleaming with a spark of restrained excitement:

"Now it’s time to write a letter to my dear father..."

Arthur muttered to himself as he sat at a simple wooden desk in the officer’s room, his fingers lightly tapping on the parchment before he began writing.

A candle flickered at the edge of the desk, casting soft shadows across his face, but it couldn’t hide the faint smile that appeared on his lips.

"How I long to see the expression on his face when news of my victory in the first battle I officially command reaches him."

"I know his skeptical way of thinking..." he whispered to himself.

"He might doubt the details at first... He’ll likely think there’s exaggeration, or that the mercenary leader was the mastermind, or that I was just a figurehead."

But that’s the role of the official garrison report. Once the facts are confirmed by military witnesses and independent reports, and once everyone knows that Arthur truly led the charge, planned the decisive attack that took down the orc leaders, and lifted the siege—only then will skepticism turn into acknowledgment.

And that acknowledgment, in Arthur’s mind, would be the key.

"Only then," he said softly, deep in thought, "can we test what remains of the family’s influence."

After Arthur’s report is reviewed, a discussion about merit is certain to arise within the halls of command. And although some of the success might be attributed to Baron Edric’s intervention—which played a significant role in weakening the orcs’ defensive lines—Arthur will undoubtedly remain the most prominent name when it comes to distributing credit. 𝑓𝘳𝑒𝑒𝓌𝘦𝘣𝘯ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝑚

As the central figure responsible for killing the orc leaders, dismantling their combat structure, and lifting the siege on the region, he will, without a doubt, top the list of those deserving praise and recognition.

His ranking in this evaluation would come right after the major military achievements of Duke Crayman’s forces on the main battlefield against the orcs.

Though the final outcome remains uncertain, as long as the family’s connections are properly leveraged, the chances of him receiving the title of "Baron" along with a hereditary fief are considered very high.

And that, precisely, was the best outcome Arthur hoped for.

The only difference this time was that the letter sent to his father didn’t ask for military reinforcements... but asked him, as a father, to activate the family’s influence and help secure a noble title and lasting political power.

That result represented the very best Arthur could hope for.

But all of it hinged on one thing: the arrival of his letter to his father, and his direct request for help.

The difference this time was that the letter didn’t seek military reinforcements... but asked his father—not as a commander, but as a father—to rally the family’s connections and use its influence to support him in obtaining a well-deserved fief.

After reading the letter over and over, and verifying the accuracy of every detail within, Arthur nodded slowly, as if giving a silent approval to what he had written.

Although he was confident in his family’s solid standing and vast network of connections, that influence was most effective within the bounds of the southwestern province. Its true impact on the northern military leadership remained uncertain.

In the world of nobility, favors and support were not granted merely upon request, but based on the family’s reputation, status, and their ability to return the favor when needed.

In truth, the main reason Viscount Werner allowed Arthur—the third son—to recruit and lead forces in this campaign instead of his eldest son was not out of absolute trust, but rather as a way to balance preserving the family’s honor with avoiding the embarrassment that could come from refusing to participate or appearing weak.

But who could have known? Perhaps Viscount Werner never expected that the decisions he was pressured into making... would later turn into a great benefit for the entire family.

...And as Arthur carefully folded the letter and sealed it with red wax bearing the family crest, was another thought lingering in his mind.

The letter he was about to write was more than just a report to his father. It would be a new test for the future. If his father chose to use this opportunity for full support, it would open new possibilities for Arthur.

But if the Viscount decided this was an unnecessary step and that resources should be preserved for the Werner family, then Arthur would be faced with making a decisive choice regarding his relationship with the family..

The storm he had glimpsed on the horizon was now slowly crawling in—like a reflection of what awaited him next... a new confrontation, though this time not with the sword, but with diplomacy and cunning.

He rose from his seat and walked to the door with firm steps. Outside, a guard was waiting for his orders.

He handed him the letter, saying in a steady tone:

"Deliver this to the south as quickly as possible. Use relay horses at the stations if necessary. It must reach my father in days, not weeks."

The guard bowed immediately, then rushed off to carry out the command without hesitation.

...

Upon arriving at the gate to the lower floor where the dungeons were held, one of the guards slid aside the iron bar with a grating screech and opened the heavy door. A cold, damp draft wafted out, carrying with it the scent of iron, blood, sweat, and earth.

Arthur descended the spiral staircase carved from ancient stone.

The atmosphere in the lower floor was starkly different from the rest of the castle. The air here was heavier, saturated with a metallic scent and a deep, lingering dampness that seemed to seep through the old stone walls. As Arthur approached the stairwell, he felt a noticeable drop in temperature.

He began his descent with measured steps, his military boots tapping against the stone floor in a steady rhythm that echoed through the narrow passage. Dim torchlight flickered along the walls, casting long shadows that danced with each movement.

The corridor leading to the cells was lined with soldiers standing at attention. As soon as they spotted Arthur approaching, they snapped into crisp salutes.

Arthur returned the gesture with a slight nod.

In truth, such a salute wasn’t a part of this world’s culture—one that mirrored the customs and traditions of the medieval era. It was unfamiliar to the soldiers who had been summoned to serve.

It was, rather, a personal addition from Arthur—an idea drawn from the organized armies of his previous life.

He had always seen it—even just watching it on television in his previous life—as a symbol of discipline and identity.

Something that distinguished the soldiers, instilling in them a sense of unity and belonging to a force greater than themselves.

Back when he was a teenager, he even once considered joining the army just to wear that uniform, to climb the ranks, and be saluted by lower-ranking soldiers every time he passed by.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t the athletic type. He much preferred spending his time in front of a computer, browsing the internet. Because of that, he never passed the military service exams.

Now, determined to experience the full feeling of a military commander, he even adopted the salute—to complete the ritual of that long-imagined sensation.

As Arthur walked through the dim corridor, scattered sounds began to rise from the surrounding cells. Some were crude curses and furious shouts, guttural voices of orcs filled with resentment and defiance. From other cells, faint whispers drifted through—attempts at communication between prisoners of the same kin. But they were little more than a way to pass the time; speaking of anything sensitive under the watchful eyes of the guards was madness.

Still, one voice caught Arthur’s attention...

A low, simmering cry—tinged with suppressed rage—aimed, it seemed, not at the guards, but at another cell.

It wasn’t like the rest. This voice carried something deeper—personal—like a wound still bleeding inside.

A broken, yet sharp voice echoed from one of the nearby cells:

"You bastard...!"

The words dripped with anguish, weighted down by a heavy mix of regret and loathing.

"I can’t believe what happened to us! How could we lose to these humans?!"

There was a brief silence. Arthur could hear the prisoner’s labored breathing, as if his chest could barely contain the fury within. Then the voice rose again—this time rawer, more consumed:

"Where is our strength? Where is our army?! You useless coward... because of you, the humans brought us to this disgrace!"

His voice rose louder, echoing within the cell and crashing against the stone walls like blades hurled at a target—someone in the neighboring cell.

"You worthless commander! Most of our warriors are dead! Our pride shattered! Our blades lost! All because we lent our ears to your foolish commands! Is this the reward for following you? Is this the fate of those who bled for you?!"

His voice grew harsher, his words exploding like sparks from the maw of a dragon:

"You always thought yourself the best! But now, here we are—behind bars—while the humans watch us in their cages like livestock... Is this the glory you promised us?!"

Suddenly, the shouting ceased. A chilling silence followed, broken only by the sound of heavy, labored breathing—like a man trying desperately not to break.

Then came the voice again, darker now, laced with vengeance:

"I’ll never forget this... I swear, if I ever get out of here, I’ll make you pay, Gherom... I’ll tear you apart with my own hands, and devour your flesh like we do with the humans..."

Arthur exchanged a glance with Gabriel. The voice from the cell still hung in the air, a pure and bitter hatred that seemed to thicken the very atmosphere.

Arthur posed a question, casually, as if noting something in passing:

"Who’s that voice?"

Gabriel responded in a hushed, tense tone, inclining his head toward the source of the outburst:

"It’s Dogrill, sir... . Ever since he learned that his commander, Gherom, was placed in the adjacent cell, he hasn’t stopped cursing him—day and night. He blames him entirely for the defeat... and the shame."

Arthur gave no reply. His eyes lingered on the void before him for a moment, then he resumed walking, his composed steps breaking the uneasy silence left in Dogrill’s wake.

At the end of the corridor, two soldiers stood before a heavy iron door, covered with a thin layer of rust, suggesting it hadn’t been used much in recent years.

One of them stepped forward, turned the key with a harsh metallic sound, and then slowly pushed the door open. A long screech escaped from it, as if it were groaning from being brought back to life after a long slumber.

The soldier, looking at Arthur with respect, said, "My lord, the room is completely isolated. The prisoner is waiting for you inside."

Arthur took a step forward, then paused for a moment at the threshold, casting a glance inside without crossing.

The walls were gray, soaked with moisture that made every breath feel heavier. The torches hanging on the walls barely lit up the room, revealing the features of the orc prisoner, Dogril, sitting in the corner.

Dogrill was chained to the wall, his sturdy body bearing the marks of bruises and wounds that had not yet healed.

His eyes, glowing with a sharp yellow hue, lifted toward Arthur as he entered. In that glance, there seemed to be a complex mixture of emotions.

Arthur stood in the middle of the room, staring at the prisoner silently for a few moments. Then, in a calm voice, yet charged with authority, he said, "You requested to meet me. I’m here. Speak."

Dugrel looked at the teenager, who seemed to be fifteen or sixteen years old, standing before him. His eyes gleamed with a sharp, piercing gaze, filled with hatred and conflicting emotions.

As an orc, he fought for his race, but he was also a warrior and a soldier, fully aware that the one before him was no ordinary opponent but the enemy who had decimated the finest warriors of his tribe.

However, Dugrel understood that the outcome of this racial war was inevitable—either he and his forces would eliminate their enemy, or their enemy would eliminate them.

Despite his hatred for his current situation, he was keenly aware that if the orcs had triumphed over the fortress’s soldiers, unlike these humans, they would not have taken any prisoners. The only exception would have been to turn the surviving soldiers into emergency food rations after torturing or dismembering them.

What made his feelings more complicated was the age of the enemy commander before him. The figure appeared to be just a teenager or, at best, a young man, no older than sixteen. Dugrel didn’t sense the air of authority typically carried by seasoned military leaders who had experienced numerous battles. This quickly led Dugrel to conclude that the boy must be a noble youth who had only recently taken command of the forces.

Of course, Dougril had no doubt about Arthur’s identity; he was a military commander himself, with enough experience to notice how the surrounding soldiers and guards treated the young man, not to mention the confidence radiating from him.

"You... You’re the human commander leading these soldiers? Judging by your age and thinking about the quality of these men, you must be the son of a powerful noble family in the kingdom. They even sent that high-ranking knight with you? Truly, our luck couldn’t be worse — not only do we have a selfish and foolish leader, but our enemy turns out to be some noble brat with an important background."

Dougril spoke these words with contempt, glaring at Arthur.

Arthur, however, showed no reaction. His expression remained unreadable, devoid of anger or concern. He simply stared back at Dougril with cold, calculating eyes.

He spoke calmly, as though each word had been weighed carefully before being spoken:

"I’m not here to listen to your complaints. I’m not here to debate your weakness or our strength. I’m here because you requested this meeting."

Then, with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, he added:

"And because I’m curious about what you’re hiding. I don’t have time for small talk — let’s get straight to the point. What can you offer me? Or rather, what use are you to me, Dougril?"