Chapter 199: Act 132 – Late Summer (Third Update)
Brendel had a hard time calming his emotions, but when he lifted his head again, he couldn’t help but be slightly taken aback, for he saw Count Bal standing in front of him.
What does this guy want?
“Are you Mister Brendel?” Count Violet asked, his smile gone, looking serious.
“What?” Brendel replied sullenly.
“Although we disagree, our positions seem to align. At the very least, I can be certain that you’re not on the other side, right?” Before Brendel could respond, Count Violet continued, “Of course, we each have our own methods in hopes of leading the kingdom towards revival, but there’s no need for mutual hatred. I admit that Mister Makarolo’s methods are a bit extreme, but he’s just a mortal, after all.”
“What do you want to say?”
“Would you be willing to join our side? Rather than complain, why not take action yourself? I hope to see outstanding young people like you in our camp.” Bal seemed to have completely forgotten their previous displeasure and sincerely extended the invitation.
This is indeed typical of you, Brendel thought. But he shook his head, thinking it was nonsense. If it weren’t for the fact that they were in almost the same camp, would they even have the opportunity to speak here? He knew that with the ginkgo leaf in his hand and Alorze’s help, keeping this army here was just a matter of minutes—however, Brendel did not want to sever ties completely. He had already taught Makarolo and Livwz a lesson regarding Xi and Sanford’s matters, but any further movement would surely lead to conflict. Brendel was not a reckless youth who couldn’t see the situation; he understood that leaving Duke Luun’s army here might allow Anlek’s forces to push through Princess Freya’s side, which could endanger her and who knows what else in the future.
Given that the other side wisely chose not to muddle further in the matter of the Golden Apple, he couldn’t be bothered to bring it up again, but to talk about joining was—
What a joke.
Brendel looked at this count whom he had somewhat positive feelings towards and shook his head, coldly responding, “No,” he bluntly refused, but the latter part left Bal slightly stunned: “You will see me soon, trust me, but not here and not in the way you want—”
Count Violet listened to this with a complex expression, then deeply gazed at Brendel.
“I’ll be waiting.”
He replied.
*
The real battle ended with senior knight students leading the rookie officers, while those like Freya, who were freshmen from lower grades, arrived only to find that the task left was merely to clean the battlefield. The girl, like others, saw the hedgehog-like coach on the central avenue of the forest from a distance, surrounded by a row of knights in silver armor—though several bodies of their fallen comrades lay nearby, they refused to let anyone approach the coach, insisting on handling the dead and their wounded comrades themselves.
Thus, the battlefield was clearly divided into two colors—silver and purple—each undisturbed by the other. The avenue was strewn with corpses, and the forest echoed with occasional shrieks of despair or startled screams from noble daughters and young masters. In fact, the senior students passing through the battlefield did not kill everyone; some even purposefully left many heavy casualties alive. But aside from necessary survivors, everyone else had to become cold, lifeless corpses, with the task left to the new students to complete.
Many were trembling, unable to go through with it, and some even felt nauseous. However, those like Freya who had risen from the ranks of the guard and militia found it easier; she merely guessed the identities of those in the coach and then buried her head in her work. The second son of Count Bakeberg followed her, his face pale as iron. He had already emptied his stomach, and now he could only gag helplessly.
Holding onto a fir tree, he admired Freya’s clean and efficient work, thinking she was indeed a girl of character.
“…Do you know who that is?” he asked, panting.
“What?” Freya turned back slightly perplexed.
“The coach.”
The girl from Buche looked at the coach in confusion, her bright eyes clearly showing her perplexity, and she shook her head.
“The emblem on the coach is a scarab, which belongs to only one person in the kingdom.”
“Eh?”
The young man’s face showed surprise as he looked at Freya, thinking how did you not know this? How did you come to the Royal Academy? But he quickly realized she wasn’t pretending, and he had to shake his head and answer: “Master Livwz, the chief court wizard of Erluin.”
“Ah!” the girl exclaimed in surprise.
The second son of Count Bakeberg shook his head again: “But if Master Livwz were in that coach, we wouldn’t need to intervene. So, there could be someone else there. Except for His Majesty the King, very few people can borrow his coach—maybe only his students.”
“Princess Freya?” Freya couldn’t help but widen her eyes in amazement; although she was just a country girl, she still understood these common facts.
The young man nodded.
Just then, as they were conversing, a black warhorse suddenly dashed past them. The knight on it swiftly maneuvered through the forest, but seemed to pause, then turned back around towards them—stopping right in front of them. Freya was slightly startled, and she instinctively looked up with the young man, only to see the beautiful yet cold face.
The head on the snow-white neck was like a delicate piece of art, and such a perfect face was hard to find even in the north of Corvado. The sharp chin created an arc that seemed to have just stepped out from a painting. It made one inadvertently think of the so-called beauties of the North sung in ballads, perhaps derived from such a being.
The girl’s eyes seemed like a pair of cold purple crystals; Northerners more or less had Minren blood, but such purity was quite rare. Her lips were tightly pressed, with blunt bangs beneath two finely arched eyebrows that slightly rose and then frowned in discontent, giving an impression of a serious demeanor. The straight, delicate bridge of her nose seemed to represent the girl’s extraordinarily strong character. But at this moment, she only let out a light cold hum.
She looked down at the two of them, her gaze slowly sweeping over Freya and then landing on the second son of Count Bakeberg.
“Are you Freya?”
She fixed her penetrating gaze on the boy, making him feel like a poisonous snake in the grass was being fixed on by a hawk’s sharp eyes, sending chills down his spine. But Nemeses spoke, her deep, cold, slightly hoarse voice directed at Freya.
“Y-yes.”
“Your riding and swordsmanship scores are quite good,” Nemeses said in a low yet magnetic voice. “I’ve heard of you, but to achieve your desires, it’s best to stay away from these scoundrels—” the girl, on her horse, shot a disdainful glance at the young man and spoke frankly.
Both were taken aback.
The second son of Count Bakeberg frowned slightly, instinctively beginning to retort, “Senior Sister Nemeses, what you said—”
But before he could finish, a light ‘clang’ rang out, followed by a slight chill at his neck. As he barely caught the icy glare from the shiny blade, he realized Nemeses had swiftly dismounted, drawing her sword and pressing it against his throat, the entire motion flowing seamlessly. Even as he just raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, he froze.
“Did I allow you to speak?” Nemeses asked coldly.
The young man felt a cold sweat running down his back, unable to say a word.
“What’s your name?” she asked again.
“S-Sangeni…”
“Soldier rank.”
“N-Nemeses Senior Sister, I—”
The girl’s sword edged closer, interrupting him: “At ease, soldier.”
The second son of Count Bakeberg swallowed hard and trembled as he replied, “At ease, senior officer, I’m a second-year student, and not yet a soldier—” He hardly dared utter a syllable, using all his strength to squeeze out such a sentence.
Nemeses sheathed her sword with a ‘clang,’ her movement so swift that hardly anyone could see it clearly. She turned back, casting a cold glance at the young man, her purple eyes revealing unabashed contempt, but when she spoke, it was an undeniable command: “Then, soldier, I command you to shut up—”
She then turned back and adjusted the somewhat crooked brooch on Freya’s collar, which had become disheveled from the earlier battlefield cleaning, before gently patting her shoulder and softly saying, “Remember my words; they won’t hurt you—”
Freya stood still, momentarily unsure how to respond.
Should I thank her?
But how powerful! Will I ever become like her one day? She couldn’t help but think.
…
“Who is that?”
As the half-elf princess turned back, she quietly asked the young man beside her. Her gaze crossed through the coach’s window and remained fixed on the forest side—where the conflict between the second son of Count Bakeberg and Nemeses played out perfectly before her eyes. She parted the curtain with one hand and gazed absently at the two girls in the forest, feeling a hint of familiarity.
“The daughter of Lady Miller; you could say she is related to the Grand Duke of Luun. She has good talent and is a staunch royalist, so she should be trustworthy,” Sir Begninen replied after just a glance.
Hearing the young man’s foolishness, the princess couldn’t help but smile slightly: “I certainly know Nemeses; she is my close friend, Begninen, are you too tired?”
“Sorry.”
Only then did Begninen awkwardly respond.
“I mean the other one. Do you know her?” the half-elf princess asked again. “I feel like I’ve seen her before—”
“That would be the daughter of Everton—”
A gentle voice came from outside the coach.
Grifian was slightly taken aback, and then a hint of surprise flashed in her light silver eyes. She turned back and quietly asked, “Lord Overwell?”
A moment of silence passed outside the coach.
Then a low laugh came through: “Indeed it is I, Your Highness, it seems I’ve arrived a bit late.”
…(To Be Continued. To know what happens next, please log in. There are more chapters to support the author and legitimate reading!)
