Chapter 8 : Chapter 8
Chapter 8. A Pair of Worthies
The wagon wheels no longer rolled over gravel paths, but over rough, reddish soil that grew increasingly coarse.
Sparse drought-resistant shrubs had replaced the lush woodland, and the air was filled with a dry, arid breath.
After more than ten days of travel, Eli’s frontier party had completely penetrated deep into the kingdom’s western frontier.
Eli rode atop his chestnut horse. Even the raven on his shoulder, Coalball, seemed infected by the vastness of the land, occasionally letting out a dull, heavy “caw.”
He looked as far as he could into the distance. The horizon twisted beneath waves of heat, stretching boundlessly in every direction.
A feeling beyond words rose in his heart—so the Kingdom of Orlando was truly this vast.
From the prosperous royal domain to this now unsettling heart of the western frontier,
they had traveled for over ten days, yet it felt as though they had merely climbed from the belly of some giant beast to its shoulder.
“The intelligence system really is a cheat code for wilderness travel…” Eli sighed inwardly once again.
Over these past ten-odd days, relying on the daily use of 【Intelligence Acquisition】,
he had learned where small bands of brigands were gathering and decisively chosen to avoid them.
Knights and supplies were precious assets. There was no need to waste them in needless fights.
Aside from that, he had also found a concealed underground water source that had not yet been contaminated.
Every precisely timed “chance encounter” left the members of the party—especially the veteran Brandon—more and more awestruck by the young master’s “uncanny foresight.”
Whatever lingering doubts they had once harbored had long since vanished, replaced by trust that was nearly blind.
And a few days ago, the number of draws had finally hit the pity threshold, rewarding him with a rare piece of intelligence.
【Purple: Deep within the Forgotten Rift on the western frontier border, in an underground karst cavern.
A secret tomb from the era of the ancient Free City-State Alliance, belonging to Bardel, nicknamed “Iron Hand.”】
Well now. Was this supposed to be his cue to change classes and become a tomb raider?
He silently etched the place name “Forgotten Rift” and the related information firmly into his memory, listing it as a place to explore in the future—once his strength was sufficient.
In addition, the system had also provided several rather informative pieces of intelligence:
It confirmed that at least three other frontier parties had also been dispatched by noble houses from the royal domain and the eastern frontier.
Their leaders were, respectively: the second son of House Roman from the royal domain, the illegitimate son of House Medici, and the illegitimate daughter of Duke Russell of the eastern frontier.
...
As the sun sank westward, it dyed the vast wasteland a magnificent yet lonely shade of gold and crimson.
The party made camp beneath a wind-sheltered sandstone escarpment.
The campfire crackled. In the pot simmered dried meat and drought-resistant tubers gathered along the way, their aroma mingling with the smell of dust.
The knights quietly polished their weapons and armor as they spoke in low voices.
After the tempering of Blood Deer blood and more than ten days of working together, their bearing had clearly changed, sharpened by a new edge.
The Wolf-kin sat around a fire some distance away, eating in silence, while Wolfgang rested with his eyes closed.
Inside the largest tent at the center of the camp, candlelight flickered.
Eli sat cross-legged on a thick woolen mat, his eyes gently shut as his mind sank inward.
House Black’s Raven Breathing Technique circulated slowly.
Thread after thread of black airflow with a metallic texture flowed and cycled through his meridians like running streams.
Under the washing force of that warm yet violent energy, Louis’s bloodline seemed to be reshaped.
He could feel the speed of the blood in his body increasing, his meridians opening, as though he were undergoing a transformation.
After a long while, Eli slowly exhaled, his breath long and steady.
The heat within him gradually settled and returned to stillness.
He had advanced.
High Black Iron Tier Knight.
Rising two ranks in just over ten days already qualified as the sort of talent one might find only once in ten thousand.
Eli could only guess that Blood Deer blood was especially effective for low-tier knights.
In this world, a knight’s power came from the physical force contained within the body, and only through special breathing techniques could it be mobilized.
Once one stepped onto the path of knighthood, the hierarchy was strict, divided into six major stages:
Black Iron Knight, Bronze Knight, Silver Knight, Gold Knight, Titled Knight, and Legendary Knight.
Once one became a Gold Knight, the battle aura within the body could be released outward and condensed into form, allowing one to stand against a hundred foes alone.
Eli felt the battle aura surging through his body. It was several times stronger than it had been more than ten days ago.
The tremendous energy brought by that bowl of Blood Deer blood had been like the finest fuel.
“Hah—”
Feeling the fullness of strength within himself and the increased sharpness of his five senses, Eli clenched his fist in satisfaction.
His starting point might have been low, but his progress had been astonishingly swift.
“Estor,” he called.
The tent flap was immediately lifted, and Estor stepped inside with his back straight. “Young Master, did you call for me?”
“Go bring Brandon here.”
“Yes, sir!”
Very soon, Brandon’s slightly stooped yet remarkably steady figure appeared inside the tent.
After more than ten days of wind, dust, and Eli’s growing trust in him, the numbness that age had ground into the old soldier had completely vanished.
“My lord, you wished to see me?”
“Brandon, how far are we now from Thorne City, the capital of the western frontier?”
Brandon thought for a moment, then lowered his head to study the map spread across Eli’s table, examining it carefully by candlelight.
“My lord,” he replied, tracing a line across the map with his finger, “at our current speed and direction...
it should take roughly another five days before we reach the outskirts of Thorne City.”
“Five days...” Eli rubbed his chin.
Thorne City was the political and military center of the western frontier.
All Frontier Knights had to complete their final registration there and collect the symbolic frontier charter.
More importantly, the earlier one arrived, the more choices one had—and the greater the benefits.
“I understand. Pass the word. We move faster tomorrow,” Eli said in a low voice. “Our destination is Thorne City.”
...
At the same time, a thousand miles away, in the heart of the western frontier—Thorne City.
This great city, built from sturdy obsidian and tempered by countless baptisms of war, now seemed under the setting sun to carry an indescribable heaviness and exhaustion.
At the center of the city, inside the heavily guarded ducal fortress, in a spacious study—
the fire in the hearth blazed brightly.
Behind the enormous mahogany desk was an empty seat.
It belonged to the Grand Duke of the Western Frontier, Federico La Roche, who also served as the kingdom’s prime minister.
But at this moment, he was far away in the royal capital, Orlandia, trapped in the center of a political maelstrom.
Before the desk stood two men burdened with immense responsibility.
The man on the left was tall and lean, cold in expression, handsome of face, yet deeply worn with fatigue.
He was Sir Lucius La Roche, younger brother of Duke Federico.
By temporary order, he had been left behind to manage the western frontier’s daily civil affairs.
The man on the right was like bedrock.
He wore a fine but weathered suit of plate armor and had not removed it even indoors.
Marquess Marcus Hohenzollern.
He was responsible for the western frontier’s military defense, particularly in dealing with the threat from the western city-state alliance.
At this moment, a long list lay spread open on the desk before them.
Marcus’s rough finger jabbed irritably at the names on the parchment, producing dull thuds.
“Look at this! Just look at what kind of trash this all is!”
Marcus’s voice was thick with suppressed anger and deep helplessness.
“The wine barrel from House Roman? The sickly wretch from House Medici? And this one... that notorious wastrel from House Black?
And even worse, there’s a little girl mixed in there too?!
This is the nobles’ idea of supporting the Frontier Edict?
These are the so-called elites they’re sending to serve the kingdom?!”
Lucius La Roche folded his arms, expressionless.
Then he rubbed his brow wearily, and his thoughts drifted uncontrollably back to that summer of blood and fire.
Queen Irene, his lively niece, had died tragically in the royal capital.
Princess Lynn had vanished during her flight, her fate still unknown.
All signs pointed directly toward the aristocratic bloc of the royal domain, and monstrous rage had swept through the entire western frontier.
In a fury, his elder brother Federico La Roche had summoned all his vassals.
Joined by the northern frontier, they had marched east with swords pointed at the royal capital, vowing to demand blood for blood.
For a time, the kingdom had stood on the brink of civil war...
In the end, under mediation from the king and the other two grand dukes within the realm, along with pressure from the Free City-State Alliance watching hungrily from without, both sides reached a compromise.
Federico La Roche became the kingdom’s prime minister and entered the royal capital, there to protect his grandson, Prince Aiden, until he came of age, while also pursuing the truth.
The western frontier received substantial compensation.
On the surface, it looked like a victory.
And yet—
while the bulk of the western frontier’s army was redeployed eastward and the political situation in the royal capital remained tense,
the wolves of the west—the Free City-State Alliance—seized the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
They formed a coalition army and brazenly tore up the fragile peace agreement.
With the force of thunder, they smashed through Storm City, the first major stronghold guarding the western frontier’s defensive system.
A chain reaction followed. The first line of defense collapsed, the defending forces suffered catastrophic losses, and broad stretches of fertile borderland fell into enemy hands.
The defenders could only retreat to the second defensive line, relying on the surrounding network of fortresses to hold on by sheer force of will.
To slow the enemy’s advance,
Lucius had hardened his heart and carried out what could only be called a brutal scorched-earth strategy—burning villages, filling in wells, torching crops...
Although the allied armies of the city-states later withdrew because of their overstretched supply lines and internal disputes over plunder,
what they left behind was utter devastation.
And much of it had been his own “masterpiece.”
Lucius’s sorrowful gaze swept past the window.
Fortunately... his brother had shown foresight and evacuated a great many commoners in advance. Otherwise, the consequences would have been unthinkable.
But the lost land, the withered economy, the pressure of reconstruction...
all of it weighed heavily upon the shoulders of the man now governing in his brother’s stead.
“The Frontier Edict...” Lucius murmured, staring at the list with a complicated expression.
“Brother... are you trying to use the ‘garbage’ cast off by their families to fill the buffer zone between both sides?
Or to use their lives to wear down the dangers on the fallen lands, buying time for the western frontier to breathe and rebuild?
Or... do you truly hope that among this rubbish, one or two miracles might appear?”
Marcus spoke up. “Miracles? Sir, you think too highly of these pampered noble brats.
Even if the God of Light opens His eyes, the best they can hope for is surviving long enough to reach their fiefs. And you expect them to develop land?
Hah. I’d say this is simply the duke’s way of weakening the other nobles.”
Lucius gave a bitter smile. After a long silence, he finally waved a weary hand.
He swept the list aside to one corner of the desk, as casually as though he were brushing away a pile of unpleasant refuse.
“Enough... let them do as they please. Let them live or die on their own.”
His voice returned to its customary coldness, the cruelty polished into it by reality.
“Marquess Marcus, our efforts should remain focused on rebuilding the defensive lines and pacifying the refugees. As for these... Frontier Knights?”
A cold curve rose at the corner of his mouth.
“Let them... go and experience what a real battlefield truly is...”