Chapter 70: Act 6 – The Natural Lord
A miraculous scene unfolded; to the fleeing civilians, the cavalry charging toward the young man seemed as if they were made of paper. They raised their swords to engage with Brendel, but their steel blades instantly bent, snapped, and shattered into thousands of steel needles that shot back, sending the riders and their horses soaring through the air as if lifted by tremendous force.
One, two, three—finally, the refugees behind Brendel couldn’t help but count aloud, reaching up to seven. The last three were so terrified that they tightly gripped their reins and dared not approach any closer.
Julian stared at Brendel, as if he had seen a ghost. Markov’s guards, even more frightened, completely forgot what they were doing, allowing the refugees behind them to break through their line and rush to Brendel’s side.
“Who are you?” The cavalry captain couldn’t help but feel a chill. He had seen the captains of the White Mane Legion’s swordsmanship squad, whose skills seemed divine in his eyes. But compared to this young man, they paled in comparison.
What kind of divine being is this?
Brendel sheathed his sword and took a deep breath. He had used his explosive power seven times in a row, consuming one-fifth of his total stamina, and his arm felt slightly numb.
“I told you, my name is Dune.” He pointed his sword at them. “Now, you can calm down and listen to what I have to say.”
Julian and Markov exchanged glances—could they not listen? Though his eleven subordinates were not overly impressive, they had at least been selected from the local militia, trained to a decent level in comparison to the White Mane swordsmen. Adding the impact of their mounts, even a typical soldier of the White Mane Legion would not dare to face them head-on.
To be able to unleash such explosive strength seven times in a row, sending each foe flying without breaking a sweat—he could only equate this level to the six squad leaders under Lukesons.
A mid-tier black iron, so young—Julian couldn’t help but swallow hard. Those squad leaders under Lukesons were all seasoned veterans in their thirties or forties.
“It seems this is enough.” Brendel noted Julian and Markov’s stupefied expressions and nodded. “I had previously told you to leave, but now I take it back. You will block the path for me; no matter how many undead come, your task is to stop them.”
“Charles.”
“Here.” Charles jumped down from the coach and, understanding Brendel’s gesture, handed him his pocket watch.
Brendel looked at the time; there were still fifteen minutes until four o’clock. Yet, there was still no sign of Freya. He frowned slightly and said, “You are the Ridenburg security cavalry; it is your duty to buy time for the fleeing citizens. You will surely rush to the front without my reminder.”
“My lord, I am a merchant,” Markov said cautiously, no longer daring to act arrogantly.
Brendel glanced at him and replied curtly, “You are conscripted.”
Markov opened his mouth but found no words.
“Of course,” Brendel continued, looking at the security cavalry who were getting up from the ground. “I will personally supervise you. Anyone who wants to be a deserter can come back and try my sword. You must choose between fighting with me or those bone frames.”
He turned to the civilians behind him—aside from a few tightly clustered around him due to Julian’s earlier threats—those farther back were fleeing north, panic spreading through the crowd, shoving each other along, with many trampled beneath and unable to get up. Cries, screams, shouts, and wails mixed into a scene resembling the end of the world, while their small area felt like the eye of a hurricane, calm amidst the storm.
At the center of this calm was Brendel himself.
“You all should leave too; hurry, don’t waste the opportunity that the Ridenburg security cavalry has bought for you with their lives,” Brendel said, waving his hand at the crowd. He was not a savior, but he would not turn away those who would lend him a favor.
However, to his surprise, most people, aside from a few, remained rooted in place, unwilling to leave. They had seen the horrors of those who were pushing and shoving in the panicking crowd; naturally, they did not want to end up like that. They preferred to place their hope in Brendel, believing this powerful young man could lead them to safety.
There are many with power in this world, but few are willing to protect the weak. Brendel’s actions had left a profound impression on them, especially his final words, which fostered a sense of trust.
“You don’t want to leave?” Brendel was taken aback, guessing their thoughts. He tapped the hilt of his sword, turned, and saw Charles looking at him with admiration, unable to help but ask, “What more do you wish to say?”
“In the age of saints, knights held eight virtues. Compassion is one of them. Every year, many knights take an oath at the Temple of Fire, but how many truly embody them?”
“To allow the weak to depend on them is also a mark of a strong person. The key is how we should act, Lord,” the young mage attendant asked.
“Let them stay; I will think of a way,” Brendel answered, walking over to Julian and Markov. “Have you made your decision?”
“Of course, of course,” the merchant Markov nodded vigorously.
Julian remained silent, turning to gather his men, preparing to clash with the bone frames. They had considered that fighting those bone frames offered a glimmer of hope, while turning back to confront the young man would likely lead to instant death. Moreover, the young man had said he would stay, so surely he wouldn’t turn a blind eye to their suffering.
As the captain of the security cavalry, Julian could be considered a significant figure within Ridenburg; he understood these details and found nothing shameful in his decision. He did not appear as awkward as Markov, realizing that in Ridenburg, one had to see the face of Lukesons or Lord Jinguo, just as now he was beholden to the young man’s presence—what difference did it make whose favor one depended upon?
Brendel admired Julian’s straightforwardness. He stood beside them, watching the cavalrymen whose swords he had shattered change to shorter blades for backup; for the moment, he was not worried about a lack of weaponry.
Everyone present except for Julian looked rather uneasy.
The security cavalry and guards of the merchant often acted dominantly, but in the face of terrifying undead creatures, they were like anyone else—knowing their fear of what lay across from them, the legendary horrors. Markov, holding a spear and standing next to Brendel, trembled uncontrollably, unable to utter a word or even stand still without difficulty.
Meanwhile, the civilians behind them stared at Brendel’s back, wondering why this noble youth did not flee. They had all heard Charles address Brendel, and naturally assumed he was at least a knight. However, since they had decided to follow him, they would neither leave nor dare to.
The scene fell momentarily silent.
Soon enough, the first skeletal soldier appeared from the burning street, followed by a second and a third. Scouts, Brendel recognized these skeletal soldiers from the ranks of the Madara army—they approached, swords in hand, clattering with each step.
They were not particularly fast, yet not slow either.
Brendel glanced again at his pocket watch; ten minutes remained. If Freya did not arrive within those ten minutes, he would have Charles take Roman and the others ahead, while he would go alone to find her. However, if Freya couldn’t manage even this task on her own, though he would still regard her as an ally, the truth was he would feel somewhat disappointed.
He set down the watch and saw that three skeletons had already closed in on the merchant guards. Seven of them; they could easily dispatch these low-level undead from Madara if they just divided into three groups. Unfortunately, these useless individuals broke down first, collapsing to the ground, with not even the courage to turn and flee—
Three skeletons had killed seven men.
Meanwhile, the eleven security cavalry were too scared to even help, making Brendel feel as if he could simply stab them all down one by one—but he changed his mind. He realized that if he wanted to carve a bloody path through the Madara forces with those civilians, he would still need these people.
“You useless lot, where did your courage to oppress the good go?” Brendel shook his head and turned to the security cavalry captain. “You, demonstrate for them.”
“Me?” Though Julian seemed deep and composed, he too felt his legs trembling.
Brendel looked at him expectantly, saying nothing.
Julian gritted his teeth, realizing that if he didn’t go, the outcome would likely be grim. But what could he do? Raised in comfort and luxury, he had long forgotten his swordsmanship. He couldn’t help but glance at his subordinates, but all eleven security cavalry had turned their faces away, pretending not to see.
“This bunch of pampered fools!” The cavalry captain cursed loudly, trembling as he raised his sword and went forward. One against three, the young man showed no intention of intervening; Julian closed his eyes, almost convinced he was doomed this time.
But just then, a thunderous sound came from across the street—it was the sound of hooves. Being a cavalryman himself, Julian was all too familiar with that sound; it was the sound of a cavalry charge. The rumbling echoed like thunder from deep within the earth, the ground starting to shake—not just him, but even those three skeletons turned their heads, sensing something unusual.
A great wave of life energy was approaching.
Three horses burst from the surrounding flames, and with a flash of swords, the three skeletal soldiers fell apart on the ground. Then the cavalrymen tugged their reins, causing their steeds to step forward a few paces before turning sharply to stop—
Brendel looked up to see a girl knight in azure half armor, one hand holding a sword, the other pulling the reins, her long ponytail trailing behind her, exuding remarkable spirit against the backdrop of the towering flames.
And behind her, more and more knights emerged from the flames, gathering behind her. Brendel noticed that most of them were dressed like mercenaries, appearing to be above mid-tier black iron, with quite a few at the mid-tier level. He couldn’t help but be secretly astonished—
Where did these mercenaries come from? More than ten of them were all above black iron? This was the level of an elite team on par with the squad leaders of the White Mane Legion; could it be that these were the personal soldiers left for Freya by her father? Brendel, knowing Freya’s true background, couldn’t help but be filled with suspicion.
“Brendel, where’s Roman?” Freya, recognizing who stood before her, couldn’t help but pause.
