Reincarnated as the third son of the Duke

A silent declaration. If necessary, he would cut Jayce down and take command of the mercenaries himself.

Jayce scoffed at the ridiculous display and clicked his tongue.

It was pointless. His men wouldn't follow anyone's orders but his.

But the knight had already resigned himself to dishonor. No matter what Jayce said, he wouldn't listen. Even if he did believe him, he was too desperate to back down now.

"Disgusting bastard."

"I apologize."

"Don't be. In fact, you've made this easier for me. I should be thanking you."

"What?"

"Since things have come to this, I might as well take your head. It's too late to run anyway—I might as well do everything I can."

For a brief moment, the knight's face twisted.

The guilt vanished, replaced by open contempt.

"I misjudged you."

"Oh? And what was your judgment?"

"I thought you were an honorable man, one who held himself to a higher standard than the average mercenary. A man more knightly than most knights. But in the end, you're just another sell-sword."

Jayce smirked. "Oh, that's rich, coming from you."

"No. But at least now I don't have to hesitate. If we're both scum, then there's nothing to feel conflicted about."

Jayce let out a dry laugh.

The knight truly believed Jayce was acting out of self-preservation.

Mocking him, Jayce curled his lips into a grin.

"You've got it all wrong. I don't plan on making it out of this alive."

"What?"

"Whether I accept your offer or reject it, I die either way. The problem is that my men would die with me. So at the very least, I need to make sure they survive."

"The enemy will pursue them."

"If I offer your head along with mine, that should be enough to buy them a chance. After all, it's not the soldiers who hold grudges—it's the commanders."

The knight's eyes widened.

For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words, his lips trembling slightly. Then, as the realization sank in, he let out a hollow laugh.

"Hah… Haha. You're willing to die to save your men?"

"I recruited them by showing them a dream. If I failed to lead them to that dream, then the responsibility is mine. Isn't that obvious?"

"Obvious… Yes. That is obvious."

Sching.

With those final words, the knight drew his sword completely.

His movements were effortless, as smooth as flowing water.

Jayce was a beat late in drawing his own blade. Even so, he immediately regretted it.

There's no opening.

Damn it. Just how many steps ahead of me is this guy?

Jayce knew plenty of tricks to close the gap in skill against superior opponents, but none of them would work here.

His own swordsmanship was nothing to scoff at, but that was among mercenaries.

Against the knight standing before him—a man whose very presence made even seasoned warriors falter—he was hopelessly outmatched.

At this rate, he might not even make it to the enemy lines. He might just die here.

Well… that's not the worst outcome.

At least if he died now, his men would abandon the battlefield immediately.

They would live. That was enough.

"I wish you had been my lord."

Unlike the tense Jayce, the knight's voice was filled with quiet sorrow.

The contrast was painfully clear.

A noble lord who abandoned his loyal knight to die.

And a mere mercenary leader who was willing to sacrifice himself for his men.

Who was truly fit to be a king?

Suppressing a sigh, the knight spoke again.

"I'm sorry."

"Go to hell."

Schwing!

The moment Jayce spat out his response, he swung his sword with all his might.

A brilliant flash of light erupted.

And then—his throat burned.

He hadn't even seen it.

There was no telling when the knight had drawn his sword, no telling when he had swung.

Only the strange, foreign sensation in his neck told him he had been cut.

It had ended so quickly it almost felt absurd.

Damn it.

Even as the world darkened, Jayce could tell.

The knight had never once doubted his victory.

Not for a second.

There was no tension, no concern in his expression.

Jayce let out a bitter laugh.

Some people are just born with talent.

That was his final thought before everything went black.

"…Young Master! Young Master!"

A voice rang in his ears.

Jayce felt a dizzying sensation as he came to.

Someone was shouting beside him, shaking him roughly.

…What? I'm alive?

That was impossible.

He had felt the blade pass through his throat.

Not even the most legendary of saints could have saved him.

Then was this… a dream?

"Young Master! Oh, thank the heavens, Young Master!"

No.

The sensations were too vivid.

The sound echoed in his skull. The movement made his stomach churn with nausea.

If this was a dream, it was far too real.

Before he could yell at the voice to stop, a small hand was suddenly raised.

"Please wake up! If you die, I'm dead too!"

Smack. Smack. Smack.

What the hell?! Stop hitting me, you little bastard!

The slaps weren't particularly large, but each one rattled his brain.

His cheeks were burning red by the time he couldn't take it anymore.

"Enough… Enough already…!"

"Young Master! You're awake?!"

Jayce squinted through his blurry vision.

Before him stood a small boy with a low voice and a petite frame.

For a moment, Jayce wanted to curse at him for the beating.

But before he could say anything, the boy's eyes welled up with tears.

"You're safe! I thought you were going to leave us forever!"

What?

Young Master?

Jayce blinked.

That was… definitely not a title he was familiar with.

At best, mercenaries were treated like low-ranking knights.

But this boy was calling him something completely different—something meant for noble heirs.

"…The hell are you talking about?"

Rubbing his sore cheek, Jayce suddenly froze.

His hands.

His hands.

The palms that had once been rough and calloused from years of wielding a sword…

Were now soft.

Smooth.

What the hell is this?