The wheels, wrapped in cork and resin, rumbled swiftly along the flat main road...
Inside the carriage, Instructor Marlin leaned against the sofa seat up front, letting out soft snores.
Oh, there was a small latch here—the window could actually swing inward. A cool evening breeze washed over his face, wonderfully refreshing. Lorist decided to leave the window open and watch the streetscape scroll by outside.
"Hm? Stop!" Lorist called out.
"Whoa—" Reidi hauled on the reins. The carriage lurched forward another seven or eight meters before coming to a halt, the two Zeno horses snorting in displeasure.
"What's wrong, Master?" Reidi asked.
After becoming Lorist's squire, Reidi had taken to calling him "Master." In Galentea, a squire addressing his charge as "Master" didn't carry any slave-master connotation—it simply meant someone who held authority over his squire's affairs.
"Turn around. Go back and stop at that small square with the streetlamp," Lorist ordered.
"Yes, Master." Reidi pulled the reins, guiding the two Zeno horses into a turn and heading toward the little square illuminated by the lamp.
The carriage stopped. Lorist hopped out and walked toward a long bench beside the flowerbed in the center of the square.
The bench sat directly beneath the streetlamp. On it, one adult and two small figures huddled close together. The middle-aged man in the center had heard the commotion and opened his drowsy eyes. When he saw Lorist approaching, he froze. "It's you..."
"It's me. Are these your children?" Lorist suddenly realized who he was looking at.
This middle-aged man was none other than Lorist's final challenger from the morning's duel—the mercenary who had left a deep impression on him: Grey Potterfeng.
"Yes. This is my son, Schwad, twelve years old. And this is my daughter, Elisa, seven." Potterfeng introduced his two children.
"You and the children were going to spend the night here?" Lorist couldn't believe that a peak Silver-rank swordsman had fallen so low. Sleeping rough on a bench in a roadside square—only vagrants and beggars did that. Had he not spotted this admirable opponent sitting with two children from the carriage and confirmed his eyes weren't playing tricks, Lorist never would have told Reidi to turn back.
A bitter smile crept across Potterfeng's face. "We just arrived here from the Krisen Empire. We didn't have much to begin with, and I was greedy—I thought I could definitely win the challenge, so I scraped together every last coin to register. We've been selling off our luggage to get by these past few days. Until today, I was still full of confidence. I never imagined I'd lose to you and disappoint the children. The landlord had bet a large sum on me and I owed him rent for days, so he threw us out. Now we have nowhere to go and not a single coin to our name. We have no choice but to make do here for one night."
Lorist felt a pang of sorrow. If his
"Haven't you considered finding some temporary work?" Lorist was puzzled. In theory, a Silver-rank expert like Potterfeng should have had no shortage of takers—even a simple guard position would do. Joining a mercenary corps was another possibility. Many outfits would have paid a hefty signing bonus to recruit an expert of Potterfeng's caliber.
"I tried, but it didn't work out." Potterfeng shook his head with a bitter smile. "I already regret coming to
Potterfeng's voice carried grief and anger, tinged with a faint sense of loss and a hidden thread of regret. If only he hadn't been so confident of winning, if only the landlord hadn't egged him on, if only the hefty prize money hadn't clouded his judgment—he wouldn't have risked everything, pouring all his money into registering for the duel. That ten-gold-piece registration fee would have been enough to leave this city of cold indifference and stinking money far behind, to buy a few acres and a small house in some remote mountain village, and give the children a stable life.
Potterfeng hung his head in vexation.
"Where in the Krisen Empire are you from?" Lorist asked.
"I'm from the Northland," Potterfeng said.
"What? What a coincidence. I'm from the Krisen Empire too—the Northland as well. I gave my name during the duel this morning:
"The Nortons? The Roaring Bear of the Far North? I've heard of them—a famous military noble family of the Northland. I learned about them in the army. Many commoners enlisted hoping to earn military merits and become nobles with hereditary lands, just like the ancestors of the Norton family. But how many have actually achieved that over the centuries? However, how did you end up in Morant City, accepting challenges from Silver-rank swordsmen?" Potterfeng looked puzzled.
Lorist gave a wry smile. "It's a long story. I left home ten years ago to study in Morant City. Then the civil war broke out in the empire, and I lost contact with my family—we haven't communicated in six or seven years. You're from the Northland, so you must know how things stand with my family now?"
Potterfeng looked relieved, but then shook his head. "Sorry, I don't. I haven't been back to my hometown in nearly twenty years myself. The Northland is vast—my hometown is Munde Town, quite far from your family's territory. Even on horseback, it would take three or four days. I left home at twenty-one to serve in the imperial army. I was later promoted to officer and stayed in the military ever since. Since there was no one left back home, I settled in the imperial capital when I married. But then the empire descended into civil war—three princes fought for the throne for six years, reducing a once-prosperous empire to rubble. When the war finally ended and I went home, there was nothing left. My wife was dead. The house had been burned. My two children were surviving by scavenging through garbage. If not for the kindness of our neighbors, I might never have seen them again. I gathered what little we had and brought the children here. I'd hoped to give them a peaceful home..."
So Potterfeng was a military man—a seasoned veteran accustomed to life and death on the battlefield. No wonder he had remained so calm and composed during the critical moments of the morning's duel. Moreover, with his peak Silver-rank skills, he could have easily and silently relieved his financial troubles by taking from ordinary households. But he hadn't done that. He'd rather endure sleeping on a roadside bench with his children than compromise his principles. That kind of resolve was truly rare and admirable.
At that moment, Reidi came to Lorist's side, glanced at Potterfeng and the children, and asked in a low voice, "Master, what's going on?"
Lorist smiled and extended an invitation to Potterfeng. "You don't truly know someone until you've crossed swords—and besides, we're fellow Northlanders. My friend Potterfeng, we can't just stand here chatting until dawn, can we? Might I have the honor of inviting the three of you to my humble home? I'd also like to hear about the situation back in our homeland."
"Well..." Potterfeng hesitated. He knew Lorist meant well, but he was reluctant to accept the invitation in such a destitute state.
A cold gust of wind swept through, and the two sleeping children shivered.
Lorist stepped forward and blocked the wind. "Old friend, I know you still carry a soldier's pride and don't want to accept pity or charity. But you have to think of the children. It may be spring, but the night wind is cold. Sleeping like this, they could easily catch a chill. If they fall ill, you'll have even bigger problems. Besides, we're from the same homeland. If I don't help you now, I couldn't live with myself. You know we Northlanders are famous for our generosity and hospitality. What's there to think about? Let's go."
"Very well. Then we'll impose on your kindness." Potterfeng stopped hesitating and nodded, accepting the invitation.
He bent down and picked up his sleeping little daughter. Just as he was about to wake his son, Lorist put a finger to his lips. "Don't wake him. I'll carry him."
"Let me do it, Master." Reidi stepped forward in one great stride, bent down, and scooped up the little boy.
At sixteen, Reidi held the twelve-year-old as though he weighed nothing at all—without so much as a reddened face or a heavy breath. Er hadn't been exaggerating about his strength.
Potterfeng bent down again and picked up a small bundle from the bench—a longsword wrapped in cloth. It was a personal belonging, and without being asked, Lorist wouldn't presume to carry it for him.
"Get in the carriage first. There's a drunk colleague inside—we need to drop him off. It's on the way anyway, though you'll have to squeeze in a bit." Lorist gestured toward the carriage.
"The trouble is ours, not yours. Please don't be so polite, Mr. Norton." Potterfeng expressed his gratitude.
Lorist turned toward the carriage. "Call me Locke. 'Mr.' makes me uncomfortable. Let's use names—I'll call you Potter, how about—"
"Watch out! Left!" Potterfeng's alarmed shout rang in his ears.
Lorist twisted aside. Four half-foot-long blades of light were hurtling toward him—
Dodge—no. Behind him stood Potterfeng holding his daughter and Reidi holding the boy. If he dodged, those four light blades would cut straight through them. From the corner of his eye, he could already see Potterfeng turning, trying to shield the daughter in his arms with his own body. He clearly assumed Lorist would dodge and had braced himself for the strike. Reidi, meanwhile, was frozen in place by the sudden crisis.
Damn—a Gold-rank enemy. Where's my sword? Lorist reached for his longsword and found it missing, remembering that he'd taken it off when he boarded the carriage and left it behind the rear sofa. Thank the heavens his short sword was still at his waist.
His mind settled. This strength, this speed—it was nothing more than the light blades of a one-star Gold-rank swordsman. No real threat, nothing to fear. It was just that using a short sword as his primary weapon felt a bit awkward at first.
"Get the children into the carriage—now! Reidi, drive back to the tavern. I'll handle this here—go!" Lorist hissed in a low voice.
"Oh? You actually managed to block my four light blades. Looks like this Black Iron-rank fighter has some skill after all." Two silhouettes appeared at the edge of the square, advancing at a leisurely pace.
"Don't worry—we're not after your life. We've been commissioned to take one of your arms, that's all. It'll be over quick. Just bear with it and you'll be fine. Heh." One of the figures thought himself witty—or perhaps he was simply confident of victory.
"If you want my arm, you'll have to trade your lives for it," Lorist replied coldly.
"Heh, we're not Silver-rank. Two Gold swordsmen killing you would be easier than slaughtering a chicken—at least a panicked chicken might fly onto a roof. Where do you think a big fellow like you is going to run?"
"Senior brother, enough talk. Are you going or am I? Let's finish this quickly and get back to drink. The two women our junior brother found are still waiting in the room." The other figure was growing impatient.
"Sword." A longsword was extended toward him.
It was the longsword Lorist had left in the carriage. Potterfeng had carried his daughter inside, grabbed the sword, and come back.
"They're after me. This doesn't concern you." Lorist took the longsword and glanced back, seeing Reidi driving the carriage away. Half his worry eased.
"Just now, those light blades were aimed at Elisa and me too." Potterfeng's voice was edged with fury as he drew his own sword with a sharp ring. Had Lorist not blocked those four light blades, he and Elisa would have been struck down. The attackers were targeting Lorist, but they'd indiscriminately targeted his daughter and himself as well. How could he swallow that?
"They're Gold-rank. Be careful," Lorist warned.
"Hmph. It's not as though I've never fought Gold-rank opponents. I've cut down a few on the battlefield," Potterfeng said.
"Heh, big words. I'd love to see how you plan to take down a Gold-ranker like me. Junior brother, two targets, one each. For Locke, we take an arm as the youngest junior brother ordered. As for this Silver-ranker—just kill him."
"Fine."
The moment the word left his lips, the two silhouettes charged forward with killing intent so cold it cut to the bone—