On the tenth night after Mana's Sacred Moon had once again wheeled across the night sky, autumn finally descended upon the continent. Red and gold supplanted the lush green of summer as the new dominant hues. The vibrant, life-giving young leaves faded away, surrendering to the crimson cloak that draped the land.
Crimson as blood.
"Aaaaagh!!"
A sword blade glinting with cold light was wrenched from a body, followed by a scream, a gush of blood, and a sickening spill of entrails. They tumbled forth like blood-mud from the gaping wound, surging forth like a breached dam's floodwaters.
Pathetic.
Sander pulled his longsword free, a greedy smile playing on his lips as he stared at the last few survivors before him. Covered in wounds and blood, they huddled trembling on the corpse-strewn wilderness, their faces ashen with terror. The expensive robes on their bodies were torn to rags, and the womenfolk behind them had fallen listless—several had even fainted to the ground. Wait, they couldn't die just yet. They had to live, to watch their wives and daughters be ravaged to death. It would be such a thrilling spectacle. They had abandoned their lands and people, trying to flee this hellhole—this was the punishment they deserved. Still, the skin of these noblewomen was so delicate, so soft, so tight and exhilarating. They were a world apart from the loose, worn-out tavern dancers—plus, they were kinkier and less likely to carry diseases. This was a profitable trade indeed.
"Alright, lads."
Sander paused, raising his right hand, ready to issue the order he had barked dozens of times before. But then, the sound of horse hooves clattering in the distance forced him to freeze mid-movement. Another group? Perfect. If they were here, they weren't leaving. A smirk curled Sander's lips at the thought. His raised hand quickly shifted into a new gesture, and he turned around. But when his eyes fell on the newcomers, Sander froze in shock.
What in the blazes was this?
What stood before him was a caravan. At first glance, they seemed no different from any other travelers—but a closer look revealed countless oddities.
Leading the way was a young man with black hair, clad in an exquisitely tailored but somewhat worn noble's gown, riding atop a horse. Flanking him were two girls who looked no older than ten, holding parasols and walking silently at his heels. Behind them stood a formation of three riders per row, five rows deep. These cavalrymen wore pitch-black, bizarrely shaped armor, mounted on tall steeds, forming a protective ring around a carriage at the caravan's center. The carriage itself was equally strange: the driver was a golden-haired girl in a quirky maid's outfit, her head tilted slightly as she chatted with a red-haired girl walking beside the caravan, stride for stride. The red-haired girl exuded a valiant air; her silver armor perfectly accentuated a slender figure that would make any man's mouth water, her crimson tresses blazing like leaping flames. A dozen more female swordsmen, dressed in identical armor, stood guard around the carriage—they were the only ones in the caravan who did not ride horses.
A flag fluttered at the heart of the caravan: on a purple field, a white rose and a sword were intertwined.
What kind of motley crew was this?
Sander's eyes widened, baffled. He had seen all sorts of noble caravans, but never one this bizarre. Still, the women in this group were all stunning. Whether it was the two little girls following the young man, or the women behind them—they were all top-tier beauties he had never laid eyes on before!
Sander couldn't help glancing back at the captives he had already had in his grasp. Compared to these new prey, those women who had once set his loins on fire were nothing but vulgar, makeup-caked sows!
Sander grinned.
At that very moment, the caravan also spotted the scattered, menacing figures blocking their path ahead.
Sander was about to crack some crude joke at the young man's expense, but the latter merely cast him a fleeting glance—no trace of panic, no confusion, none of the arrogance and disdain typical of young nobles. He just sighed, as if thoroughly exasperated, and asked casually:
"Another batch. How many is this now, Charlotte?"
"The fifth, Master."
Seated on the carriage driver's seat, the golden-haired girl held a whip in one hand and covered her mouth with the other, giggling softly.
"It seems Your Luck is truly abysmal, Master. I'd wager you've run into every last band of riffraff on this road. By the Divine, you really ought to say a prayer."
"I'll do that once we reach our destination."
The young man sighed at his maid's teasing, turning his gaze to Sander—or rather, he didn't specifically fix his eyes on him, yet Sander felt as if the young man's sharp stare had pinned down every single one of his men in that instant.
"I'm tired of wasting words. Five seconds. Choose—die, or get lost."
"..."
Sander froze, and so did everyone beside him. The young man was certainly man of few words—so few, in fact, that they were left dumbfounded, struggling to grasp his meaning.
But in the next heartbeat, that stunned silence exploded into furious rage.
"You son of a—!!"
Sander whipped his right hand upward, roaring furiously. He had dealt with arrogant nobles before, but never one who looked down on them so utterly! What a joke—his gang had over a hundred and fifty men, while these folks had at most a hundred. What right did they have to act so high and mighty in front of him?! Sander had already made up his mind: once they crushed these upstarts, he would keep the young noble alive, force him to watch as he violated his women to death!
But the black-haired young man paid no heed to Sander's murderous thoughts. He merely raised his right hand and snapped his fingers.
At that signal, the cavalrymen standing guard around the carriage suddenly sprang into action. They urged their horses forward in a flash, forming a barrier between the black-haired young man and Sander in the blink of an eye. With a unified *shing!*, bright blades were drawn, pointing straight at the bandits. Beneath the overcast sky, a faint but brilliant glow flickered across the cavalrymen's bodies, swirling like flowing water over their skin.
Seeing this, Sander's final curse died on his lips. Utter shock and terror overwhelmed his anger in an instant, the violent contrast leaving him gasping for breath. The words he had swallowed back turned into a cold draft, sending him into a fit of coughing—and he didn't even manage to finish that simple action before he knew disaster was imminent.
By the Divine—Mid-Ranked Swordsmen?! How could there be so many of them!!
But there was no turning back now.
For the black-haired young man merely waved his hand forward casually—a gesture so slight it was like swatting a fly.
Then, Sander watched as the black-iron tide surged toward him like a roaring wave.
A wave of death.
Watching the battle unfold before his eyes, Blake felt a flicker of boredom. In truth, the moment he had made his decision, he had immediately begun preparations, mustering nearly all his available forces. This time, everyone accompanying him was his most trusted confidant. Not only did the twin sisters follow him as always, but Charlotte had also come along, bringing members of the Black Cat Special Combat Unit. As the main force of this expedition, Judy had brought five Wraith Warriors and led the first batch of mercenaries who had successfully passed the trials and been elevated to Mid-Ranked status. Even Ophelia had joined them. Of course, the former princess had not hesitated to voice her objections to Blake's orders—after all, his departure would strip Duskwood Forest of nearly all its elite talents, and someone had to stay behind to hold the reins. What's more, Princess Faye couldn't be left unattended; who knew what trouble she might stir up? But Blake had overruled her concerns firmly, entrusting Faye's care to the Wraith Maids. To placate the princess, Blake had even taken the time to share a dinner with her. Though no one knew what had been said during that meal, the way Faye had clung to him at their farewell—looking like a newlywed wife reluctant to part with her husband—told Ophelia all she needed to know. No doubt Blake had spouted some nonsense about swearing to return and marry her once the war was over.
When Ophelia had teased him about this with a mix of curiosity and malice, Blake had stared at her in surprise, thought for a moment, then shook his head.
"I'm not stupid enough to wave that dangerous flag."
Ophelia wasn't entirely sure what he meant by that, but judging by his expression, he had no intention of dwelling on the matter further.
Even so, Ophelia had been deeply reluctant to leave Elysium City. But Blake's reasoning had been sound: as his adjutant, she needed to familiarize herself with their combat methods. This expedition to the battlefield would be an invaluable opportunity for everyone to train together and adapt to each other's fighting styles. For this reason, Blake had left only a skeleton garrison to defend the territory, bringing everyone else along. With such a legitimate and compelling argument, Ophelia had found herself with no room to object.
That didn't stop her from taking precautions to ensure no trouble arose in their absence, however. The day-to-day affairs of Elysium City were now in the hands of the former mayor of Duskwood Town—a less-than-ideal solution, but a necessary one. All major matters would simply have to wait until their return. The maids and Wraith Warriors would be responsible for the security of the castle and Elysium City respectively; though their numbers were small, their strength made this more than manageable. Everything else would proceed as usual.
Despite her lingering misgivings, there was little else Ophelia could do. Reluctantly, she had left Duskwood Forest, casting one last glance over her shoulder at every step as the caravan set off toward Redcliff Fortress.
The journey, however, had been anything but smooth.
To avoid drawing attention, Blake had deliberately chosen an isolated, little-traveled path, planning to bypass the bustling territories of the various nobles and reach Redcliff Fortress quietly. Of course, he had been well aware that an "unfrequented" road didn't mean he would be the only traveler upon it. After all, roads were made by people—where one ventured, others would follow. He hadn't expected to have the path all to himself.
Even so, the current situation left Blake feeling speechless. Over the past few days of travel, they had already run into four bands of bandits—and in Blake's discerning eyes, these were no ordinary brigands. Chances were, they were agents with ties to the Sith Empire. Otherwise, common mountain bandits wouldn't have possessed such fine equipment or maintained such strict discipline.
Where there were bandits, there were always targets. Their prey was none other than the travelers on this road—and these days, the majority of travelers on this backpath were nobles fleeing the impending war. Most had brought their families along, loaded down with gold, silver, and valuables, making them prime targets. What frustrated Blake most, though, was his abysmal luck as of late.
Banditry wasn't exactly a nine-to-five job; most brigands acted on a whim, striking day or night without warning. Yet ever since Blake had set foot on this path, he had been running into these pests at every turn—during the day, at night, while on the move, even while resting… Blake couldn't help but wonder if he reeked of gold, luring them out of the woodwork like moths to a flame.
Shaking off the thought, Blake lifted his head. For a moment, he considered grabbing one of the bandits and demanding answers—but he quickly dismissed the idea, knowing it was nothing more than a string of terrible, unlucky coincidences. Instead, he sat quietly atop his horse, waiting for his soldiers to finish hunting down the remaining bandits. After all, against Mid-Ranked Swordsmen, these bandits—who were little more than common soldiers—stood no chance. Their weapons couldn't even penetrate the protective aura that Mid-Ranked Swordsmen wove around themselves. The battle had been a one-sided slaughter from the very start, with nothing particularly noteworthy to hold Blake's attention. He soon shifted his gaze to the captives who had been caught in the crossfire. They had originally been huddled in the middle of the bandits, but now they were completely out of danger. When the cavalry had launched their attack, the bandits had been too busy fighting for their lives to spare the captives a second thought.
As Blake's eyes fell on the group, his gaze narrowed slightly, and he detected something amiss.
For people of their supposed station, they seemed far too composed.
Along the way, Blake had encountered plenty of nobles like them—most had been scared out of their wits, trembling like leaves in the wind. It was hardly surprising; anyone who would abandon their lands and people to flee from danger was inherently cowardly. But this group was different. Though their faces were pale, as if with terror, their upright postures betrayed their true identities: they were not ordinary nobles, but well-trained soldiers. Still, would even soldiers run away? While that wasn't unheard of, their current demeanor didn't quite match the image of fleeing cowards.
Just then, the screams of the dying bandits grew sparse. As Blake refocused his attention, an orc rode over to him, lifted his helmet's visor, and stared at the young man with a stoic expression.
"Reporting, Your Excellency—mission accomplished."
"I see."
Blake merely nodded at the orc's report, offering no words of praise. It was only to be expected. Fifty-odd Mid-Ranked Swordsmen, mounted on horseback—if they couldn't defeat a hundred-odd bandits with the strength of common soldiers, that would have been a cause for concern. He had nothing more to say on the matter. In truth, these orcs were the first batch of warriors to undergo the transformation and be elevated in rank. Under Judy's rigorous training, their strength had already improved by leaps and bounds; combined with the orcs' inherently robust physiques, they had found it relatively easy to break through their limits. In the first round of advancement trials, all but three members of this Black Iron Orc Unit had passed, becoming Mid-Ranked Swordsmen. A number of the mercenaries had also successfully advanced.
Of course, true advancement was never this easy. To boost their power, Charlotte had first provided them with a diluted version of a potion used extensively during the Age of Chaos—a draught that enhanced one's ability to perceive and tap into soul power, allowing them to break through their limits more easily. Then, under Alia's design, the artisans had forged a new set of magical equipment, gear that could channel soul power more efficiently and amplify its effects. It was only with the aid of these weapons and armor that these newly minted Mid-Ranked Swordsmen possessed such formidable strength. Without them, the power they had gained would have taken years of practice to master fully.
Naturally, these enhanced warriors were the ones Blake had chosen to bring along. When they had learned they would be heading to Redcliff Fortress to join the defense, the mercenaries had reacted with uncharacteristic excitement. Having been elevated to Mid-Ranked status, they were eager to test their newfound strength in large-scale actual combat and grow accustomed to fighting as Mid-Ranked Swordsmen. But Duskwood Forest was far too peaceful; after Blake had slaughtered the local bandits and fed them to the Wraith Warriors, there had been virtually no threats left within the forest's borders. Their only option, then, was to seek out battle elsewhere. These successive skirmishes with bandits had been the perfect training ground for them.
As the caravan had traveled onward, encountering one band of brigands after another—all effortlessly defeated—the mercenaries' enthusiasm had only grown, rather than waning. Fighting these bandits had not sated their hunger for battle; instead, it had driven home the vast gulf between their new strength and their old. It was like a giant wielding a sharp blade against an unarmed child—hardly a challenge that would yield any real experience. For this reason, they were more eager than ever for the coming war at Redcliff Fortress. After all, a full-scale war between nations would be infinitely more thrilling than these petty skirmishes with bandits!
Just as the orc captain bowed and prepared to take his leave, Blake suddenly tilted his chin, nodding toward the group of people standing in the wilderness not far away.
"Bring them here."
With that, Blake issued his order.