Chapter 69: Act 5 – Confrontation
Regardless of the circumstances, Brandel’s display in Ridenburg could only be described as astonishing. With that one sword strike upon dismounting from the coach, he successfully stunned every dubious onlooker, rendering them immobile, their throats seemingly choked in the aftermath of his lethal blow—prompting them to stand aside obediently. Although the street remained crowded, it was apparent to everyone that the occupant of the coach was not one to be trifled with, leading them to maintain a subtle distance from the vehicle.
The two unfortunate corpses lay openly beneath the coach, and since the young man gave no instructions on how to handle them, no one dared to intervene, pretending not to see. Furthermore, the sight of the bodies itself served as a form of deterrence—those approaching would glance at the corpses, then consider the coach that seemed isolated from the world, and instinctively understand where to go and where to avoid.
Inside the coach, Brandel too was worried, contemplating Freya’s whereabouts and why she hadn’t arrived yet.
However, his internal anxiety was not reflected on his face. He turned his head to look outside just as a new group of menacing figures approached from behind the coach, pushing aside anyone that blocked their path, meting out violent beatings to anyone who dared resist.
“Just when things seemed calm, more trouble arises,” Brandel frowned, his hand instinctively resting on his sword.
“Who are they?” Charles asked as he observed the scene outside.
“Merchants from the town,” the coachman replied, initially terrified when Brandel had drawn his sword, considering fleeing the carriage. But now he seemed to have grasped the situation—after all, the more formidable this lord appeared, the greater his chances of survival.
“Looks like they’re just another bunch of bullies,” Brandel noted, observing their demeanor. He could see the coachman’s clear disdain, despite his reluctance to voice it, and understood the nature of these individuals outside.
“Your companions don’t seem like good people, Romain,” he remarked, turning back to the young woman beside him.
“It’s fine,” Romain replied, wearing an expression that suggested she felt safe.
As they spoke, the unruly group had reached the vicinity of the coach. Initially, it appeared they intended to seize Brandel’s vehicle, but upon catching sight of the two corpses, their expressions shifted noticeably. Unlike the previous threats, these merchants and their guards were perceptive, recognizing who could be intimidated and whom it was best not to provoke.
After a moment’s hesitation, they pushed forward, but these guards were accustomed to bullying. In the ensuing chaos, several were jostled towards Brandel’s coach—before long, a middle-aged man was shoved and stumbled into the coach, his forehead colliding with the wheel, instantly causing blood to gush forth.
“Father!” a young, panicked voice cried out from the crowd.
The middle-aged man grunted but managed to push himself up against the coach, charging at the guard who had shoved him. The guard, taken by surprise, was knocked back into the throng.
The crowd erupted in an uproar.
The middle-aged man quickly turned, diving into the masses, one hand grabbing his son’s arm as he attempted to flee. But the guards’ comrades would not allow such insolence; just as he had found his child, they lunged and pinned him to the ground.
“Let go of my father!” the boy cried desperately, pushing against the guards atop his father. But he was no match for them and was easily shoved aside.
The guard who had been knocked to the ground finally rose, cursing as he approached, drawing his sword. Grabbing the middle-aged man by the hair, he lifted his head and snarled, “You country bumpkin, looking for trouble, huh? I’ll grant you your wish today.”
The middle-aged man trembled, struggling furiously in defiance, but the guard’s companions held him down, rendering him immobile. The onlookers turned their gaze elsewhere, their hearts heavy with pity, yet none dared to intervene.
As the guard shouted profanities and raised his sword, a slicing wind burst open the coach door, sending it flying apart and cutting straight through the air. The transparent wave not only knocked the guard’s sword from his hand, sending it clanging against a distant wooden door, but also caused him to scream in horror as he cradled his severed, bloodied wrist.
This sudden turn of events startled the guards, causing them to instinctively draw their swords. Brandel also unsheathed his blade, the sharp clang of steel filling the air.
“Who are you?” the merchant bellowed from the back, his voice high-pitched with concern as he recognized the extraordinary strength of Brandel’s strike. But upon realizing the youth was not dressed like a nobleman, his wariness diminished somewhat. After all, this merchant had spent his life confined to Ridenburg, lacking greater awareness. If he were truly a noble, he would at least recognize the threat that Brandel posed.
Brandel glanced at him, uninterested in exchanging more words with the scum.
However, the significance of his act shifted the balance. The oppressed crowd, composed of people young and old, men and women alike, had long been unable to tolerate the actions of their oppressors; they had simply lacked the means and courage to resist. With someone who appeared capable standing up for them, they instinctively began to side with Brandel.
Not only did Brandel become their savior, but he also emerged as their natural leader. The atmosphere shifted palpably, and the merchant, who initially aimed to take advantage of their numbers against the fewer, found himself suddenly unable to decide as he saw the mass of people gathering behind Brandel.
A multitude of sheep is not frightening, but a lion leading them is another matter. At this moment, Brandel was the lion among the sheep.
Of course, had the merchant known that Brandel alone could slaughter his ragtag group two or three times over, he might have thought differently. His indecision mixed with the pained cries of the guard who had lost his hand only added to his turmoil.
Just then, another group arrived on the scene. Recognizing their attire, Brandel identified them as the Ridenburg city guards.
Ridenburg had the White-Mane Legion, a swordsman unit stationed in the area, which eliminated the need for a traditional garrison. Local security was typically managed by irregular local guards and civilian patrols, which, while lacking formal organization, belonged to local noble councils. Years ago, the emergence of local guards and patrols had been a sign of growing local power.
However, these non-professional local forces often became local bullies; compared to them, the merchant earlier would likely qualify as a law-abiding citizen. Brandel recalled how absurd it was that the local guards and patrols even harbored mutual enmity, developing to the point of hiring adventurers to seize territory.
He had encountered this during related quests before, so now seeing these individuals, an instinctive aversion arose within him.
“What are you doing here, brawling in the streets?” the burly cavalry captain began in a matter-of-fact tone, casting a sidelong glance at the merchant with slightly eased expression. “Isn’t that Mr. Markov, the dye merchant from Bonoan? How’s business?”
Markov forced a smile, “Doing well, Captain Julian. But here’s a person committing murder in the open and injuring my men, what’s to be done about that?”
The cavalry captain frowned. Normally, he might have taken this opportunity to extort some money from Markov, but given the impending chaos of the city, he had no desire for such frivolities. Yet, accustomed to throwing his weight around, he instinctively adopted a condescending posture. “And who might you be?”
Brandel gave him a cursory glance and casually flattered, “Dune.”
The captain frowned, scrutinizing Brandel with suspicion. Just then, the crowd behind them erupted in commotion, some terrified screams piercing the air: “Monster! Monster! There are tons of monsters behind us!”
“They’re the undead! Everyone run!”
The vanguard of Madara had arrived.
The crowd quickly surged forward, inevitably bumping into Markov’s guards and Julian’s subordinates. But these guards would not allow the throng to press past; they unsheathed their swords and began to swing at the heads of those pushing forward, forcing people to advance or retreat without a choice, leading to an outcry of despair.
Julian frowned at the scene. Unlike the country merchant, he had seen the world and understood that blocking the way wouldn’t solve the issue; he had to find another approach. His gaze fell upon the crowd ahead.
“You,” he pointed at Brandel, “bring the coach over here. And you lot, block the path! Everyone else move aside, let us through!”
At his command, Brandel’s fellow civilians paused, bewildered. Julian’s group had already caused significant discontent among them; they had shown a blatant disregard for lives, wielding swords to obstruct those fleeing. The front-line people, while they might not express it, shared a trepidation typical of refugees.
“On what grounds?” someone asked from the crowd, dissatisfied.
“No need to argue,” Julian ordered his men to form a line with their drawn swords. “As citizens of Ridenburg, it’s our duty to support the police in maintaining order. What, do you intend to resist?”
Everyone’s gaze shifted to the regiment of cavalry with their gleaming swords—then to the streets engulfed in raging flames—an eerie bluish fire that revealed flickering shadows of skeletal frames within the rising smoke, rendering them momentarily speechless.
All eyes turned towards Brandel.
“Damn it, being the scapegoat is really no good,” Brandel felt a wave of discomfort. Yet, looking at the civilians trapped on the other side of the swords wielded by Markov’s guards and seeing the desperation in their eyes, he couldn’t help but sigh inwardly.
Regardless of the situation, a part of his soul originated from the modern era, inherently representing a civilization that leaned towards order and peace—this was one of his greatest prides and must not be trampled upon.
He leaned slightly forward, entering the most fundamental offensive stance of Erluin’s military swordsmanship.
“I’ll count to ten, and if you don’t take off by then, don’t blame me for being rude.”
Brandel replied calmly.
Everyone was taken aback—
Especially Julian and Markov, who both thought they were hearing things. The cavalry captain felt utterly slapped in the face and could no longer hold back his anger, tossing all pretense aside. He shouted, “Kill him!”
The cavalry raised their swords and surged forward.
