A boy in a tattered linen shirt stood in Blake's way, a wooden stick in hand, glaring fiercely at the young man before him. Faced with the boy, Blake merely arched an eyebrow and said nothing—for just then, Keith, who stood nearby, had already started shouting.
"What are you doing, Ilan? Stop this at once! This lord is *not* with the garrison!"
At the sound of that, the boy named Ilan froze. He took a step back, studied Blake carefully for a moment, then lowered his stick—but the wariness in his expression never faded.
"Who *is* he, Mr. Keith? Why did you bring him here?"
"I am your new master."
This time, Blake waved a hand dismissively and replied crisply.
"I have bought all of you from Keith. From this moment onward, you work for me. Do you understand?"
"Mas—"
Ilan frowned, clearly unaccustomed to his current status. But he bit his lip, choosing not to dwell on the word. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, snorted coldly, and glanced at Keith standing to the side.
"Hmph. I don't care which noble house you hail from—being our master won't be an easy task. Let me tell you something: all of us refugees are surrounded by those damned soldiers right now. Do you have what it takes to get us out of here… *master*?"
"Where there's a will, there's a way."
A faint, confident smile tugged at Blake's lips. True, the boy named Ilan was clearly trying to ruffle his feathers—but his little ploy was far too childish. Still, Blake understood the refugees' skepticism of their situation. They were displaced people from a foreign land, naturally resistant and wary of integrating into a new environment. What's more, this was not the territory of Oult, but the realm of Wester. Though the two nations were allies, it was like living with a neighbor—no matter how friendly the relationship, staying under someone else's roof always felt awkward and uncomfortable.
To make matters worse, the incident they had encountered upon arriving here had only deepened the refugees' sense of unease and hostility toward Wester. And Blake knew that erasing such feelings would take time.
"That petty garrison captain is beneath my notice," Blake said. "All you need to do is pack your belongings and prepare to leave. Any objections?"
"…Tch!"
The boy ground his teeth. He had brought up the garrison captain specifically to deflate the noble's arrogance. After all, while the captain was their bitter enemy, he and this young noble were both subjects of Wester. To the refugees from Oult, despite their vastly different statuses, the two men were still countrymen—and they themselves were outsiders. Distrust ran deep between them. From Ilan's perspective, even if this noble disliked the captain, they were still fellow Westerans. Why would he stick his neck out for a bunch of foreign refugees?
The boy frowned, about to retort—when a fit of violent coughing erupted from inside the tent. At the sound, Ilan abandoned his argument with Blake and turned to hurry into the tent. Blake cast a questioning glance at Keith beside him, seeking an explanation.
"Mr. Morland sustained severe injuries while protecting his daughter during the earlier clash," Keith said. "His condition hasn't improved these past few days…"
I see.
Blake turned, about to say something to Ophelia—when several mercenaries and refugees came stumbling over, their faces pale with terror and obvious anxiety.
"It's bad! The garrison captain is here with his men!"
At that moment, the atmosphere outside the refugee camp had grown extremely tense.
The One-Eyed Man scratched his helmet, a murderous glint flashing in his remaining eye. He stared at the gaunt refugees before him with a disgust as if they were nothing but a pile of dung. Behind him stood dozens of fully armed garrison soldiers, their expressions stern, their gaze fixed straight ahead. And arrayed before them, just as many emaciated refugees stood their ground, their faces grim but unyielding, blocking the captain's path.
"I'll say this one last time!" the One-Eyed Man roared. "Hand over the murderers who killed my son, and I'll let you worthless wretches go!"
"Never!"
Faced with the armed soldiers, the refugees trembled with fear—but they clenched their jaws, squared their shoulders, and refused to budge. It was a kind of solidarity rarely seen among ordinary people, forged only through immense suffering. Or perhaps it was the only thing these refugees had left—the dignity and pride of being human beings.
"You'll never take those men from us! Come on, then—kill us all if you dare!"
"…"
The One-Eyed Man ground his teeth, his gaze fixed on the refugees, the killing intent in his heart burning hotter by the second. Of course he wanted to slaughter them all—but he was merely a garrison captain, with neither the authority nor the troops to pull it off. In such circumstances, he could not afford to make a reckless decision. What's more, from his dealings with them these past few days, he knew the refugees were not weaklings. Push them too far, and they would stop at nothing. Despite being unarmed and malnourished, even a cornered rabbit would bite. If he gave the order to attack, who knew if these refugees would not stage a desperate counterattack and storm Emerald Town? Should any casualties or property damage occur, his position as captain would be forfeit. Worse—he might even be hanged by the Bird family to appease public anger.
The One-Eyed Man knew full well that his son had been a lecherous scoundrel since childhood, with a notorious reputation in the town. When news of his death at the hands of the refugees had spread, quite a few people in Emerald Town had sympathized with the refugees. This had left him in a dilemma—but in the end, he had resolved to see this through to the bitter end. After all, the boy was his son. No matter how despicable he had been, he was his only flesh and blood.
To add to his resolve, the One-Eyed Man had heard from his superiors that Emerald Town was soon to change hands, and his garrison unit would be recalled. There was no need to worry about his reputation anymore—let the newly appointed lord deal with the mess afterward!
Originally, the One-Eyed Man had planned to starve the refugees into submission, to wait until they were at their wits' end and forced to beg for mercy. But things had taken an unexpected turn. Only moments ago, he had received word that Keith had taken several strangers to the refugee camp—among them a young man who looked like a noble. This had piqued his attention. He knew his station was no match for a noble's, and that nobles cared little for the lives of men like his son. After much deliberation, he had reluctantly decided to confront them, hoping against hope that this noble was a nobody with no powerful backing—someone he could intimidate with the name of the Bird family.
Of course, the One-Eyed Man knew this was a long shot—but he had to try.
But when he saw a young man dressed in noble's robes step out from the crowd, his heart sank.
"I am the commander of the Emerald Town Garrison," he said, forcing a formal tone. "Might I ask your name, sir?"
"You are not worthy to know my name."
Blake waved a hand, cutting off Kaster, who had been about to announce their identity. He knew that revealing his status would make the captain back down immediately—but now was not the time. To earn the refugees' loyalty, he had to give them a taste of hope first. Besides, before coming here, he had already heard from Keith about the One-Eyed Captain's "illustrious deeds."
So he had decided to establish his authority in another way—one that would resonate with both the refugees and his newly acquired territories.
Unlike most nobles, Blake had no qualms about antagonizing the people under his rule. He was not truly a subject of Wester, nor did he feel any loyalty to the kingdom. His only reason for claiming these outer towns was to secure their financial resources. To Blake, whether they were citizens of Wester or refugees from Oult, they were all simply "outsiders"—and thus, he owed no favors to either side.
"What is your business?"
Without giving the captain a chance to reply, Blake paused briefly, then asked calmly, as if the man before him was not worth sparing a second glance.
"Thi—"
The blatant arrogance of Blake's tone angered the One-Eyed Man, but the young noble's unflappable composure sent a chill through everyone present. No one could fathom what this young aristocrat was thinking. Even so, it did not mean the captain would back down.
"I apologize for the interruption, sir," he said stiffly, "but I must inform you that these refugees are currently under the surveillance of the Emerald Town Garrison. They stand accused of murdering an innocent garrison soldier—and harboring the perpetrators…"
"Lies! You liar!"
"You're twisting the truth!"
At the captain's words, the refugees immediately erupted in angry retorts, glaring furiously at him. But Blake merely raised his left hand—and the refugees fell silent at once. They stared at the noble uneasily, unsure of what choice he would make.
Yet even then, the One-Eyed Man refused to relent. He knew the consequences of offending a noble—but thinking of his son, he summoned up his courage.
"I do not know what connection you have to these refugees, sir," he said, "but I must remind you that they are in the garrison's custody. Without orders from my superiors, they cannot leave this place."
"These refugees are now my slaves," Blake replied, his expression calm as he rested a hand on the hilt of the longsword at his waist, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
"And I intend to take them with me. Do you plan to stop me, Captain? I'd like to see you try."
"…"
The One-Eyed Man gritted his teeth, his heart plummeting. This was exactly the attitude he had expected from a noble—utter disdain for men like him. On any other day, he might have swallowed his pride and backed down. After all, he still had a life to live. But now, the captain was ready to gamble everything. He knew he had only half a month left in his post before returning to the Bird family. Though it was called a "return," the One-Eyed Man knew full well that the Bird family had no shortage of garrison soldiers. Once he went back, he would effectively be retired.
It was the double blow of his impending dismissal and the loss of his son that had made the captain reckless. He had spent his entire life groveling before nobles—it was time to show them what he was made of. Otherwise, people would continue to treat him like a doormat. So what if he offended a noble? He could always take his family and his wealth, flee to another lord's domain, and live out his days in seclusion. Was that not an option?
With that thought, the One-Eyed Man took a deep breath. When he raised his head again, his face was set with grim resolve.
"If you insist on taking these refugees with you," he said, each word measured, his hand tightening around his sword hilt, his expression cold and severe,
"then, bound by duty, I have no choice but to stop you."
"In that case, I'm afraid your valuable property will suffer some losses."
At the captain's words, the refugees froze, then fell silent instantly.
They were not soldiers—they were refugees. Though they had courage, as Keith had said, what mattered most to them was their families. Now that the garrison captain had made it clear he was ready to burn everything down, it had the opposite effect of intimidating them. The garrison soldiers were fully armed, after all—and this was Wester's territory. For all their bravado, the refugees knew they were rootless here, with no backing and no power to defend themselves. If they were killed, no one would stand up for them.
With that realization, the refugees couldn't help but take a few steps back, their eyes filled with hesitation and anxiety as they glanced at one another, unsure of what to do next.
Just then, a clear, youthful voice rang out.
"I'm here!"
With those words, the boy Blake had seen earlier emerged from the crowd, striding forward with his head held high. He stared coldly at the garrison captain and snorted.
"I'm the one who killed your worthless son! Take me if you dare—but leave the others out of this!"
"Ilan…"
At the sight of the boy, the refugees' expressions changed. They started forward, wanting to call him back—but were quickly held back by their companions. Deep down, they all knew that this matter had to come to an end eventually. Better to sacrifice one or two lives than to let everyone starve or sicken to death here.
They had traveled so far, endured so much—not to meet another tragic end.
It was a cruel choice, but it was the only one they had.
"Very well."
Seeing a way out, the One-Eyed Man let out a silent sigh of relief. He stared at the boy, well aware that such a young lad could never have killed a seasoned, well-trained garrison soldier. But at this point, did it matter? Now that someone had volunteered to take the blame, he had a target for his rage. Though he had steeled his resolve to fight to the death just moments ago, it was human nature to be bold when cornered—and to seize an escape route when it appeared.
Only a fool would charge headlong into a fight when a way out was offered.
"Since you've volunteered to come forward," the One-Eyed Man said, his face still cold and unyielding despite his inner relief,
"I will not trouble the other refugees. You may take them with you, sir—on the condition that he comes back with me to face questioning."
At that, the refugees' faces were a mixture of emotions. The boy sighed, shot the captain a venomous glare, then squared his shoulders and marched forward.
A flash of black light cut through the air.
In the blink of an eye, the boy froze mid-step. He stared in disbelief at the black sword blade that had appeared out of nowhere, blocking his path, feeling the cold, sharp aura emanating from it—and hearing Blake's calm, unchanging voice.
"When did I give you permission to move?"
"…Huh?"
Ilan looked up in confusion, not understanding what the young noble was getting at. Didn't he realize this was the best possible solution?
"I said this already," Blake stated, his expression unchanged, his gaze that of a superior looking down on a subordinate, a master regarding his servant. And because of that, his words took everyone by surprise.
"You are my slaves now—I paid for you, remember? Acting without your master's orders… it seems you need a lesson in obedience."
"What are you—"
Not only the One-Eyed Man, but also the refugees and Keith stared in stunned silence. They had all assumed that as a noble of Wester, Blake would never take the side of foreign refugees. So when Ilan had stepped forward, everyone had automatically assumed it was the best possible resolution—and that even the young noble would not interfere. But now, seeing Blake's actions, they were left dumbfounded.
Only Ophelia and Kaster, who stood at the back of the crowd, remained calm. Ophelia had guessed the lord's intentions the moment Blake had asked Keith about the garrison captain. Kaster, having witnessed Blake's penchant for unpredictability countless times before, was simply inured to it.
Though Blake's words were arrogant, dripping with the condescension typical of nobles toward their servants, the refugees looked at the young noble before them—and suddenly found him far more likable. At the very least, he no longer seemed as distant or intimidating as he had moments ago.
"Do you truly intend to do this?"
Of all the people present, only the One-Eyed Man's heart sank to the pit of his stomach. There was no worse feeling than having a lifeline snatched away just as you were about to grasp it. He had been ready to fight to the death moments ago—but now, everything had changed, leaving him frustrated and helpless. He didn't know whether to advance or retreat.
"This is my decision," Blake said, his eyes fixed on the black sword in his hand, not sparing the One-Eyed Man so much as a glance, as if the captain was not even worth acknowledging.
"And I already told you—you are not worthy to question it."
"You…!!"
At those words, the One-Eyed Man's anger flared anew. He gritted his teeth and drew his sword with a sharp *shing!* He had abandoned all caution now. This time, he was determined to see this through—no matter what.
"Ophelia."
Just as the One-Eyed Man was about to give the order to attack, Blake suddenly called out Ophelia's name. At the lord's summons, the girl stepped out of the crowd at once and stood beside him.
Violet hair… royal blood?!
At the sight of Ophelia, the One-Eyed Man froze, a realization dawning on him. But Blake wasted no time in asking another question.
"Tell me—what is the punishment for a vassal who draws his sword against his liege within the borders of his domain?"
"For a commoner to threaten a noble with a blade, or for a subordinate to defy his superior," Ophelia replied, her voice clear and unwavering, "is tantamount to treason. The sentence is death."
The moment the word "death" left Ophelia's lips, the One-Eyed Man realized something was terribly wrong. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something—but in that instant, a brilliant flash of white light streaked across everyone's vision.
It happened in the blink of an eye.
The crowd stared in stunned silence at the One-Eyed Man. The garrison captain's hand was still frozen in mid-air, his sword raised halfway—and then, without anyone seeing how it happened, the black sword in Blake's hand was sheathed once more.
A sharp *crack!* echoed through the air.
The One-Eyed Man's sword snapped cleanly in two. A thin, red line appeared on his forehead, stretching downward—and then blood erupted from the wound. His tall body swayed unsteadily for a moment, then crashed to the ground, motionless, a corpse.
"I believe this matter is now resolved," Blake said, turning to face the stunned crowd, his sword now resting at his waist. His gaze then fell on the slave merchant standing nearby.
"Now then, Mr. Keith. You may make the necessary preparations to fulfill our agreement."