Mushoku Tensei: Edge of a Borrowed Fate

In the corridor outside the council chamber — a low murmur. Servants whisper. One of the guards drinks from a jug, another scrubs blood off his armor. A captain sits on a bench, face wrapped in bandages, one eye swollen shut. The entire garrison is armed. This isn't ceremony — it's readiness. Some came straight from the road, boots still caked with dirt and dust.

One of the captains wipes his forehead with a handkerchief, glances around, and whispers:

"There's over a hundred of them. Three directions. Eight villages burned."

"One courier made it through. Said they put heads on stakes. No bodies. Kids too."

Then the main doors swing open. Several nobles enter, flanked by their own troops. Crests on cloaks, pennants on spears. The banners differ — the faces don't. Grim all the same. Their guards march in silence, only the dull thud of shields echoing with each step. Along the walls, the others salute. No commands. Everyone knows the order.

First come the western lords. Then southern. At the rear — two marked with northern signs. One has dried blood on his breastplate. The other wears no armor — just a black coat with a crossed bandolier, scorched and stained.

They all file into Boreas chamber. Last to enter — the captains.

The doors close behind them. The latch clicks.

The council begins.

***

As soon as the doors shut, one of the captains began:

"By order of Count Seld, we—"

"Not the formal shit," cut in Sauros. His voice wasn't raised — but it struck like steel through air.

A pause. The captain bit his tongue. Then the nobles started naming their houses — Seld, Evik, Nemm, Gwot…

No titles, no courtly fluff. Just house names, ranked by weight. Said fast, without pause, like shedding excess. Everyone knew who was who.

Sauros gave a short nod.

"Begin. Reports."

The map was already unrolled across the table. In the center — the Wildlands border. Dozens of markers along it. A few crossed in black — burned. Even more circled — alert zones.

One officer stepped up, pointed.

"First strike was here. Village of Tel. Wiped clean. No survivors. Patrol never reached it. Second — Holgar. Guards managed to hold the first wave, then pulled back. Heavy losses."

"How many?"

"Nine out of thirteen. Two critical. One won't last till dawn."

A noble clenched a fist. Another gave a bitter snort. Rumors had been enough — now it was firsthand.

The officer moved down the map, eyes never lifting:

"Melan. Burned. Small village, only one guard. Body not found. Just ash. Locals — nothing. Either ran or dead."

"Lindel?" asked one of the northerners.

"Lindel held. Two guards — held position. One wounded, one intact. Killed at least twenty. Tracks suggest forty attackers total."

"Names?"

"The guards? Unknown. Reports say both wore Boreas colors."

Silence, a beat long.

"Buena?" one of the nobles asked.

"Still holding. No losses."

"Of course it is," muttered Sauros without looking up. "Paul and Rawls are there. Those two could hold back an army."

A few smirked. One leaned back in his chair. Tension eased for a moment — no more.

"Next," said Sauros. "No stories. Just where, and how many."

The officer started listing. One after another. Names, numbers, outcomes. Some garrisons held. Some vanished. Some surrendered and disappeared with their villagers. In some reports, even the village names didn't match.

"False reports," said one captain. "They're feeding us lies."

"Or someone's playing against us," added a noble bearing Nemm's crest. "Lords are writing in: too few guards. They're requesting reinforcements. Demanding them."

"Demanding ain't fighting," snapped Sauros. "While they're demanding, others are already dead."

Noise erupted. Arguments, raised voices. One tried to shout over another. A third joined in. Someone slammed a fist on the table, someone else hurled a report. The map shifted. A few flags fell.

Scrape.

The door creaked. A messenger entered — caked in mud to the chest, blood-soaked bandage on his shoulder. Face pale, lips cracked.

He took a step — and Philip was already there. Snatched the dispatch before the man could speak.

He broke the seal, unfolded the page. Eyes scanned the lines in silence.

"Advance on Gwot territory — false lead. Main forces detected in the south. Castle Foss has fallen. Slaughtered. Taken. Commanded directly by Serek. Route: south-to-center…"

Philip froze. Eyes locked on one line — the route.

His pulse quickened.

There it is. My chance.

He raised his head.

"Castle Foss has fallen. Serek is there. With a unit."

Clear tone. Voice steady. Deliberately left out the route. Kept it for himself.

"What do you mean Foss has fallen?" cut in Nemm. "We had confirmation just this morning it was stable!"

"How could this happen?!" Evik nearly shouted. "Where were the ravens? Why weren't we told?! Where was the damn scouting?!"

"Shut up!" barked Sauros. "Last thing we need is your shrieking."

He turned to the others. Didn't ask. Didn't consult.

"Ghislaine. With a squad. She leaves in two hours. She'll reach Foss by sundown. She'll be enough."

The room fell into a heavy silence. Someone exhaled. Another sagged slightly in their seat, like a knot of tension just loosened.

Footsteps creaked. Ghislaine stepped away from the wall, where she'd stood silent this whole time like a shadow. She came closer, arms crossed.

"One question," she said quietly. "Is he mine?"

Sauros looked at her like one looks at a weapon that never fails.

"If you reach him — he's yours."

"I'll reach him."

Philip said nothing. Inside, something twisted tight. He knew — if she reached Serek, she'd kill him. And if that happened...

No. She doesn't get near him. Not a step.

"Father, if I may," he said calmly. "I'll take a unit and cut off the southern crossings. If Serek escapes Foss, he'll head for the center. After the castle falls — there's no one left to hold the line. Civilians won't survive."

A pause. Eyes turned to him.

"I'm not joining the fight. I'm securing the passage. No one breaks through to the center."

Sauros stared at him for a long moment. Not angry — focused. Squinting slightly, like trying to see what exactly was working in Philip's head.

"You want to take a unit and follow Serek's trail?"

"I'm not following," Philip snapped. "I'm sealing the route."

"How many?"

"Twenty. Only the ones that won't flinch. It's enough if things go as planned. If not — I'll hold as long as I can."

Sauros didn't answer. He stepped to the map, traced his finger from Castle Foss toward the central lands. The route matched exactly what Philip had read. Then he jabbed his finger slightly south.

"There. Take the ridge. Old watch post's still up there. If things go wrong — burn it. Don't let them circle around."

He turned back to Philip.

"But if you go after him, Philip… if you even try — I won't bother looking for your body. Got it?"

"I got it."

Philip was already turning for the door. Only one thought burned in his mind:

"Serek's head will be mine."

***

Pushing south, Philip didn't slow. They moved fast, no real stops. Just quick halts — drop weight, check the trail, keep moving. The pace was brutal. Philip pushed the horse hard, almost cruelly. He could feel it — Serek was close. The trail was too fresh, everything lined up too clean.

The old watchpost — the one his father pointed to — was far behind. But it didn't matter. His goal wasn't to guard some rotting boards the Maker had long forgotten. His goal was to become the next Warden.

The terrain widened. The road slipped between hills.

Ahead — the scent of smoke. Not from a field, not from a campfire. Thick. Bitter. Around the bend, the village came into view. Or what was left of it. Blackened walls, caved-in roofs, corpses. Heads on pikes. Someone lay facedown in the dirt, like they tripped and never got up. Dogs were already dragging off limbs.

Philip dismounted. Scanned the wreckage. It was clear. A recent raid. Heavy tracks in all directions. The stones still warm.

"He was here," Philip said quietly. "And not alone."

The captain stepped up.

"You think they split?"

"I think he left others to loot while he pushed ahead."

Philip looked at the crucified bodies. Then at the road.

"Doesn't matter. He's still mine. Move."

"But, Lord Philip…" the captain started, then stopped.

No need to finish. It was all there. The smoke. The screams. The ruins. Someone in there might still be alive. Someone was waiting — right now — for rescue. It was the guard. They had arrived.

Philip saw it. Understood it. Every step past that village wasn't just ignoring death. It was spitting on everything he'd been taught.

He didn't think about whether Sauros would've stopped. That didn't matter. Even old, the man was still scarier than half an army. Philip wasn't that yet. But if he killed Serek — he would be.

He clenched his jaw.

He hadn't come here to be "right." He hadn't come to play hero. He came for Serek. For the kill. For the legend.

And every step sideways was a step backward. Every minute lost — another chance Serek would die by someone else's hand. Every village saved — a stain on his glory.

"I'm not a Warden. I'm the one who'll take that title. Not inherit it — earn it. This is war. And in war, they count victories, not good deeds."

He turned to the captain. Voice flat, dry.

"We keep moving."

Silence.

"If anyone thinks otherwise — go play rescue. We're not stepping off the path. I'm going after Serek."

He was already mounting up when something inside creaked. Quiet. Almost nothing. Like the old man was still watching. Somewhere.

But he didn't look back.

The unit moved on. No one stayed.