Chapter 25: Act 17 – Valkyrie
Blazing flames erupted around them, casting a golden-red glow that framed each face with a gradient transitioning from light to dark.
Brendel looked up, carefully observing the young deputy captain mounted on horseback. He noticed an equally serious expression, the opponent pursing his lips, silently staring at him as if trying to subdue him with a stern gaze.
But neither Sophie nor Brendel were fazed by such tactics.
“I am a militiaman from Ankze. May I ask, Captain Brensen, when did your local militia gain the authority to issue commands across jurisdictions to allied units? And may I see your mandate?”
As soon as he spoke, the knights behind Brensen fell silent. Brendel had fought for Erluin for twenty-one years in the game and was far more familiar with the country’s laws than these youngsters.
The young deputy captain hesitated but stubbornly replied, “Special circumstances call for special measures.”
Brendel knew the other wasn’t ready to back down, but he wasn’t interested in quarrels. If Brensen hadn’t picked a fight, Brendel wouldn’t have bothered with childish squabbles.
“I’m looking for Freya and Aissen. Have you seen them?” he asked.
This was what Brendel cared about most. The fire around them was likely lit by these young militia members, but he couldn’t help but think maliciously that the future Valkyrie of Erluin wouldn’t have been burned alive, would she? In that case, Student Brensen would have committed a grave sin.
Of course, this was just a fleeting thought.
But Brendel’s casual tone came across as arrogance to Brensen, who couldn’t think of any reason why someone from a fallen family who was currently struggling deserved such pride. Clenching his teeth and suppressing his disgust, he finally asked, “Freya? From the Third Militia Squad? What is she doing with you?”
Brendel could tell this person had feelings for Freya, yet the hostile tone still irritated him. This repeated provocation reminded him of the saying, “Even a clay Buddha has a fiery temper.”
“Captain Brensen, with whom I choose to associate is my freedom. As for what I’m doing here, it’s likely the same as you. Don’t think I don’t know your situation,” he couldn’t help but retort.
“Boy, how dare you address us like this!” A young man behind Brensen shouted out, emerging from the crowd. “Just a mere militiaman. Before you stands an officer of the militia. Show some respect immediately!”
Surprised, Brendel looked up to carefully scrutinize the speaker.
As if following his gaze, the row of riders before him collectively stiffened, as if to give him a taste of their might. He observed the fifteen young men sitting straight on their horses like knives held upright, all donning deep blue regimental uniforms. Their armor was neat and gleaming, demonstrating the demeanor of a formidable force.
Brendel knew that these young people had good reasons to be proud. After all, they hailed from the finest youths in rural or urban areas of the Golan-Elsen region, having undergone rigorous training and screening. The survivors were at least near ‘First-Class Strength.’
Temple of Fire regulations defined an individual with an average internal strength between 3Oz to 20Oz as someone with First-Class Strength. This classification included all white-ranked swordsmen, novice wizards, and attuners (junior elementalists), as well as the squires of the sanctuary church knights and lower-ranking clergy across the continent.
The Temple of Fire tested the purity of one’s strength with amber orestones; Brendel had seen such tools in the game, although they were for NPCs. Players had intuitive data, so there wasn’t a need for assessments.
He’d read a game-related document in the past, knowing that across the entire continent of Vaunte, over sixty percent of the population possessed First-Class Strength. This was because the average human lifespan here exceeded one hundred and sixty years. But when the range was narrowed down to individuals between seventeen and nineteen years old, the same proportion dropped to twenty percent or even lower. In Erluin, with the exception of the church, wizard academies, and knight reserves, the vast majority of the remaining twenty percent served in the militia.
And these were the people Brendel was currently looking at.
Indeed, these young people deserved to be haughty towards the mixed bag that was the general militia. However, militiamen were militiamen, while Brendel was different. As someone born in a land of freedom, he was indeed an anomaly in this world, never entertaining thoughts of bowing down.
This was a deeply-rooted modern belief — Heaven is the ultimate authority, but so am I.
Therefore, he coldly stared at the man, mentally assessing his abilities. Despite their impressive skills, with the Piercing Light and Queen Wind’s Ring, Brendel was confident his data wouldn’t compare unfavorably to theirs.
Besides, he had the bonus of a veteran warrior’s 130-level experience, ensuring these people would fall one by one if they dared attack. Of course, they could rush him all at once, but Brendel guessed that Brensen wouldn’t tolerate such a loss of face.
What surprised him was that the young deputy captain raised his hand to stop his subordinates and, with a stern expression, questioned, “How do you know why we’re here? What else do you know? Who told you?”
Brendel thought, “Of course, I know.”
Why would the Buche militia be here, and what was their purpose? Even if young people weren’t aware of every detail, one could still infer around seventy to eighty percent as long as they thought about the general direction of history at this moment. He knew their presence here wasn’t for counterattack —- there had to be some motive, right?
He only needed to sort out the logic. Considering that the Buche militia was desperately attempting to break through to Ridenburg at this time, all the other issues would become clear.
This development was exactly like the history presented in the game. At this very day, Madara’s undead army had completed the blockade of the Belleto Forest. Earlier that afternoon or morning, the Buche militia unit and the displaced villagers had been attacked by the undead army. That marked the moment in history when they were closest to Ridenburg —- they almost succeeded, but the subsequent arrival of Cabais’ skeleton army rendered all their efforts futile.
Meanwhile, the Ridenburg forces hadn’t realized they were facing an invasion from the east.
But this was neither coincidence nor bad luck for the Buche people. They were up against the infamous and highly effective left wing of Instalung’s army during the first Black Rose War, and a militia unit burdened with families, elders, and children could never match the speed of such a famous undead army from history.
Let alone the fact that they had already been tightly pursued by Rothko’s Necromancers’ army beforehand. These two factors determined their failure as foretold tragedy.
Watching the young riders before him, their faces dusty, Brendel guessed it was after Commander Marden’s first defeat. This veteran of the November War now needed food and medicine to calm his troops for the next breakout.
But they wouldn’t know they’d soon face their second, third defeat. Marden had one day and a half left before ‘One-Eyed’ Tagus’s main force would arrive, repeating the tragedy.
Perhaps Marden would survive by sheer luck, but along the way would lose all honor befitting a soldier.
At this thought, Brendel shook his head, suddenly losing any interest in the argument. Still, he was no saint and threw a dismissive line: “Do I need to ask? You’ve made it so obvious with all this fuss.”
“You—!” The young man behind Brensen veins bulged on his forehead; if not blocked, he would’ve drawn his sword to duel Brendel.
“You’re right, but since you refuse to shoulder your responsibility as a militiaman, please move aside,” the young security captain said, “Don’t obstruct our path.”
“Hold it,” Brendel felt irritated. Was this guy trying to play the guilt card now? He boldly stepped into the middle of the road and asked forcefully, “Are the villagers still with you?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“How many casualties?”
Brensen hesitated, replying, “None of your concern.”
“It is my concern. Among them are the families of my friends—Freya, Little Finnis, Aissen, and Markmey. Their relatives are among these people. Freya and the others fought to protect Buche, and why are you fighting?” Brendel pressed, “Listen carefully, I’m not arguing with you. I want to know the answer—”
His resolute words silenced all the young militiamen. The previous murmuring ceased.
“Move aside, Brendel,” Brensen said grimly.
Brendel felt a sense of unease rising.
He shook his head, “Take me to Captain Marden. I will find Freya and the others. I’ll help guide you out of this situation, but first, you have to tell me — has anyone in the third squad had an emergency at home?”
Brensen’s face darkened, like an impending storm.
“It’s you—” The young security captain almost squeezed a few words from between his teeth. Finished speaking, he turned, gesturing his subordinates to proceed in another direction.
He no longer wanted to exchange a single word with Brendel, even regretting saying what he had before. Every time he thought about the fight this afternoon, he relived the nightmare of it being the worst in his life.
A nightmare he feared might haunt him forever.
Standing to the side, watching these knights quietly leave, many possibilities flashed through Brendel’s mind, but one stood out. Unable to resist, he called out, “Brensen.”
The young vice-captain paused mid-trot.
“Does it concern Freya?”
Brensen’s body stiffened but after hesitation, nodded.
“What happened?”
“I ask you to deliver a message to Freya if you find her—”
“What?”
Brensen sighed, “If you find her, relay my apology. Tell her Aunt Syl and Uncle unfortunately—”
Just as he said this, a clatter suddenly sounded behind him.
Everyone froze. The knights turned around to see Freya, her face ashen, staring incredulously as her sword clattered to the ground.
A young figure named Aissen trailed behind her, looking equally bewildered.
“Freya—!” Brendel was shocked, knowing by this point what exactly the insensitive Brensen must’ve been about to say.
“It can’t be… Aunt wouldn’t—”
Freya broke into sobs, her face pale as tears streamed down.
Everyone harbors some inner vulnerability.
When Brendel saw the usually strong Freya crumble so pitifully, soft like a wounded animal, a sensitive spot in his own heart was struck. His throat felt dry, words of comfort stuck on his tongue.
He silently observed her, then realized something. Was it precisely because this innocent, simple-hearted country girl endured such cruel wars that she ultimately journeyed to become a Valkyrie? If so, history was back on track.
…
[Note:
Regarding professions and experience in Amber Sword, characters choose professions freely as they would in real life. You could be a chef today, seamstress tomorrow, or soldier, scout, etc.
However, time is limited, so the experience gained through battles, adventures, and daily lives is finite.
If one doesn’t specialize in a single profession, they will receive an experience penalty for distraction. Starting from the first profession (except for commoner), each additional profession requires double the experience needed.
Also, unless otherwise specified, the world of Vaunte follows the settings of Amber Sword (the game).]
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