Chapter 69 : Chapter 69
Chapter 69: The Lamb’s Fangs, and the Humble Hound
The main keep. The lord’s bedchamber.
Caesar stood before a basin of icy water and, expressionless, plunged his face into it.
The biting cold instantly drove away the last remnants of alcohol and left the mind that had worked through the entire night even clearer—and even colder.
When he lifted his head, droplets of water slid down his pale and handsome face. In those deep violet eyes there was none of the heroic warmth from last night’s revelry with the soldiers, only a depthless calm.
Like the dead stillness of the sea before a storm.
“My lord.”
Roland’s figure appeared soundlessly in the doorway like an iron tower.
He had already changed into a clean suit of chainmail and looked utterly refreshed, clearly untouched by last night’s revelry.
“Is everything arranged?”
Caesar asked in an even tone as he wiped his face with a coarse piece of linen.
“Yes.”
Roland’s voice was as steady as ever.
“Thomas has already taken men to assume control of the city patrols. Barrett is still suffering from a drunken stupor, but I have already had him dragged off the top of a wine barrel. By your order, Black Dragon’s Wing’s training begins today at double intensity.”
“Good.”
Caesar nodded.
He walked to the window and pushed open the crude frame cut directly from a single slab of black rock.
The morning wind poured in, carrying the Wailing Wastes’ unique freshness of dust and death mixed together.
His gaze crossed over the walls and turned eastward.
“They should be here soon.”
…
Caesar’s prediction proved more precise than the finest hourglass.
By the time the sun had climbed high into the morning sky, a small mounted party appeared on the horizon outside the City of Miracles.
This time there were no murderous Temple Knights, nor the eerie Deathbird Honor Guard.
Only a dozen or so riders had come, dressed in the Church’s standard white surcoats, escorting a plain black carriage.
The whole group looked like harmless clergy sent out to inspect some parish.
Yet when they drew close to the City of Miracles and saw its five-meter-tall walls of rough black stone, every rider unconsciously drew rein.
“By the Father God…”
One young knight escort stared at the black giant city rising from the wasteland and could not help whispering in shock.
“The reports said the city’s diameter was… ten kilometers.”
“I thought it had to be a mistake.”
The eyes of another escort were similarly filled with astonishment.
A city ten kilometers across was perhaps nothing special in the heart of the Empire.
But on this god-forsaken Wailing Wastes, to raise such a fortress from nothing in less than a year and bring it to this scale… that was no longer a miracle.
It was a divine work.
Or perhaps something more unholy still.
“Silence.”
A calm voice carrying unquestionable authority came from inside the carriage.
The knights immediately closed their mouths, reverence showing on their faces.
The carriage stopped before the city gates.
This time, the gates were not shut.
Roland stood just inside them with a squad of Black Dragon Guards. There was neither a line of welcome nor any open hostility. It was simply the stance of men waiting for a visitor whose arrival had long been expected.
The carriage door opened, and a middle-aged man dressed in a white linen priest’s robe stepped down.
He looked to be around forty. Slightly stout, with a smile on his face as warm as the spring breeze.
His short golden hair was combed flawlessly in place, and his sky-blue eyes were full of sincerity and compassion.
This was Fabian, the most capable acolyte under Cardinal Inquisitor Augustus.
He was not a warrior.
His weapons were his tongue and a heart more venomous than a viper’s.
“Good day, Sir Roland.”
Fabian smiled and took the initiative to offer Roland a perfectly proper Church greeting.
He could even call Roland by name without hesitation, which made it obvious he had prepared thoroughly before coming.
“By Lord Augustus’s order, I have come specifically to visit Lord Caesar von Valerius.”
His posture was humble, his tone almost devout.
Roland regarded him with an expressionless face, then stepped aside and opened the path.
“My lord is expecting you.”
“You have my thanks.”
Still smiling, Fabian walked calmly into the City of Miracles beneath the cold gaze of the Black Dragon Guards.
As he went, he silently observed the city from the corners of his eyes.
The main avenue was broad enough for eight horses to ride abreast.
Though the buildings on either side were crude, they had been planned in orderly fashion.
And what disturbed him most was that he did not see the dejection and despair of a defeated city on the faces of the soldiers and townsfolk who passed him. What he saw instead was a near-fanatical sort of excitement.
Something was wrong.
That did not match the reports of a crushing first defeat and shattered morale at all.
The smile never left Fabian’s face, but the vigilance in his heart rose to its peak.
The main hall of the keep.
The fire in the hearth was not burning strongly, making the whole chamber feel somewhat chilly.
Caesar sat on his lord’s seat with a thick bearskin cloak over his shoulders. His face looked a little too pale.
He did not rise. He merely lifted his eyelids slightly when Fabian entered, taking it as sufficient greeting.
“Acolyte Fabian, please sit.”
His voice carried a faint weakness that was hard to detect.
“Thank you for your kindness, Lord Valerius.”
Fabian sat in the guest’s place and looked at Caesar with concern written plainly on his face.
“My lord, your complexion appears… less than well.”
“After hearing the battle report, Lord Augustus was deeply concerned. He specifically ordered me to come and see you, and he also sent with me the Church’s finest Holy Light potion.”
As he spoke, he drew a crystal vial from his robe. Inside was a thick golden liquid like molten sunlight.
Caesar looked at the vial without the slightest flicker of reaction.
Inside, he sneered. A weasel paying respects to a chicken, and bringing a bottle of rat poison along as a gift.
“You have my thanks for Lord Augustus’s concern.”
He coughed twice, making his voice sound even weaker.
“It is nothing serious. Merely an old wound left behind by my earlier breakthrough.”
He paused, and a look of pain and self-reproach came over his face.
“It is only a pity for those brothers who followed me and lost their lives at Grayrock Town.”
The performance was so flawless it would have shamed even the finest actor in the Empire.
“They were all good men. It is only that I… I was too eager to purge the Empire’s festering poison and underestimated the undead’s cunning.”
Watching the sincerity on Caesar’s face, Fabian sneered inwardly.
Little fox. Quite the actor, aren’t you?
But on the surface, his expression softened with heartfelt pity.
“The dead are gone, my lord. You must not blame yourself too harshly.”
“They died so that the Father God’s radiance might once more shine upon this land. Their souls will ascend to heaven and enjoy eternal peace.”
He smoothly recited a short elegy. Then, in the next instant, he shifted the topic.
“Lord Augustus understands your pain, and he understands your determination to fight for honor.”
“That is why he specifically sent me here—to discuss with you how justice might be won for those brave warriors who fell!”
Here it comes.
Caesar sneered inwardly, though his face showed only confusion.
“Justice?”
“Yes, justice!”
Fabian’s tone grew heated.
“The undead of Grayrock Town must be purified!”
“The monsters who slaughtered your men must be ground to dust!”
He leaned forward slightly, his voice full of suggestion and temptation.
“Lord Augustus has already decided to personally lead the main force of the Temple Knight Order in a full assault upon Grayrock Town!”
“We will uproot that tumor from the wasteland completely!”
“And he hopes that you, and the heroic Black Dragon Guard under your command, will fight beside us as the left wing of the allied host and share in this supreme honor—purging heresy and avenging your fallen brothers!”
The words were dressed up beautifully.
Revenge. Honor.
But Caesar heard only four words beneath it all.
Go serve as cannon fodder.
He fell silent.
He lowered his head and looked at the hand resting on his knee, as though making a decision of great difficulty.
The hall fell into silence.
Fabian kept smiling, but in the depths of his eyes flashed a trace of contempt.
He could already guess what Caesar was thinking.
He wanted to fight, but feared another defeat.
He could not bear to part with the pitiful little force he possessed, yet neither could he let go of the noble’s empty concern for appearances.
Just as expected of a young man who knew only cultivation and had never truly seen the world.
Only after a long while did Caesar slowly raise his head again.
His face was full of struggle and pain, until at last all of it melted into one long sigh of helplessness and unwillingness.
“Acolyte, I accept your good intentions with gratitude.”
“To fight beside Lord Augustus would be the greatest honor of my life.”
His voice was hoarse and heavy.
“But… I fear I am willing in heart, yet powerless in body.”
“Oh?”
Fabian raised his brows in feigned surprise.
“Cough… cough, cough…”
Suddenly, Caesar bent double in a violent fit of coughing. He hastily covered his mouth with a handkerchief, and his narrow shoulders shook as though he might cough out his lungs altogether.
When he lowered the cloth, a vivid splash of red stained the white fabric.
Fabian’s pupils contracted ever so slightly.
“My lord!”
He rose at once, alarm written all over his face.
“It is nothing…”
Caesar waved a hand weakly and sank back into the chair with a bitter smile.
“To be honest with you, I fear that in my current state, my Battle Energy will not recover for another month or two.”
He spread his hands, his face full of desolation and decline.
“At the moment, I am a cripple.”
“Black Dragon Guard may still be capable of battle, but without an Earth Knight like myself to hold the center, throwing them against the undead army would amount to sending them to die for nothing.”
“So I can only… disappoint Lord Augustus’s good intentions.”
He looked at Fabian with eyes full of sincere apology and the pain of a strong man unable to return to war.
Every word was perfectly reasonable and emotionally convincing.
A young lord whose subordinates had just suffered a crushing defeat, who himself was now gravely weakened by an old injury, choosing to recuperate and preserve his strength—nothing could be more natural.
Fabian watched him in silence. For the first time, the smile on his face stiffened.
He could not see a single flaw.
Caesar’s complexion, his breathing, even the blood he had coughed up—it was all as perfect as something out of a handbook.
And yet every instinct in Fabian’s heart was screaming.
False. All false. The boy is acting.
But he had no proof.
So all he could do was smile and answer in a tone full of concern and regret.
“I see.”
“If your health is suffering, then naturally recovery must come first.”
“I will report your condition to Lord Augustus exactly as it is.”
“You have my thanks for your understanding.”
Caesar said it with visible gratitude.
“In that case, I will not disturb your rest any further.”
Fabian rose with elegant composure and bowed.
“This vial of Holy Light potion—please do accept it. I hope it may prove of some help to your wound.”
With that, he placed the potion on the table, turned, and left the hall without the slightest hesitation.
Only after his figure had vanished completely did the weakness and pain on Caesar’s face recede like the falling tide.
He picked up the bloodstained handkerchief and glanced at it.
It was not his blood.
It had splashed there last night when some drunk fool got into a fight.
Casually, he tossed the cloth into the hearth and watched it curl black and turn to ash in the flames.
Then he picked up the vial of Holy Light potion radiating a sacred aura, pulled out the stopper, and sniffed it once.
A cold smile curved at his lips.
“They mixed powdered Bone-Eroding Water into a Holy Light potion.”
“How very like the Church of Light.”
…
Once he stepped out of the keep, the warm smile on Fabian’s face was gone, replaced by an icy gloom.
He climbed into the carriage without a word. Only after the convoy had passed through the city gates and left the sight of the Black Dragon Guards behind did he slam his fist against the inside wall of the carriage.
“Bastard!”
He cursed under his breath, the compassionate face now twisted by anger into something vicious.
“That little cur! He actually dared refuse!”
“He actually dared refuse Lord Augustus’s kindness!”
Outside the carriage, one of the knight escorts lowered his voice and asked,
“Acolyte, is that Caesar truly badly wounded?”
“Badly wounded? Nonsense!”
Fabian hissed like a serpent.
“If he were truly badly wounded, he would have fallen to his knees and clutched at my legs, begging us to send troops to avenge him!”
“He is acting! That little bastard is only making excuses! He cannot bear to part with those five hundred iron cans under his command!”
Another escort spoke indignantly.
“What does he think that tiny bit of family wealth can accomplish?”
“In yesterday’s battle, that so-called Black Dragon’s Wing died like dogs!”
“If Roland had not rescued them quickly, there would not even be anyone left now to bury the corpses!”
“He still has five hundred Black Dragon Guards! Heavy infantry capable of holding against the undead arrow rain head-on!”
“And yet he actually dares hide such an elite force and refuses to lend it to us! That selfish coward!”
“He wants us and the undead to tear each other apart while he hides behind us and waits to reap the profit! Quite the clever scheme!”
Listening to his subordinates, the killing intent in Fabian’s eyes nearly solidified.
“You think that little bit of cleverness can fool Lord Augustus?”
“He is too naïve.”
A cold smile reappeared on Fabian’s face.
“He thinks that because he refused us, he can safely hide there like a turtle inside its shell?”
“He does not understand that sometimes a humble hound knows far better than a roaring lion how to tear open a prey’s throat.”
He drew a black signal tube from his robe.
“Since he refuses to hand over his blade of his own accord, then we will help him a little. We will make certain he has no choice but to draw it.”
Fabian looked south, toward the lands occupied by the undead, and something vicious gleamed in his eyes.
“I would like to see whether this ‘gravely wounded’ lord can still remain seated when the tide of the undead reaches the foot of his five-meter walls.”