The sound of the retreating caravan—the rhythmic, desperate pounding of hooves and the screaming of iron runners against frozen earth—faded into a ghostly echo, swallowed by the dense, snow-heavy pines of the ravine. Deacon stood alone in the center of the narrow trail, a single figure in midnight-blue against the blinding, oppressive white of the woods. He didn't look like a Lord now. He looked like a man who had stripped away every pretense of nobility, leaving only the jagged, functional core of a soldier.
Three knights of the Rose Guard emerged from the treeline with a terrifying, synchronized grace. They didn't move like the clumsy feudal levies Deacon had trained in Oakhaven. They moved with the economy of motion found in predators. Their armor, a burnished silver etched with twisting brier patterns, seemed to hum with a low-frequency vibration that made the very air around them feel heavy. These were Inquisitorial enforcers, men whose bodies had been hardened by years of training and whose weapons were as much metaphysical as they were physical.
The lead knight, a man whose presence felt like a physical weight, stepped forward. He held a longsword in a two-handed grip, the blade glowing with a faint, ethereal violet light. This was "Rose-Iron"—an alloy designed to interact with the nervous system of its target, disrupting the flow of mana and muscle control with even a glancing blow.
"Lord Cassian," the knight's voice emerged from behind the featureless silver visor, sounding hollow and metallic. "By the authority of the Imperial Auditor and the High Church of the Rose, you are commanded to stand down. You are charged with the possession of forbidden mechanica, the harboring of a treasonous claimant, and the murder of Imperial agents in the North. Yield, and your death will be swift. Resist, and you will be returned to the Capital in chains for the Inquisitors to unravel."
Deacon didn't respond with a noble's speech or a hero's challenge. He didn't even adjust his posture to a traditional dueling stance. Instead, he let his longsword hang low at his side, his body coiled in a "High-Ready" combat stance he'd learned in the rain-slicked kill-houses of Fort Bragg. His mind was no longer processing the world in terms of "honor" or "rank." He was scanning for variables: the depth of the snow, the angle of the sun through the branches, the reach of the Rose-Iron blades, and the heartbeat-by-heartbeat mechanics of a three-on-one engagement.
"You talk too much," Deacon said, his voice a flat, dangerous rasp.
The knight to the left didn't wait for a signal. He lunged with a speed that defied the weight of his plate armor, his blade whistling through the air in a horizontal arc aimed at Deacon's throat.
In a traditional Manhwa duel, the protagonist would have parried with a dramatic clash of steel. Deacon didn't parry. He stepped inside the knight's reach, a sudden, explosive movement that put him shoulder-to-shoulder with the armored man. He used the knight's own momentum against him, grabbing the man's sword-arm with his left hand and driving the hilt of his own sword—a heavy, iron-weighted pommel—directly into the knight's visor.
There was a sickening crunch of metal meeting bone. The knight stumbled back, his violet blade flickering as his concentration broke.
"One," Deacon whispered.
The other two knights moved instantly, realizing they weren't fighting a noble, but a brawler who used physics as a weapon. They attacked in a pincer movement, their blades weaving a web of violet light meant to pin Deacon against the trunk of a massive pine.
Deacon dropped low, his cloak sweeping the snow. He didn't swing his sword in a wide arc; he used a "short-thrust" technique, aiming for the gaps in the armor—the armpits, the groin, the neck. He felt the cold bite of the violet light as one blade grazed his shoulder. It felt like an electric shock, a numbing cold that tried to seize his muscles. His "Logistical Insight" flared—the classic Manhwa visual cue of glowing sapphire eyes—as his brain analyzed the magical interference and rerouted his motor commands through sheer force of will.
He kicked the lead knight in the knee—a brutal, snapping strike that utilized the rigid toe of his riding boot. As the knight's leg buckled, Deacon pivoted, his longsword flashing in a vertical "slash-and-recovery." The steel didn't cut through the Rose-Iron, but the force of the blow, delivered with the mechanical leverage of his entire body, sent the knight's sword spinning into the deep snow.
"Two," Deacon counted, his breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts.
The third knight, the leader, stepped back, his posture shifting from aggression to caution. He saw the way Deacon moved—the lack of wasted motion, the way he treated the woods as a tactical environment rather than a stage. He realized he was facing something the Empire hadn't accounted for: a modern tactical mind inhabiting a medieval body.
"You fight like a gutter-rat, Cassian," the leader spat, his blade glowing brighter as he channeled more power into the Rose-Iron. "Where is the pride of your house?"
"My house is built on iron and results," Deacon replied. "Pride is for the men I leave in the snow."
The leader charged, but this time, he wasn't just swinging a sword. He unleashed a pulse of violet energy—a "Rose Burst"—meant to paralyze anyone within five feet.
Deacon anticipated the surge. He didn't try to out-magic the knight. He pulled a small, heavy object from a pouch on his belt—one of Miller's experimental "Grounding Pins." It was a copper rod wrapped in silver wire. He jammed the pin into the frozen earth and held the pommel of his sword against it.
The violet energy hit the blade and was immediately channeled into the ground, sparking harmlessly against the frost.
The knight's eyes widened behind his visor. The "miracle" of his weapon had been defeated by basic grounding physics. In that moment of hesitation, Deacon closed the gap. He didn't use his sword for the kill. He used a "disarm-and-takedown," sweeping the knight's lead leg and driving his knee into the man's chest.
He stood over the fallen leader, the tip of his longsword resting against the slit of the knight's visor.
"Tell Valois that the North doesn't forget," Deacon said, his voice cold and final. "And tell him that if he sends more of you, I won't be this gentle."
He didn't kill them. Not because of mercy, but because of logistics. Dead knights meant a full-scale military invasion. Beaten, humiliated knights meant a report of "unexplained supernatural resistance," which would buy Oakhaven more time for the bureaucratic wheels of the Empire to turn in confusion.
Deacon turned and began to jog back toward the caravan's trail, his body aching from the strain of the violet energy. He reached the edge of the ravine just as the sun began to set, casting long, bloody shadows across the path.
Waiting for him, hidden in a thicket of brush, was Julian.
The younger brother hadn't fled with the caravan. He had rolled off the medical sledge and dragged himself into the woods, his face pale and his breathing ragged. He was holding a small, jagged rock in his hand, his eyes wide as he watched Deacon emerge from the trees, covered in snow and the silver dust of the Rose Guard's armor.
"You... you beat them," Julian whispered, his voice a mix of terror and a new, unwanted respect. "They were Rose Guards. They were the Emperor's chosen. And you broke them like they were children."
Deacon walked up to him, his sword still in his hand. He looked down at his brother—the boy who had tried to kill him, the boy who shared his face, and the boy who was the only bridge left to his old life.
"I told you, Julian," Deacon said, reaching out a hand to help the boy up. "The world is changing. You can either be a part of what we're building, or you can die for a crown that doesn't even know your name. Now, let's get you back to the sledge. We have a home to reach."
Julian looked at Deacon's hand. He looked at the woods where the "miracles" of the Empire had just been systematically dismantled by a man who didn't believe in them. Slowly, tentatively, he reached out and took Deacon's hand.
It wasn't a reconciliation—not yet. The hatred was still there, the rivalry still burned. But as Deacon pulled his brother to his feet, he felt the weight of the "David" memories settling into a new, solid form. He wasn't just saving a claimant. He was saving a brother. And in the frozen silence of the Western Woods, the Shadow Command had just gained its most dangerous, and most vital, new member.
The caravan was waiting a mile down the trail, the "Thunder-Claps" still smoking in the distance. As Deacon led Julian back toward the sledges, he knew the "Trade Corridor" arc was over. They had the iron. They had the coal. And they had the truth.