Chapter 50: Act 42 – The Middle-aged Man
Seeing Freya’s helpless expression, Brendel thought she should have some understanding of the appearance of these so-called local troops from Ridenburg, but it wasn’t enough. He planned to let her gain clearer insight; only reality could make Freya understand their current predicament.
Of course, Brendel didn’t want her hopes for the country to be completely shattered. Sometimes, acting recklessly with passion alone would lead to dire consequences.
Brendel had never been a rash person; he hoped Freya would also learn to act with composure. Of course, when necessary, he would step in to protect them, with the bottom line being that he could not allow these people to actually harm Freya and Romaine.
He was watching Freya deal with this crisis with interest when he noticed her gaze drifting in the distance. He was taken aback and followed her line of sight to find that it led to the barracks on the east side of Ridenburg—apparently, that was what it was called. There, he spotted a group of people of varying heights crowding around a tall middle-aged man, followed by a number of light infantry with white manes, spreading out to maintain control—seemingly nobility.
Brendel suddenly found it interesting; he hadn’t expected such luck. It was as if someone was offering him a pillow when he wanted to sleep. However, Freya reacted quickly and noticed those important figures in an instant. He roughly understood Freya’s thoughts and nodded silently in approval.
From a normal person’s perspective, Freya’s reaction was very correct. Of course, Brendel just wanted to see how she would hit a wall. This may be a bit unfair to the future Valkyrie, but Brendel knew that his starting point was for her own good, and that was enough.
Moreover, this was also Freya’s own choice.
He turned back to see two guards drawing their swords and approaching Freya. They clearly hadn’t expected that this girl would dare to resist when both of her companions were so obediently surrendering, let alone do so so decisively. As she jumped into the tower, she made a beeline for the weapon rack beside her.
The two were startled, hastily drawing their swords to face her. But Freya suddenly spun around, grabbing one guard’s wrist with her right hand, sidestepping, and with her left hand delivered a chop that struck the guard in the armpit—her entire movement was a seamless flow; in the blink of an eye, that guard let out a scream and crumpled to the ground.
The ponytailed girl seized the sword and clashed with the other guard. With three successive strikes, she used the strength she had developed from battling the Golden Magic Tree to push the guard back five steps until he was cornered against the wall. Then, she reversed the hilt of the sword and struck the unfortunate fellow on the head, sending him sprawling onto the ground, bleeding.
She turned around again, and her imposing aura actually frightened the remaining four guards, including their captain, causing them to retreat a step. Freya couldn’t help but feel frustrated; the Ridenburg army, which she had always viewed as her reliance, was at this level. She had thought each of them was as capable as Brendel, and although they might be slightly less impressive, they should have been closer to that standard!
But Brendel secretly appreciated the situation. The local guards were merely seasoned militia level, while Freya’s current skills could easily place her among the city guards, especially with her calm demeanor, which was particularly commendable.
However, he glanced at the distant white-maned light infantry, thinking that if Freya believed the kingdom’s regular troops had the same level of combat power, she might be in for a big surprise.
But for now, he needed to not impede this future Valkyrie’s judgment. So he suddenly grabbed the two guards beside him and tossed them aside before they could react. He then turned and seized his elven sword, using it to knock the longswords from the hands of the two guards holding Romaine.
“What do you plan to do?” he disregarded the moaning guard on the ground and ran toward Romaine, grabbing her hand.
Freya shot him a glare and then looked over toward the barracks, her meaning unspoken.
“Go over there? Alright, as the saying goes, the king is easy to deal with, but the little ghosts are troublesome,” Brendel smiled.
“What does that mean?” Romaine asked curiously from behind, rubbing her wrist. The strength those people had used was too much; her hand was sore.
“It means, let’s see what those big shots have to say.”
Freya always felt that this guy had ulterior motives, but at this moment, there was no time to argue. She shot an annoyed glance at the guard captain, who had slumped to the ground in fright, and leapt out of the tower first.
“Brendel, it seems like Freya is angry.”
“It’s alright, just follow along.”
Merchant Miss looked at him curiously.
*
Lord Seibel, the Golden Fruit Earl, had been in a good mood for the day, except for the situation unfolding before him.
When he saw the girl suddenly rush towards him, he was momentarily stunned, and then the guards rushed in to surround her. Seibel also noticed that there were two others in the enclosure, all dressed as country folk, and a burst of anger surged in his chest.
What the hell were these bastards doing, letting three filthy peasants intrude here? Who was the captain on duty tonight? I want him to roll back and eat himself!
Seibel’s face turned pale and flushed as he was about to lose his temper. Then he felt a poke on his back from a cane. He turned to see the repulsive industrialist and big workshop owner, Sir Burnley, with his grossly overweight face. To be honest, he didn’t want to waste breath on this smelly, stingy fat man, but thankfully the lord was clear-headed enough to understand that, at least for now, they were on the same side.
He followed the other’s gaze and was immediately alarmed when he spotted Freya’s insignia. The Buche militia? Didn’t they say that Madara’s army had arrived at the Beller Forest? How did they get here?
He couldn’t help but glance toward a location slightly behind, hoping the important figures there hadn’t noticed the commotion. Then, he pressed down on his sword and spoke coldly to the guards: “What are you doing here? Take the assassin down.”
Assassin?
Freya was about to speak but was stunned by these words. She widened her eyes in confusion, wanting to argue, but found the guards surrounding her had drawn their longswords—an echoing ring of metal seemed like it could pierce her heart.
“What’s happening here?”
At that moment, a calm, serious voice interjected, causing everyone to instinctively part ways. The crowd split apart, revealing a middle-aged man at the back, with deep-set eyes, a high nose, and a harsh, grim expression. He held a golden-handled cane and surveyed everyone with a cold gaze.
Seibel took a breath, cursing in his heart: what the hell, now this trouble has drawn his attention. His mind raced, but he maintained a calm face and replied, “A few civilians have barged in; they might be assassins.”
“Civilians?” The middle-aged man frowned.
“My lord, we are not assassins. We are Buche’s militia,” Freya eagerly defended. “We’ve come to deliver news; Buche is under attack by Ma—”
The middle-aged man showed a look of disgust and interrupted, “What is your name?”
“F-Freya,” Freya stammered, feeling the cold gaze fixated on her like a poisonous snake, causing her to lower her head involuntarily.
“And you?” he turned to Romaine.
“My name is Romaine, sir,” the future Merchant Miss blinked and answered.
Someone in the crowd couldn’t help but laugh twice, but quickly stifled it. This time, the middle-aged man’s expression didn’t change; he waved his hand: “Take them down and we’ll question them later.”
“My lord, we…” Freya was startled and quickly raised her head to explain.
But the other party completely ignored their explanations, and guards closed in to restrain the three of them. However, the middle-aged man observed coldly and then spoke again, “Wait.”
As if his words held great power, everyone paused their actions to look at him.
“Show me the sword in that person’s hand.” He pointed his cane at Brendel.
The sword?
Everyone was taken aback before they noticed the sword that Brendel was holding. It was an elven sword; elven weapons were renowned for their delicacy and were typically treated as art pieces among the upper circles. Seibel couldn’t help but groan inwardly, thinking this greedy man had a sharp eye, interested in the two women and the sword.
What was uncomfortable for him was that the other person’s identity and status were far beyond his own. Even if he wanted to explain things away, he could only obediently hand it over. He couldn’t afford to offend the power represented by the other party.
He gestured, and several guards immediately understood, drawing swords at Brendel.
Brendel turned to look at Freya, seeing the confusion and helplessness written all over her face, as if she had lost her mind. He knew it was about time, but he still needed to remain calm. Shrugging, he obediently handed over the sword.
That kid is quite sensible, Seibel thought to himself.
One guard quickly jogged over, presenting the sword with both hands to the middle-aged man. The middle-aged man took the sword indifferently, turned it over, and read the inscription on it:
“A’ssonston, Donamiru—” (Elven: Sword born from light, all enemies tremble)
He raised the sword, the elven blade shimmering in his hand, and everyone around couldn’t help but take a sharp breath. A magical sword—these nobles couldn’t help but turn their gazes toward Brendel and his companions, which further solidified their ideas that the three were assassins. After all, who among the militia carries magical weapons? It was hard to believe.
But the middle-aged man was staring at the glow of the leaf-shaped sword, a smile finally breaking out on his face. He glanced at the industrialist beside him and asked, “Sir Burnley, a man of wealth and experience, can you tell me the origins of this sword?”
The rotund noble hurriedly shifted his weight, eager to please, “I’ve seen some elven weapons before, but if you want to talk about experience, how could I compare to you, my lord, in that circle?”
The middle-aged man smiled coldly and replied, “In that case, for the sake of this sword, let them have an easier time tonight. Tomorrow, I will personally interrogate these assassins; as for you two ladies, please take good care of them. You’d best convey this message verbatim to your captain, Granson, and don’t think I’m unaware of their sordid—”
His words grew colder, leaving the guard before him speechless in fear. However, others revealed knowingly ambiguous smiles; the lord’s clear stance benefited them.
But it was just two women and a sword. Compared to their own vested interests, they cared more about the latter.
Freya’s face turned crimson with anger; she couldn’t help but take a deep breath. Tightening her jaw and clenching her fists, for a moment, Brendel actually feared she might act impulsively and recklessly. But thankfully, the future Valkyrie had become much more composed since their initial encounter.
He raised his head, glancing at the middle-aged man, then at the shimmering blade in his hand. He frowned; who was this person? He seemed to hold a high position, but unfortunately, he couldn’t remember every detail from history. However, the other party’s reaction was intriguing.
But he wasn’t overly anxious; the best part of the show was yet to come.
As they were escorted away by the guards, Brendel distinctly heard the middle-aged man ask:
“Well then, back to the subject. Mr. Seibel, when do you plan to let me out of the city?” The middle-aged man’s voice was cold, laced with subtle sarcasm.
“Lord Earl, we are currently in a critical situation; Madara has already reached the foot of the Faermeer Fortress. The Buche flank may be in jeopardy at any moment, and the wilderness is far too dangerous, especially since you are a close minister to Her Majesty. What reason do we have to let you take the risk?”
The middle-aged man smiled and said nothing more.
