Chapter 58: Act 50 – The Earl
The brass alarm bell of Song Castle hung high atop the tower, and when it was rung, the chime spread through much of the city. The sound rippled like an invisible wave, invigorating the streets that had sunk into a midnight slumber, causing them to awaken one by one.
People poured into the streets, bewildered and questioning what had happened.
Lukesons was waiting for news in the eastern barracks of Ridenburg, but when the clear ringing of the alarm echoed from the stone window, he turned his head to look towards the dimly lit inner city, his expression changing. Without waiting for the messenger outside to push the door and report, the captain of the swordsman brigade opened the door and shouted outside:
“Didn’t you hear? Get up! Gather up! Have the second and third squads outside come with me to Song Castle, that idiot Seibol!”
Everyone exchanged glances.
“Captain, what about the city gate?” someone stood up and asked.
“Are you an idiot? Who other than that Highland Knight could attack Song Castle? Let Seibol keep his information secret and suffer the consequences himself,” he cursed, taking a breath and slightly easing his tone, “If anything goes wrong with that person in the castle, just wait to face the dragon’s wrath from His Majesty the King. Some might want him dead, but I don’t want to take the blame for that—just keep your eyes on the target!”
The crowd was stunned, and then began to act.
Lukesons finally let out a breath, but the thought that the other side was a Highland Knight with a mage attendant made him feel a bit tricky. Historically, Highland Knights had always operated independently; even during the heyday of the Corvado dynasty, the royal family couldn’t handle those protective fellows, let alone him.
He couldn’t help but curse Seibol’s female relatives in his mind.
Freya followed the maiden named Sue down a long, deep alley. When she heard the bell toll, she paused momentarily, instinctively turning her head and looking up, revealing a worried expression.
“What’s wrong?” Sue asked.
“Sorry, it’s nothing.”
“It’s about to start,” Sue suddenly said.
Freya was startled and turned back to look at her in confusion.
“The nobles have issued a travel ban; it only happens when fighting is imminent. Although nobody says anything, everyone knows in their hearts. It’s always been like this before,” Sue said quietly ahead.
“Are you saying they know there’s going to be a fight?”
“Who do you mean by ‘they’? The nobles? Of course, they know; they have their own channels for gathering information. Generally, by the time rumors start spreading in the taverns, they already know.”
Freya remained silent, clenching her fists. She lowered her head, with only a flash of calm anger visible in her bright eyes.
“But why is there no reaction in the city?”
“If there is a reaction, we can’t see it, but the nobles will definitely make preparations. Ridenburg is so fortified that the people there don’t need to worry too much; however, the price of bread and wheat has increased by ten percent today—these are changes that normally go unnoticed.”
“What if Ridenburg is breached?”
“That won’t happen.”
Freya couldn’t help but think of Brendel’s determined attitude; she shook her head, trying to cast the thought from her mind. “But I have a friend who said Ridenburg would be breached.”
“Then he must be a liar,” Sue replied calmly from the front.
After Charles rang the alarm, he went up to the rooftop of the barracks. He took a look over the battlements at the moat outside; the street was filled with soldiers, a dark mass that seemed to be the private soldiers of the nobles arriving first.
However, that wasn’t what he was worried about. He withdrew his gaze and ran to the other side, measuring the distance from this side to the castle, then found a feasible route and lit the witch candle in his hand. He recalled how Brendel taught him to use it, murmuring, “Et’ham—”
The first bit was to activate a portion of the magic that connected to the Abyss of Darkness, overseen by the twin goddess Yilian. Witches would use this magic for medium unless they were employing spirit-conjuring; then Charles raised the candle, letting its light reach about fifteen feet away.
He chose a tree and, in an instant, it felt as though he was pulled into a tunnel of light, racing forward. When he snapped out of his daze, he found himself atop the treetops.
“How magical this is; it truly is a witch from Burnoson,” he looked around, this time picking another tree across the way.
After repeating this seven or eight times, the candle in his hand burned down to a short stub, but he had reached the stone window on the other side. He lifted the candle, placing it on the window ledge, then threw himself through the flowing light into the corridor inside. When he recovered, he found himself in darkness.
He shook his head to dispel the dizziness brought on by the teleportation and could vaguely hear the sounds of fighting ahead.
It seemed a bit late, but it didn’t matter; after all, the Lord would reserve a bit of time. Charles reassured himself, unaware that at this moment, Brendel was wishing he could stab him with a sword.
*
A few minutes earlier—
When Brendel pushed open the heavy oak door, he did not see the Earl cowering in a corner as he had anticipated. Instead, the room was suitably lit, with ample quantities of tallow candles illuminating it without being too bright or too dim; the earl was leisurely sitting on a sofa, his black velvet suit was so pristine that not even the slightest wrinkle could be seen. He looked up to meet Brendel’s gaze, and on the low table before him rested the elven sword—Sting of Radiance.
Brendel was slightly taken aback at this scene; he hadn’t expected that a high-ranking minister beside His Majesty could demonstrate some courage. Of course, this made him more vigilant—if the other party was so confident, it indicated they had some backing.
“Didn’t expect it to be you, young man. I thought another assassin sent by the waste of Gabus Castle had come. But of course, you could also be a hired killer for those guys, so can you tell me the answer to that?” The middle-aged man looked at him, slightly surprised but maintained a calm demeanor.
Gabus Castle? Isn’t this guy from the royal faction? Brendel felt a confusion in his heart, but shook his head and said, “I’m afraid I can’t do that, but if you cooperate well, I have no real interest in killing you.”
“Is that so? You have no interest in killing me? Then I must thank you, but unfortunately—I have a keen interest in killing you.” As the middle-aged man spoke, a hand crossbow suddenly appeared in his grasp; upon seeing the faint blue light glimmering on the bolt, Brendel realized it was poisoned.
However, he had long been prepared for this; he was quite familiar with the tricks of nobles. The moment the other side moved, he swung his sword and blocked the arrow with a ‘clang.’ Yet, before he had time to relax, a gust of wind suddenly assaulted him from behind. Thanks to the countless life-and-death experiences in battle, Brendel instinctively blocked with his sword behind him—
With a loud crash, Brendel was almost thrown against a nearby cabinet. After a cacophony of noise, he gritted his teeth, clambering back up from a pile of wooden debris.
A black iron rank swordsman, conducting a sneak attack?! Is there still any sense of justice in this world?
Brendel couldn’t help but feel a chill, thinking of how fortunate it was that his previous opponents had been players; otherwise, that sneak attack would have finished him off immediately. Of course, he recalled those old rivals in the game—players didn’t, nor needed, notions of honor in battle; they were practically the epitome of shamelessness. Some even resorted to underhanded tactics, those were true rogues with martial skills no one could match.
Thus, he was already accustomed to anticipating sneak attacks—their avoidance had become second nature. In other words, had anyone ever seen a player who didn’t like sneaking?
Yet even so, facing a black iron rank swordsman still posed a tricky challenge as he was a powerhouse with a force level of at least 15 or higher; even if Brendel unleashed a burst of strength, he wouldn’t necessarily gain the upper hand.
On the other side, the middle-aged man and his companion were equally taken aback. They had assumed that their must-hit strike had landed, but although Brendel appeared quite disheveled, everyone knew full well that the damage meant little to a black iron rank swordsman.
The middle-aged man frowned but quickly spoke derisively, “I didn’t see that this cockroach-like commoner had any tricks up his sleeve, but that doesn’t change the outcome.”
He picked up the elven sword from the low table, standing up with a cold smile: “You also realize the strength of my guard; you are no match for him. But then, what place does a minor character like you have owning such a treasure? I’ll offer you a suggestion: either chop off your dirty hands that have touched this sword and I’ll spare your life. Of course, I’ll be keeping those two companions of yours; I want them as my slaves. I promise to treat them a bit better, at least allowing them to live like dogs—hahaha—”
As he spoke, he grinned maliciously.
Brendel couldn’t help but draw in a sharp breath. His expression darkened, even though he was well aware the other was trying to provoke him. Still, he couldn’t contain the rising anger within him. The first people he had come into contact with in this world were Romaine and Freya, along with everyone in the militia team—these people represented a precious sense of reality to him, relative to this world.
Just like the grandfather he had seen in a dream, they had become his mental anchor in this world. For this, how could he tolerate this guy spewing filthy words here?
His hand gripping the sword began to turn pale.
The middle-aged man was secretly observing Brendel’s expression, and with his hand behind his back, gave a signal to his companion. The two men inside the room experienced a fleeting joy of surprise; generally, experienced duelists rarely lost their rationality over external stimuli—yet unexpectedly, this casual test had struck the opponent’s reverse scale.
“Ulysses, put the pressure on him!” the middle-aged man commanded with a gesture.
The tall swordsman immediately moved closer to Brendel’s side; his swordsmanship was exquisite, leaving almost no vulnerabilities in his attacking route. Yet, in Brendel’s eyes, there was only the middle-aged man, whose body was leaned forward, his stance forming the most aggressive attacking posture in military swordplay.
Ulysses couldn’t help but smirk inwardly; this headstrong kid was just headstrong in the face of his stronger opponent, still daring to be reckless.
He tightened his grip on his precious sword, waiting for the perfect moment to strike a lethal blow; he could practically see Brendel revealing a gap in his side.
“Ulysses!” the middle-aged man suddenly shouted, and Ulysses instinctively thought it was a signal to attack. Right, it was right now, he had already seized a gap where Brendel could not defend.
His sword was too late to retrieve—
But just as the wicked smile on the tall man’s face had only just begun to form, the silver-gray ring on Brendel’s right index finger caught his eye—
“Oss!”
With a deafening crash, there was absolutely no chance for retreat. The sharp spires formed by flowing air thrust forward, gruesomely indenting the tall swordsman’s face, chest, and abdomen; then his entire figure was propelled toward the ceiling by the immense wind pressure—with a resounding thud, the ceiling broke open, creating a gaping hole above.
Light dimmed for a moment, as dust and debris tumbled down, mixed with some viscous liquid and pieces of body…
On the other side, the middle-aged man had scarcely adjusted to this sudden change when a cold sword was already pressed against his neck from the side.
“Speak, how would you like to die?” Brendel slowly emerged from the smoke and dust, coldly asking.
……
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