Chapter 867: Act 45 – Two Letters X
Brendel and Freya moved forward under the moonlight in the forest, the shadows of the pine trees heavy like a long tunnel, whispering softly with each gentle step. A round moon hung over the pine needles, while an owl hooted into the still night, its sharp cries piercing through the woods from afar. Brendel walked quickly, and Freya could barely keep up. One hand held onto her garment to prevent it from getting caught in the jagged bushes, but her thoughts were solely focused on the hands that were clasped together, her mind a tangle of confusion. She vaguely remembered that since parting ways with Bruglas, she hadn’t had a chance to be alone with Brendel like this again. The last time they walked side by side under the night sky was in the Stag Forest—indeed in this very forest.
“Brendel, where are we going?”
“Just wait, and you’ll understand.”
Freya ceased her inquiries. Although a little shy, she allowed Brendel to hold her hand tightly. The two advanced deeper into the forest, a journey that felt both long and brief. Gradually, the heavy branches parted ahead, and the woods grew sparse, faint light seeping through. Only then did Freya realize they had passed through the forest. But she was still puzzled about what lay ahead.
“We’ve arrived,” Brendel thought to himself.
The forest opened a large gate before them. Behind it appeared a bustling and thriving market, nestled at the edge of the forest. Lights twinkled across the market like stars, as if the fairies from the woods were hosting a grand banquet, lighting up clusters of torches that gathered there. But Freya, seeing the crooked booths and wooden houses from afar, suddenly placed her left hand over her heart, slightly opening her mouth as she realized where they were.
Since the Black Rose War, refugees from Ridenburg and the Buche region had gathered near Bruglas. Some had left this place of sorrow to take their families north to Manowell or Cru and Magitan, but there were always those who were attached to their homeland and the elderly, women, and children who could not move on. They were unable to compete with the locals for land and could only build scattered settlements along the forest’s edge, cultivating the wasteland within. Some of the refugees who had escaped Ridenburg with Brendel felt gratitude for his kindness. Under his arrangement, they joined Duke Toniger’s mercenary regiment, but those willing to leave their home were few; many opted to stay, especially among the refugees from Buche or the northern regions.
“Look, Freya, these are the people who hope for you. Their situation isn’t good. Go and ask them, ask every survivor from Buche if they respect you and care for you because of your lineage,” Brendel said emotionally. He was well aware of these places from his previous life; the establishment of these settlements spanned his entire novice era, and he knew exactly what kind of people lived in those booths.
At that moment, Freya had completely lost her autonomy over her emotions. She held tightly to Brendel’s hand, tears streaming down her cheeks involuntarily. This was her long-lost hometown, her neighbors, the roots of her ideals and beliefs.
Aunt Xier, Uncle, Captain Marden, Little Finnis, and everyone else—was their trust in her derived from her heritage?
It was a question that needed no answer.
“Do you remember the oath you took, Freya?”
“Brendel… Brendel…” Freya murmured, as if questioning herself.
“Freya, you are the daughter of Everton, but you are also the daughter of Buche. No matter what you achieve in the future, that will never change,” Brendel answered quietly, standing in the night breeze.
“I understand… I should have understood long ago…” Freya closed her eyes and shook her head vigorously. “I was wrong, Brendel, I’m sorry.”
Brendel gently patted her shoulder. Bringing Freya back to see the villagers left behind in Buche was, after all, his purpose, though he hadn’t expected to arrive this early. “Do you want to go in and take a look?” he asked softly. Freya took a deep breath, casting a somewhat apologetic glance at Brendel, and then nodded vigorously.
Since the bloom of flowers and summer leaves, the continuous influx of refugees had become a major headache for the nobility of Bruglas. They had neither the ability nor the inclination to accommodate these homeless people, and local authorities and the military were shirking their responsibilities. The refugees’ livelihoods dwindled day by day, and after the kingdom ultimately chose to submit to Madara, they had lost all hope of returning to their homeland. Meanwhile, within the gray castle, the nobles busied themselves with power struggles and infighting, as if the kingdom’s defeat in the war had transformed into the sharpest spear and sword in their hands, used to stab their adversaries’ hearts. Some unlucky souls had been executed after the war, while others sang victorious songs, not necessarily out of sincerity for this ancient kingdom.
Even at the local level, the inhabitants, led by the local gentry, pushed out these outsiders. While the lower class was innately sympathetic, such sympathy was only built on the premise that their own interests remained unthreatened. Humanity’s inherent selfishness seemed to further exacerbate the plight of these poor people; they were powerless to compete with locals for resources, forced to band together in the forest for warmth. Yet even so, they faced local discrimination and suspicion, showing just how bleak the situation was for the refugees from Buche.
In reality, the refugees were also confronted with anxiety about the future; even the last piece of land they relied upon for survival was technically the property of a certain Lord Earl within Bruglas. To prevent riots, the nobles had to pretend not to notice the actions of these poor souls, but that Earl might not be satisfied with such handling. He didn’t care about the financial losses, but he couldn’t bear being the only one to suffer—otherwise, he would appear a fool in the eyes of others. In fact, the Earl had already requested the noble council to drive away these ‘bandits’ who had taken his land.
To ordinary people, this might sound absurd, but the noble council had to seriously consider the Earl’s request; protecting the legal property of nobles was a serious matter.
Old Marden sat by a pile of campfires, wearing the neat uniform of a local guard, though the edges had begun to show signs of wear. This uniform seemed to represent his honor, still impeccable, yet belonged to a bygone era. He had heard bits and pieces of the happenings within the noble council and gazed into the dark night, sighing deeply, worry etching into every wrinkle on his forehead. He had not chosen to leave with Brendel and Freya because Buche was his responsibility. The affairs of the young should be left for the young to struggle with. As for him, he had weathered too many storms; he would let himself rest here.
He couldn’t let go of his feelings for this land, the familiar scent of the Buche soil. Everyone was still here; how could he bear to leave?
But in these current days, the situation had worsened day by day. The poor soil bore little yield, and the Earl forbade the refugees from hunting in the forest. Though they could still chop wood for warmth, many had begun to go hungry. The crux was that everyone lacked hope for tomorrow, as if living day-to-day, like walking corpses, numb and devoid of the ability to think, hope, and dream. When did such times begin? Every time Old Marden recalled those past days, heaviness weighed further on his heart.
The only thing that brought him comfort was another rumor he had heard during these days.
Sounds of commotion arose from afar.
Marden frowned; Little Finnis and that group of youngsters really couldn’t sit still.
“Aissen, Markmey, you go block their escape route!”
“Nibeto, go get your older brother Vlad and Eck. Hurry up; don’t dawdle!”
Pedestrians on the street quickly stepped aside, as if this scene were commonplace. In the space they cleared, two groups of young people stood facing each other. They were wearing various uniforms from the militia and the local guard, though most were somewhat outdated, with some patched up. The swords in their hands gleamed coldly, but many were tied with string at their hilts, either lacking guards or counterweights. On the other side stood the team of Bruglas’ patrol cavalry, impeccably outfitted and high-strung, their riding boots shining brightly—clearly the sons of Bruglas.
At that moment, directing the Buche militia was none other than Little Finnis. He had grown at least a head taller in the past year and a half, wearing the uniform of the guards. After the Black Rose War, he had been selected by Marden to become a reserve member of the Buche guard. But shortly thereafter, the Buche guard had become a historical relic, entirely lost its presence.
“Finnis!” the young patrol cavalry shouted. “Earl Najin is going to reclaim this land! You band of illegal vagrants should quickly surrender!”
Little Finnis spat disdainfully, “You all should wait until the noble council discusses the matter before boasting. You lot just want to cash in on this opportunity. Didn’t one of you get beaten black and blue last time? You’ve really forgotten the pain after healing the scars.”
“What did you say!?”
“You little brat!”
The young patrol cavalry immediately felt provoked and began to shout insults; they had expected that by leveraging their status, they would surely intimidate these country bumpkins. However, they had not anticipated that Little Finnis would cut right through them, delivering a good beating last time. The two sides were hot-blooded youth who wouldn’t resort to schemes over a fight, but having healed from their injuries, they naturally wanted their comrades to join them in seeking revenge.
As both sides were itching to make their moves, in a moment of disagreement, a brawl erupted. The patrol cavalry, being well-trained and equipped, should have had the upper hand. Yet, the youth of Buche were not easy to deal with; nearly everyone present was a student of Marden. Marden was a veteran of the November War and had even received the Candlelight Medal. None of his students were pushovers. Not to mention, Aissen and Markmey were seasoned militiamen who had fought directly against Madara; in a scuffle like this, one of them could effectively be worth several.
But the most formidable was Little Finnis. He had shown exceptional talent in swordsmanship and had learned a few techniques from Brendel. Now, receiving direct instruction from Marden, his skill was unmatched in Bruglas. The patrol cavalry were undoubtedly aware of his prowess and had specifically chosen three of their best to deal with him. He tangled briefly with those three, suddenly breaking free to thrust his sword into one of their thighs. The man let out a yell and quickly dropped his sword in surrender.
Although the two sides were engaged in a melee, they still adhered to some rules. Noticing that the man had given up, Little Finnis lost interest in him and dedicated himself to the other two.
After a few more exchanges, he risked a shoulder injury to knock the sword from one opponent’s grip. The guy looked helplessly at his sword, then raised his hands in surrender. As for the last remaining opponent, feeling he was no match for Little Finnis, he hurriedly retreated towards a pile of crates, suddenly flipping one towards Finnis and shouting, “Hey, Eugen, this kid is too tough, come help me!”
Little Finnis raised a hand to block the crates but couldn’t help but curse under his breath. Just then, he noticed a sword gleaming toward him from the side. He was startled, only to see the assailant had subdued several of his companions, “Damn it, this guy must be a captain-level character!” Hastily raising his sword to block, there was a sharp clang, and he nearly lost grip of his sword. He was shocked and realized he had still underestimated the opponent: “This guy has the strength of a mid-silver!”
But it was too late for regrets. His sword was deflected, leaving him wide open. Little Finnis could only watch the sword coming towards him, clenching his teeth tightly, unwilling to drop his weapon. One thought crossed his mind: “I’m done for. Sister head, Brother Brendel, will I ever see you again in my next life?”
However, before he could close his eyes, a cold and gleaming sword appeared beside him, blocking the other’s strike. Then, before he knew it, the newcomer swiftly pushed back the opponent with two strokes, the speed of the strikes leaving him in awe. He had never imagined swordsmanship could be so clean and decisive. Before that thought settled, the patrol cavalry captain had already lost his sword, being sent flying onto the ground.
That display of skill stunned both sides, causing all combatants to halt and look in that direction.
Finally, Little Finnis realized who had appeared before him, and his eyes widened with surprise, mouth agape: “Sister… uh ah!” Unfortunately, he hadn’t finished before Freya scolded him, grabbing his ear, “Ouch, ouch, Sister head, let go!” Little Finnis almost cried out in pain, but he dared not resist, no longer the calm and collected person he had been moments ago, resembling a child caught doing something wrong.
“Weren’t you boasting? Why didn’t you drop your sword earlier?” Freya questioned, her tone lacking warmth.
“I was wrong, I won’t dare again next time,” Little Finnis said, baring his teeth, but upon catching a glimpse of Brendel nearby, he couldn’t help but happily shout, “Brother Brendel, you’re back, that’s great!”
Only then did Freya huff lightly and release his ear. He hurriedly moved back, as if the lady knight were a dragon ready to devour him—Little Finnis rubbed his face, looking at the two who had appeared as if still dreaming. At this time, both groups of combatants stepped back to their earlier positions. Most of the youths from Buche had already recognized Freya and Brendel, except for a few newcomers from the northern regions who were unfamiliar with them. On the patrol cavalry side, unease set in; they certainly noticed that Brendel and Freya were clearly on the side of these villagers. However, the terrifying swordsmanship they had just witnessed erased any thought of retaliation from those who had seen Freya’s previous display. The others, upon hearing descriptions from their companions, were mostly left in doubt.
Yet, the captain of the patrol cavalry, who had been knocked down by Freya, noticed more details; a patrol member came over to help him up, asking what to do next. Upon glancing at Freya’s shoulder insignia, he couldn’t help but glare fiercely at the latter.
Royal Knight Order, Knight Captain—
His face turned pale. He never dreamed that behind these Buche refugees would stand someone of royal stature to support them. In his mind, these outsiders, lacking roots in the region, would struggle to find someone to advocate for them if they were bullied. But now, not only had someone come to their aid, but that person also held considerable influence—a Knight Captain of the Royal Knight Order, in the company of Martha. In such a remote place, one might go a lifetime without encountering a single individual of that caliber.
Brendel waved to Aissen and Markmey from afar, then glanced at the patrol cavalry and turned to Finnis, asking, “What exactly is going on?”
“What on earth is happening?” Freya also asked simultaneously. But she quickly became aware that she and Brendel had simultaneously arrived at the same thought, feeling a flush of embarrassment and instinctively shutting her mouth. Little Finnis caught the entire scene; he had once been a naive youth, but had now matured significantly. He couldn’t help but chuckle to himself, thinking that Sister Head indeed still liked Brother Brendel. He also looked around, curious about where the witch lady had gone. Everyone in the militia knew about Brendel and Romaine’s relationship, but the people of Buche generally referred to Romaine and her aunt as “the witch.”
“What are you looking at!” Freya noticed Finnis’s thoughts and scolded him crossly.
Little Finnis jumped in surprise, hastily diverting his gaze as Freya had once been the captain of the militia and was someone he feared the most when she was still in Buche. Now, she was even more so. Brendel, observing their relationship, found it somewhat amusing, but he felt a sense of relief that Freya had at least temporarily forgotten her identity. This was his original intention. As for Little Finnis, he was also surprised. During their escape from Buche, this boy had only shown a modicum of extraordinary talent in swordsmanship. Still, now that talent had fully manifested; Finnis had watched the battle unfold from start to finish and had exhibited strength that could already be considered close to the silver rank. This speed of growth was truly astonishing, considering that Little Finnis had spent the past year and a half in Buche, receiving guidance from Marden, unlike Freya or Brensen, who had encountered myriad experiences.
Brendel noticed another point: the combatants from this group were largely at the upper tier of black iron and had many on the verge of reaching the silver rank. Such a remarkable disparity was previously unimaginable, but he quickly deduced that the influence of the Great Demon Tide had begun to manifest.
These thoughts spun in his mind before returning to the matter at hand. He smiled at Finnis, saying, “Little Finnis, you explain it; what exactly happened.”
Unlike Freya, Little Finnis dared to act informal before her. But regarding Brendel, his brother whom he admired greatly, as soon as Brendel spoke, he eagerly recounted details of the patrol cavalry’s prior altercation, Lord Najin’s proposal, and everything in between.
Freya’s expression darkened upon hearing this.
