Night fell, shrouding the forest in dim darkness and wrapping the camp nestled within its depths.
Blake nimbly dropped from the tree, moving silently to the camp's perimeter to observe it closely. Under the veil of night, the camp lay eerily quiet—no one dared light a fire. The soldiers leaned wearily against boulders and tree trunks, resting while keeping watch. Though they maintained a stern and vigilant facade on the surface, Blake could easily see that these men were already at their breaking point, putting on no more than a show of strength. It was hardly surprising. Days of relentless marching had drained them of all energy. Even though they were not yet completely safe, human beings were not made of iron. Having reached the border river valley and caught sight of their reinforcements, they had unconsciously let their guard down. Their caution was not entirely without reason, however. To avoid alerting enemies, they had refrained from lighting fires, and even the lanterns inside the carriages were hidden behind thick curtains. In such conditions, it was equally difficult for foes to spot them as it was for them to spot foes. Everything now depended on raw strength. The soldiers placed absolute trust in their general's abilities—a high-ranking swordsman's sensory perception was beyond question. Their only task was to recover their strength, ready to respond at a moment's notice. If an enemy could evade General Surt's senses, they would be far beyond the soldiers' ability to handle anyway. Only raw recruits believed that daily training could save their lives; these veterans, who had fought tooth and nail on the battlefield for years, trusted more in their instincts and luck.
Precisely because of this, they failed to detect an uninvited guest sneaking into their midst under the cover of night.
The soldiers had not grown complacent despite the imminent end of their mission. They remained scattered around the camp's perimeter, sealing off every possible gap and covering their comrades' backs. Yet even this could not make up for the gap in strength. Blake did not even bother to crouch low to sneak past the camp. On the contrary, he moved with the poise of a nobleman attending an invitation-only banquet, walking forward with elegant composure. His footsteps merged seamlessly with the rustling of the wind through the forest, completely masked from detection. His figure, cloaked in black, blended perfectly with the swaying tree shadows under the night sky. He advanced silently, slipping into the darkness whenever a sentry turned his head, effortlessly crossing the defensive lines and entering the camp's interior.
In the center of the camp, two carriages stood quietly. Blake approached slowly, pausing to listen intently for a moment. Then he turned and leaned against the back of one of the carriages. Though thick curtains blocked all light between the carriage's interior and the outside world, Blake could still sense three distinct auras within. Clearly, his targets were inside.
With that thought, Blake said nothing more. He simply shrugged his shoulders, closed his eyes, and began focusing on the conversation unfolding inside the carriage. The faint murmur of voices, once Blake concentrated his senses, became crystal clear.
"Uncle Surt, how much longer must we wait?" a young boy's voice asked. Though he tried to sound steady and calm, the unmistakable urgency and anxiety in his tone betrayed his true feelings.
"I apologize, Your Highness. For the safety of you and Her Highness, we must wait a little longer here. I promise it will not be much longer," Surt replied, his voice remarkably calm. From his tone and the way he spoke, it was clear he was well accustomed to offering such reassurances.
"But…" the boy sounded unconvinced at Surt's answer.
"After all, we are the royal family of Orlt! Why must we flee to Wester? Can we not drive those detestable Sith back with our own strength?"
"…Things are not as simple as you think, Your Highness." Surt let out a long sigh.
"Please do not forget the late king's last wish. You and Her Highness are the hope of the Orltan Kingdom. Both of you must survive and carry on the royal bloodline. As long as the royal lineage endures, we will one day reclaim our land and everything that belongs to Orlt. I understand perfectly well that neither of you wishes to leave this soil, but the situation has reached a critical juncture—we have no other choice. I beg you both to understand."
"Uncle Surt…" The atmosphere inside the carriage grew heavy. Just then, Blake tensed, opening his eyes and sliding silently to the side. Almost simultaneously, a figure approached the carriage and tapped lightly on the door.
"Who is it?" Surt's authoritative voice rang out from inside. The figure outside immediately responded.
"It is I, General Surt."
"Oh?" Surt sounded surprised. He quickly opened the carriage door and stepped down. Standing before him was none other than the aide-de-camp serving under General Celt. The man was still dressed as an adventurer, but a hint of urgency flickered across his brow.
"What brings you here?" Surt asked anxiously, noting the man's troubled expression. He glanced back at the carriage, his voice laced with concern.
"I have… some very important matters to discuss with you, General. In private."
"In private?" Surt's eyes narrowed. He placed a hand on the hilt of his sword at his waist, and the air around them instantly grew tense.
"I see no reason to hide anything from His Highness the Prince and Her Highness the Princess."
"On the contrary," the young aide replied, his expression unchanged. He stood tall and straight before Surt, showing no signs of intimidation despite the general's imposing aura.
"Frankly, this is a matter that I—or rather, General Celt—would prefer not to be heard by their Royal Highnesses. It could potentially affect future relations between our two nations. But General Celt has told me that you are a man of great wisdom and integrity, General Surt. I trust you will make a prudent decision and judgment."
"…" Surt frowned. He knew the aide spoke the truth. After all, while both royal heirs were of noble blood, they were far from being seasoned statesmen. In fact, they were still in the midst of their training, not yet mature enough to handle political affairs calmly and rationally. For this reason, Surt had secretly worried that allowing them to enter Wester in their current state might lead to undesirable consequences. But worry was futile—he had no other choice. As he had said, their top priority was to survive first, then deal with the difficulties that lay ahead.
"It will not take up much of your time," the young aide said with a faint smile. He extended a hand, gesturing toward the dense underbrush on the edge of the camp.
"…" Surt stared at the outstretched hand, falling silent for a moment before nodding.
"Very well. I agree."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a fierce, killing aura erupted from Surt's body, roaring outward in all directions. This caused Blake, hiding behind the carriage, to raise an eyebrow. Faced with the spreading aura, Blake's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword at his waist, drawing it out slightly.
The pitch-black blade slid out of its scabbard without a sound. At the exact same moment, the aura surging toward Blake hesitated briefly, then continued onward as if detecting nothing out of the ordinary, spreading to the surrounding area.
"Shall we go?" Surt said, only after confirming there were no threats or suspicious presences around. He turned and followed the aide toward the deep forest on the edge of the camp.
Blake did not follow to eavesdrop on their conversation. Unlike Surt, as a Born Knight, his sensory perception far surpassed that of any mere high-ranking swordsman. In fact, the moment Surt turned to leave, Blake had already detected several hidden "rats" lurking in the distance, creeping stealthily toward the camp. Their purpose was obvious even without needing to guess. Thus, Blake calmed his mind, merging his figure silently with the shadows beside the carriage, watching wordlessly as the drama about to unfold before his eyes.
It was now midnight.
Most of the soldiers had already fallen asleep from exhaustion. Even the few sentries who managed to stay awake were drained beyond belief. No matter how alert a person was, there were always moments in the day when their guard slipped. And midnight was the hour when human beings were at their sleepiest. The cool night breeze rustling through the trees sounded like a natural lullaby, lulling everyone into a deep slumber.
"Haaah…" One soldier finally gave in, raising his hand to stifle a yawn. At that very moment, Death arrived silently.
"Swish!" A jet-black arrow shot out from the underbrush without warning, piercing his chest effortlessly. The poor soldier had no time to react—he did not even manage to lower his hand before the powerful impact sent his body flying backward, pinning him firmly against a nearby tree. Only then did his hand drop limply to his side, the crossbow in his grasp clattering to the ground—but before it could hit the dirt, a pair of hands emerged from the grass, catching it silently.
"Hm?" Noticing the commotion, another soldier turned his head curiously, squinting as he tried to make out his comrade's figure. But before he could see the man pinned to the tree, a black shadow sprang from the grass beside him. The dagger in the shadow's hand traced a perfect arc through the night, slicing through his throat with effortless precision. The black figure immediately caught the soldier's collapsing body, dragging it silently back into the underbrush. The entire sequence of actions was executed in one fluid motion, with no one the wiser.
"Not bad," Blake murmured, a look of approval crossing his face. He could tell these hidden attackers were no ordinary men—they were skilled assassins, each possessing mid-rank upper-tier strength. They were definitely not regular soldiers. After all, considering the alliance between Wester and Orlt, using ordinary soldiers for such a task would leave too many loose ends. For King Wester to dispatch a unit of assassins with such formidable strength and skill, he must have been absolutely certain of their loyalty. Of course, in terms of absolute power, these men were nothing to Blake. But the assassination techniques they displayed earned his genuine admiration. Unlike open combat, assassination was often a sophisticated art—a delicate combination of skill, strategy, and perfect timing that elevated it to a work of art.
Though these assassins were still a long way from reaching such "artistic" heights, their remarkable teamwork and mastery of timing were enough to draw Blake's praise.
In the blink of an eye, the sentries posted around the camp's perimeter had all been eliminated. Blake, hidden in the shadows, watched as the black-cloaked figures crept silently out of the grass, advancing toward the camp's interior without a sound. A flicker of excitement stirred within him.
"Brother, shall we make our move?" Misaya asked.
"Father, is it time to act now?" Semia echoed.
"No," Blake shook his head, dismissing the sisters' suggestion. Clearly, the two girls hiding in the tree shadows had also sensed the unfolding events, but now was not the time. In Blake's eyes, they needed to wait a little longer to ensure they made their entrance at the most perfect moment—this was merely the appetizer, after all.
Then, let me enjoy the show a little longer.
With that thought, Blake shrugged his shoulders, crossing his arms as he leaned against the carriage, watching a black-cloaked man raise his dagger and slit the throat of a sleeping soldier with effortless ease.
"Hm?" Surt paused, frowning as he glanced back toward the camp. Just now, he had felt a faint sense of unease, but the feeling had vanished as quickly as it had come. He stopped in his tracks, turning to face the young aide following behind him, his voice deepening.
"Speak your mind here."
"Very well," the young aide nodded, seeing that Surt was insistent. He fell silent for a moment, as if organizing his words, before finally speaking up.
"Forgive my impertinence, General Surt, but I must ask—once you have escorted their Royal Highnesses safely to Wester, what do you intend to do next?"
"Naturally, I will assist and advise their Royal Highnesses," Surt replied without hesitation.
"I will dedicate myself to helping them grow stronger and wiser. Orlt is not yet destroyed—Orlt will never be destroyed! As long as we are alive, I firmly believe we will one day reclaim our land from those detestable invaders!"
"Your resolve is truly admirable, General Surt," the young aide said, his eyes fixed intently on Surt as he spoke.
"But have you ever considered… an alternative path?"
"What do you mean by that?" Surt's expression darkened slightly.
"What I mean, General Surt," the young aide replied, unfazed by Surt's obvious displeasure, his smile still intact.
"Is that His Majesty the King of Wester holds you in the highest regard. If you are willing to serve as a general in our Westeran army, His Majesty will most certainly reward you generously. I am sure you are aware that war with the Sith Empire is imminent. As Orlt's greatest general and the former frontline commander against the Sith, you undoubtedly possess unparalleled knowledge of their forces. Thus, His Majesty has sent me to ask for your answer… if you agree to join the Westeran Kingdom, we will grant you the rank and privileges of Fourth Legion Commander!"
"I refuse!" Surt replied without a moment's hesitation.
"I am a general of Orlt, and I will never betray my allegiance! Please convey my gratitude to His Majesty the King of Wester for his kind offer, but I must decline. If your kingdom requires my strategic expertise or intelligence on the Sith Empire, I will provide it unconditionally. But I cannot join your ranks. A loyal subject serves only one lord. I have sworn an oath to His Late Majesty the King of Orlt, to defend all that belongs to Orlt in the name of the sacred Mana. Therefore, I must regretfully decline His Majesty's generous offer…"
"With all due respect, General Surt, that is not the right way to look at it," the young aide persisted, his expression unchanged despite Surt's refusal.
"If you agree to join Wester, His Majesty will grant you even greater power and status. Of course, I know you do not care for such things—but if your goal is to avenge Orlt and restore its glory, would this not be the best path forward? Forgive my frankness, but even if His Majesty were to place his utmost trust in you as you are now, you are still an officer of Orlt. Do you truly believe that, under such circumstances, His Majesty would entrust you with command of his most elite troops and the highest levels of state power? Moreover, is not overwhelming strength precisely what their Royal Highnesses need to reclaim their kingdom?"
"…" This time, Surt did not respond immediately. He fell silent, deep in thought.
The aide was right, of course. No matter how much trust Wester's king placed in him, he would always be seen as an outsider—a former Orltan general. Wester would never fully entrust its most critical affairs to him. In other words, if he truly wanted to gain the strength needed to restore Orlt, he would have to forge a much closer bond with Wester. But Surt had sworn an oath… this was a dilemma indeed.
"Aaaah!!!" Just as Surt was caught in a quandary, a blood-curdling scream suddenly shattered the night's silence. At the sound, Surt's expression changed drastically, and he turned instinctively toward the camp.
"What is going on?!" As Surt's gaze shot toward the camp, the young aide standing before him suddenly broke into a cold smile. In the blink of an eye, he drew the dagger at his waist and stabbed it toward Surt's chest.
"—Die!" As a high-ranking swordsman, Surt sensed the attack the instant it was launched. He leaped backward, roaring with rage as he drew his sword and brought it crashing down.
The gleaming white blade struck the young aide's shoulder dead center. But this supposedly fatal blow did nothing to halt the man's assault. The young aide let out a maniacal laugh, lunging forward with all his strength. Even as the sword blade cleaved through his shoulder, the dagger in his hand pierced deep into Surt's body.