Viscount Silva sat astride his mount in high spirits. It was a good thing his Zeno horse was tall and powerful enough to bear his weight — twice that of an ordinary man.
Two guards in silver armor rode at the head of the procession, holding high a banner emblazoned with a golden chalice — the Silva family crest. Beneath the chalice, a purple vine curled around it to form a shield-shaped circle, and atop the vine bloomed countless white seven-petaled flowers. The Little Dulan, the national flower of the Kingdom of Trinbert. Its appearance on a noble's coat of arms signified an intimate connection with the Trinbert royal family — the hallmark of blood relation to the crown.
The garrison soldiers at the West Gate had lined up under their captain's command to welcome Viscount Silva's party. From their heading, it was clear they were bound for the Feihong Wine Estate, located over thirty li outside the city — one of Viscount Silva's most renowned properties. Its wines had enjoyed a century of prestige and constituted one of his primary sources of wealth.
Viscount Silva was in excellent spirits. Watching the carriage carrying the long-faced Master Mancini and his family pass through the city gates, he couldn't help but split his face into a wide grin. Heh heh — so what if you're the master glassmaker at the production base? Think you can slip out of my hands? You figured hiding inside the glass production base would keep you safe. I can't get in there myself, sure, but I can drive your whole family out and have you obediently hand your daughter over.
The night before, facing the vicious thugs Viscount Silva had sent to pressure him into a marriage, the stubborn Master Mancini had finally bowed his head and agreed to the Viscount's demand to take his daughter as a concubine. But he had imposed three conditions: first, that the Viscount treat his daughter well from now on; second, that a generous bride-price be paid; and third, that the wedding be held quietly, preferably outside the city. Mancini felt that marrying his daughter off to be a concubine was deeply shameful, and if the Viscount made a grand spectacle of coming to collect his bride, he and his wife would die of embarrassment before their neighbors and never be able to hold their heads up again.
The three conditions were eminently reasonable. The third irked the Viscount, but he wasn't so stupid as to be oblivious to his own terrible reputation. A quiet ceremony suited him just fine — aside from the like-minded young lords he caroused with, no respectable noble would attend anyway. They'd hold it at the Feihong Wine Estate. It was his base of operations for revelry outside the royal capital — secluded and private.
The thirty-odd li journey, with the Viscount and his ten-odd guards and fair-weather friends on horseback, took over two hours. The gates of the Feihong Wine Estate stood wide open. The Viscount paid it no mind, riding straight through to the main building's entrance before dismounting.
At this hour, there should have been a small army of servants rushing out to attend to him — taking the horses, offering water, presenting towels, serving tea, bustling all around the Viscount. But after waiting a long while, not a single soul appeared.
Viscount Silva's face purpled with rage. "Where is everyone? Did they all drop dead? Not a single person! You two — go find out where those lazy bones have run off to!"
The two guards acknowledged the order and hurried to the main hall. They pushed open the door and froze. It took them a good while to recover their wits. "My Lord — come quickly! They're all in here…"
"Then why haven't you told them to get the hell out?" The Viscount cursed and strode toward the hall. He had barely reached the doorway when a powerful wave of wine fumes assaulted his nostrils, nearly knocking him flat on his back.
He peered inside and was struck dumb. Bodies lay strewn across the hall in every direction — seemingly every servant and laborer from the Feihong Estate. All of them were dead drunk. Empty oak casks littered the floor and tables, and several large barrels still dripped ruby-red wine.
"Hahahaha…" The gaggle of young lords who had accompanied the Viscount to celebrate his twenty-sixth concubine crowded up to the hall and burst into hysterical laughter at the sight.
"Silva, this is hilarious! Your servants threw themselves a party while you were away — and every last one of them is legless. If you hadn't suddenly decided to hold the wedding at the estate without sending word ahead, we'd never have discovered it. We've been deceived and kept in the dark by your servants all this time. Perhaps we ought to start conducting surprise inspections of our own estates and castles outside the capital, see whether we've been similarly hoodwinked by those base-born wretches…" A perfumed, slick-haired young noble spoke with a smirk, a thoughtful look in his eyes.
"Outrageous!" Viscount Silva seethed, smoke practically pouring from his seven orifices. He was going to be the laughingstock of the capital's noble circles once again. His servants partying behind his back was nothing short of treasonous. "I'll have every last one of those mongrels strung up…"
Ranting, he cracked his riding whip at the servants crumpled on the ground. Unfortunately, they were all unconscious from drink, and the lashes elicited nothing but a few feeble groans. After ten or so strikes, the Viscount was spent — his obese frame couldn't sustain such exertion, and he began gasping for breath.
Raising his head, the Viscount spotted, at the far end of the hall, his own gold-thread-upholstered luxury chair. The estate steward was cradling a massive wine cask, fast asleep on it like a log.
Viscount Silva exploded. "Get that damn dog off my chair! How dare he sit in my chair…"
The two guards charged toward the estate steward. By now the Viscount's entire escort and his friends had flooded into the hall. Even the two Silver Swordsmen tasked with watching the Mancini family had squeezed in, grinning ear to ear at the spectacle.
Then the heavy double doors swung shut without a sound, plunging the hall into darkness.
"Who — who closed the doors? Open them at once!" the Viscount bellowed.
The two people nearest the doors reached out to push them open, straining with all their might, only to give up in helplessness. "Someone's locked the gates…"
"Who's pulling this kind of joke…" The hall erupted into chaos.
"Light some candles first! Who has a flint?" someone shouted.
*Shing shing shing* — the ring of swords being drawn, and five blades lit up with white radiance: the Viscount's three Silver Knights and the two Silver Swordsmen watching the Mancinis. The glow wasn't meant for illumination, but at least they could make out shadowy figures.
*Fwoosh.* A flame ignited at the far end of the hall. Then a rapid series of *fwt fwt fwt* sounds followed as a line of fire blazed through midair, crisscrossing the hall to weave a luminous net. Pendant chandeliers and standing candelabras were lit one after another in quick succession, and the hall blazed with sudden brilliance.
Everyone stared, slack-jawed. The scene before them was too fantastical — like legendary magic.
"Esteemed Viscount Silva, and all distinguished guests — I bid you the warmest of welcomes…" A hoarse voice drifted through the hall. Only then did the crowd realize that someone else had appeared in the Viscount's throne. The estate steward who had been sprawled there had rolled onto the floor, and in the chair now sat a man dressed entirely in black — black clothes, black trousers, black leather shoes. A black cloth covered his head, and a black mask obscured his eyes, revealing only the lower half of his face.
But when he smiled, his white teeth gleamed dazzlingly in the candlelight. The man in black lounged lazily, slouching in the chair with no pretense of proper posture, regarding Viscount Silva and his entourage with an amused half-smile.
"You — who — who are you?" the Viscount demanded, pointing at the black-clad figure with a note of panic.
"Me? Just call me Zorro," the man said with casual indifference. "I'd heard that Viscount Silva of the Kingdom of Trinbert is always generous and charitable, magnanimous beyond measure, able to spend a thousand gold coins without batting an eye. Your reputation precedes you, so I came to pay my respects — and perhaps help the Viscount part with some of his wealth. Surely you don't object…"
Viscount Silva was delighted. So he was famous after all! He broke into a broad grin. "Not at all, not at all…"
Then he received a kick. A noble friend beside him was glaring furiously. "You fool — can't you tell he's being sarcastic? He's here to rob us! He's a bandit!"
Now the Viscount understood, and embarrassment turned to rage. He waved his arm. "Seize him! I want him hanged!"
The two guards who had gone for the estate steward were closest to the black-clad man. They drew their swords and lunged. The figure in black flickered twice in his chair, and both guards collapsed silently to the ground, motionless.
"Get him — all of you, get him!" the Viscount roared. He watched as his three Silver Knights and a dozen-odd
This was deeply unnerving. The man calling himself Zorro had been unarmed. His shadow had simply darted through the charging guards a few times, and every last one of them was down. Several nobles recalled the fire that had blazed through midair and the net of flame that had lit every candle in an instant. A pale-faced noble finally cried out: "He — he's a mage…"
The sound of dripping water filled the hall — several cowardly nobles had wet their pants.
Legends held that mages were cold-blooded killers without a shred of mercy. They experimented on living people — stripping their skin, pulling out their bones, reassembling skeletons into human forms and resurrecting them… Hadn't the popular chivalric novels all depicted brave knights rescuing beautiful princesses from evil mages and dragons?
Viscount Silva's own lower body was wet too. He had wet himself as well. He knew he was no brave knight and no beautiful princess — he was most likely to become a demonstration specimen for the mage's wrath.
Sure enough, the black-clad Zorro let out an eerie cackle. "You've been very naughty. I think I'll have to leave a little mark on each of you."
Zorro swaggered forward. More than half of the remaining twenty-odd people had already crumpled to the ground; even those still standing trembled like leaves.
Suddenly, two streaks of sword-light blazed forth. The two Silver Swordsmen who had been watching the Mancini family made a desperate last stand, their twin blades thrusting one after the other straight at the black-clad man's chest. Zorro appeared frozen in shock, simply watching the two swordsmen sweep past him on either side.
"Yes! He's done for! We're—" The nobles who witnessed this scene saw in their minds' eyes Zorro sliced into four pieces by the two blades. A cry of elation had barely escaped their lips before the sight before them plunged them back into despair.
Zorro still stood there, perfectly intact. The two Silver Swordsmen who had dashed past him had both fallen face-first to the ground, motionless.
"Heh heh — happy, are we?" Zorro's hoarse laughter rang out. "Strip them all bare!"
At that moment, the nobles noticed that six large men had appeared among them — all dressed in black, wearing white skull masks. Without a word, they grabbed the nobles with terrifying strength. One seized a noble, and with a few tearing sounds, ripped every stitch of clothing from his body. Then, gripping both arms, hauled the naked noble before Zorro.
A bloody letter "Z" appeared on the noble's chest. The branded man shrieked in agony and promptly passed out.
---
A day and a night passed. The servants sprawled across the hall floor, still reeking of wine, finally began to regain consciousness. Their heads still throbbed, but that was merely the aftereffect of severe intoxication — a few glasses of water would set them right.
The estate steward shook his head, still feeling as though he were dreaming. The estate had been invaded by a band of ferocious outlaws — but these outlaws had demanded no money and committed no assaults. They had simply forced everyone to drink, beating anyone who refused flat and pouring wine directly from the casks down their throats until every last person was dead drunk. Even the steward himself, drunk as he was, had been dragged back and force-fed for another half day. The Feihong Estate had wine in abundance, after all — fine wine at that. The steward had held out with admirable resolve, but in the end he too had been overwhelmed…
Could there really be outlaws like this in the world? The steward clutched his head and pondered for a long time, until a lowly estate worker came running, seized him by the arm, and dragged him outside. It was only when he was pulled beyond the hall that the steward noticed the Viscount's mounts, carriages, and other conveyances still parked in the courtyard…
The Viscount? They searched every room in the estate, but Viscount Silva and his guards had vanished without a trace.
Impossible — the Viscount had to be somewhere on the premises. He was far too fat to have left on foot, and why would anyone walk when they had mounts available? Search again! The steward lost his temper. He couldn't shake the feeling that the outlaws' forced drinking binge was part of some scheme — one aimed squarely at the Viscount…
Finally, in the deepest wine cellar beneath the estate, they discovered the whereabouts of Viscount Silva and his party. The servants extracted the Viscount and his friends and guards from the cellar — half-frozen, naked, huddled together for warmth, nearly stiff as boards.
In truth, the Viscount and his companions had woken up long ago. When they found themselves sealed inside the cellar, they had cried for help for an entire day. But the cellar was the deepest underground vault, and the door above was buried under piles of debris. Not only could their voices not carry outward — even if they had, it would have made no difference. Every servant on the estate was passed out drunk in the main hall.
By midnight, everyone's voices had gone hoarse. Cold and starving, they had no choice but to huddle together for warmth. The November weather, deep underground in the dead of night, was bitterly cold. Had the searching servants not found the unusual heap of debris piled in front of the cellar door and thought it suspicious — clearing it only to discover the Viscount and the others trapped inside — Viscount Silva and his party might very well have frozen to death, and no one would have been the wiser.
Before long, a large contingent of the royal capital's garrison forces arrived at the Feihong Wine Estate. News of Viscount Silva's ordeal spread through the capital like wildfire — the mage called Zorro, the skeletal soldiers he had conjured, the mysterious "Z" brand seared into everyone's skin. Questions abounded without answers.
The estate steward and the servants, however, all told the same story: it had been nothing more than a gang of vicious outlaws who liked to force-feed people wine. There had been six or seven of them…
After two frantic days of investigation, the two Silver Swordsmen — their jaws shattered beyond the ability to speak — finally reminded people of what had been forgotten. The Mancini family of three had vanished. This was the master craftsman who possessed every secret of glass production. The matter had finally exploded.
"Why was this Mancini craftsman and his family able to leave the royal capital?" King Trinbert VII of the Kingdom of Trinbert asked with a dark expression, addressing the Capital Security Minister who stood before him.
Indeed — as a glassmaker, Mancini enjoyed generous compensation but had forfeited his personal freedom. Apart from the royal capital and the glass production base, he had no right to go anywhere else. Otherwise, the Kingdom of Trinbert could not have kept the secrets of glass production under wraps for nearly two hundred years.
And so, the full truth was laid bare before the king.
"String up Viscount Silva for me — hang him in the square before the royal palace! Hang those West Gate sentries at the gate itself — their failure to conduct inspections is the gravest of sins! As for those two Silver Swordsmen assigned to surveillance, execute their entire families — they forgot their duty! Protecting the glass artisans was also their mission. Only when absolutely necessary may an artisan be killed to preserve the kingdom's glassmaking secrets — not merely watched in passing!
"And those base production facility managers who accepted Viscount Silva's gold coins — execute every last one of them. They dared to drive a craftsman who held the secrets of glass production out of the facility. Given enough gold, who knows — they might have the audacity to hand glass artisans over to foreign nations…
"Some mage, some skeletal soldiers — it's all a deception. Their true objective was the Mancini family! Every noble involved in this affair is to be held accountable — investigate every single one to the end. Dispatch agents and determine who orchestrated this conspiracy! I don't care whether it's a particular family or a foreign kingdom — if there is a lead, I will not hesitate to deploy every Great Swordmaster in the realm. The secrets of glass production must be preserved at all costs!"
King Trinbert VII flew into a towering rage, and a bloody purge swept through the Kingdom of Trinbert…
…(To be continued.)