Walter Levior.
The Grand Duke of the North, an unfortunate man who lost his parents at a young age and became the head of his house.
And a modern man dropped into the Middle Ages without a single special privilege.
That was me.
At first, I thought it was a dream, but it did not take long for me to realize it was reality.
Another world reminiscent of the Middle Ages.
There were no dreams or hopes here.
To survive in this godforsaken world, I had to grind myself into the dirt.
To repay my house’s enormous debt.
To stop the barbarians at the border.
To hold back the hordes of monsters in the snowy mountains.
And in the end—
I died from overwork.
Fuck. What a fucking life.
Only now did I realize it.
My one and only perk had been ‘regression.’
***
—WHOOOOOSH.
An ancient castle stood halfway up a snowy mountain, where a desolate wind howled.
The only things in sight were whirling snow and endless drifts of eternal snow.
Not a single ray of light reached the mountain, where the lone castle stood proudly apart from the world.
This was the residence of the Grand Duke who ruled the North.
It was known as Gray Castle.
Yet with its dreary gray walls crusted in ice, it looked more like a prison than a castle.
At the very top of Gray Castle was the head of the house’s office.
Crackle, crackle.
Firewood burned in the fireplace, sending red sparks drifting through the room.
And there, in the center of the office—
—Tap, tap, tap....
Amid a mountain of piled-up documents, a black-haired man sat lost in thought, his gaze cold and heavy.
He kept tapping the desk with his pen.
“......Regression, now of all times?”
His black hair was hopelessly disheveled.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes, so deep that it was impossible to tell how many nights he had gone without sleep.
He looked less like a grand duke and more like an office worker hollowed out by overtime, but his golden eyes still shone with a cold, calculating light.
“Either that, or I’ve gone mad.”
He frowned as he muttered to himself.
The office in Gray Castle.
The endless piles of loathsome paperwork.
It was the same fucking sight he had seen just before dying from overwork.
And yet something was different.
The dreary Gray Castle.
The paperwork that never disappeared, no matter how much he finished.
Everything was the same, and yet something was different.
The first difference was the state of his body.
Just before his death from overwork, he had coughed dryly day after day as he gripped his pen.
His vision had blurred, and there had been no strength left in his hands.
Even so, he had continued processing documents like a machine.
But strangely enough, he was not coughing now.
His hands were not trembling either.
Most of all—
“......”
He could read the words on the documents.
He could read them perfectly.
And the words before him were—
In other words, a red seizure tag.
The enormous debt left behind by the previous head of the house—his father.
There was nothing strange about that.
He had struggled until the moment of his death to repay that debt.
‘......But why am I seeing this now?’
As far as he knew, Gray Castle had been under seizure for well over twenty years.
That was why he had spent his days drifting from place to place, wrapped in a blanket and shoveling down swill while handling state affairs.
So why was he receiving a seizure notice now?
There had to be something left to seize before anyone could seize it.
They had already stripped Gray Castle of everything from the floorboards to the bricks.
What could possibly be left for them to slap a red tag on?
And at that moment—
—Knock, knock.
A knock suddenly echoed through the office.
At the sound, Walter set down the pen in his hand with a clack.
“......Enter.”
The door creaked open, and a woman stepped inside before bowing to him.
Her name was Lenin, and her icy silver hair made her stand out at a glance.
She was both the Grand Duke of the North’s secretary and his bodyguard, and she was highly capable at both.
She glanced at Walter and the mountain of paperwork piled across his desk.
“Lord Walter, have you been up all night again?”
Walter Levior.
Her superior, and the man known to the world as the Grand Duke of the North.
He was also the most hopeless workaholic she had ever known.
Of course, Lenin knew why he had been working late night after night.
The previous head of the house, David Levior, had died suddenly of illness and left behind an enormous debt.
To pay it off, Walter had shut himself away and desperately appealed to the surrounding territories for help.
All the while, the barbarians continued watching for a chance to seize the North’s lands.
Her lord, Walter, was in a situation where even ten bodies would not have been enough.
He had already gone months without a single proper night’s sleep as he worked through the backlog.
Lenin had urged him to rest, even if only for a little while, but he had refused, saying that the situation did not allow it.
And this was the result.
She let out a quiet sigh and walked toward him.
Then she came to a firm stop directly before his desk.
“Lord Walter, you must get at least some rest.”
Knowing her lord’s personality, he had clearly stayed up all night again.
At this rate, it would not have been strange for him to collapse at any moment.
Today, she had resolved to make him rest, no matter what.
At last—
—Slowly....
The man who had remained silent until then parted his lips.
“......It’s been a while.”
How many years had it been?
It had been more than ten years since Lenin, his secretary and bodyguard, had died on the battlefield.
And now he could be certain.
His eyes could see clearly.
A piping-hot seizure notice sat before him, fresh off the press.
And his adjutant was alive and well.
All of it pointed to a single truth.
I’d regressed.
And I’d returned to a time before the North fell.
This is insane.
So this is what regression feels like.
—Clench!
Walter clenched his fist as the thought rang through his mind.
That’s right.
Fuck yes!
If you were going to drop a modern man into this godforsaken other world without so much as a warning, this was the least you should have given him.
Now this was how a proper otherworld story was supposed to work.
Walter pressed a hand to his brow, trying to steady his trembling fingers.
Still, if they were going to give it to him, why had they not given it to him from the beginning?
There were plenty of better perks out there, future sight and all.
Walter recalled the years when he had possessed no special privilege—or rather, when he had mistakenly believed he possessed none.
How many times had he nearly died wielding a sword he had never been meant to touch, all because he wanted to survive?
How many times had those dog-and-swine bastards humiliated him while he struggled to repay a single debt?
How many times had he nearly lost his arms and legs holding back barbarians who could not even speak his language and those monster bastards?
And in the end, he had died from overwork.
Not anything else.
Overwork.
How the hell did someone die from overwork in the Middle Ages?
If he had died fighting a dragon, at least it would have sounded impressive.
Tell people he had died from overwork, and all he would get were looks of pity wherever he went.
Not that he would be around to receive them, of course.
Anyway, back to the point.
I looked at the silver-haired woman who was saying something or other in front of me.
Her name was Lenin.
Lenin Calhart.
Judging by her name, one might think she had a suspicious fondness for revolutions and the color red, but she actually had nothing to do with any of that.
She came from a renowned swordsmanship family in the North and served at my side.
Her skill with a sword was exceptional, and she had a sharp mind to match.
Of course, she ultimately died from a blade on the battlefield.
The adjutant died from a sword wound in battle.
Her superior died from overwork afterward.
The North was truly running like a dream.
Walter gave a hollow laugh to himself at the thought.
After some time, Lenin spoke with a grave expression.
“Lord Walter, as I have told you time and again, you must get some rest.”
“......”
Walter stared at her.
Rest.
It had been a very long time since he had heard that word.
When was the last time he had rested?
Walter thought back over what his days had been like.
He spent the entire day working through mountains of paperwork.
Then, at some point, he passed out like a drained battery.
And when he woke up?
He finished the paperwork still sitting in front of him.
Then Lenin would kick the door open and announce that the barbarians had invaded.
He would strap on his sword and go out to fight.
And when he thought it was finally over, a fresh pile of paperwork would be waiting for him.
Fuck this.
Was this what the life of the Grand Duke of the North was supposed to be?
He would rather have been sentenced to hard labor on the Northern Front.
At least there, he would only have to stop the barbarians.
Then another thought occurred to him.
What about this life?
Now that you’ve gained regression as a perk, how will you live this time?
Will you keep living like this?
Oh, fuck that.
I don’t have the slightest intention of dying from overwork a second time.
Walter nodded to himself before answering.
“Right. Rest is important.”
But Lenin did not let her guard down.
He would surely follow that by saying work was more important and ordering her to leave.
She admitted it.
That was exactly what he had done in the past.
So Lenin spoke first.
“Yes. So today, at least, you must get some rest......”
But at that moment—
Walter smiled.
“All right. Let’s do that.”
“......Pardon?”
The answer came far too readily.
It was the exact opposite of what she had expected.
Lenin stared at him blankly.
His face was so cold that it seemed he would not blink even if someone stabbed him.
His golden eyes were merciless, never wavering once he had made a decision.
And yet his lips were curved in a gentle arc.
Those inscrutable golden eyes were fixed on her.
“......Lord Walter?”
Her lord had not only agreed to rest.
He went a step further.
“No. Better yet, I’ll quit altogether.”
“......”
“I was sick of looking at this endless paperwork anyway.”
Actually, this worked out perfectly.
—THUMP.
Walter planted both hands atop the documents covering his desk.
Then, before anyone could stop him—
—WHUMP!
He swept the entire pile into the fireplace.
—FWOOSH.
Red flames caught on the papers and roared to life.
Before long—
—CRUMBLE....
Walter watched what had ‘once been paperwork’ turn to ash and scatter away.
He smiled in relief.
Then he turned to Lenin with a faint smile.
“Since we’re at it, let’s go for a walk together.”
“......Lord... Walter?”
Lenin muttered without realizing it.
He was the most extreme workaholic she had ever known.
This was the man who would keep moving his pen and insist that the day’s work had to be finished even with a blade pressed to his throat.
And now he had burned the paperwork with his own hands.
He was smiling.
It was a sight she could not possibly believe.
More than anything, amid the drifting sparks, her lord’s smile looked brighter than any she had seen in her entire life.
“......Have you gone mad?”
Lenin fought to steady her trembling hands as she cautiously asked the question.
Walter merely waved it away as though it did not matter.
—FLAP.
He threw on a black fur coat.
“Lenin.”
“......”
“Have you ever heard of healing?”
And so, on the day the Grand Duke of the North regressed, Walter Levior made a vow.
In this life, he would find healing in the North, no matter what.