Hart had already driven out of the Imperial Capital's urban district. Rather than taking the main road, he chose a small country path.
In this era, nearly all roads were dirt roads. With so much rain over the past few days, they had become horribly muddy. Countless carriages traveled to and from the Imperial Capital, their ruts leaving the roads full of potholes and uneven ground.
It was still faster to travel along paths like this. Winter's chill had not yet fully faded, so Hart fastened every button on his coat and pulled his collar high. He tried to tuck the hand holding the reins into his sleeve, but even so, the night's cold still seeped through his clothes and into his bones.
The deserted wilderness late at night always made people uneasy.
Public safety in this era was far from good. Encountering bandits on the roads was hardly unusual.
But he had no choice but to travel at night. If he wanted to return to his hometown, he needed to travel by sea, yet the last ship departed at around five in the afternoon.
If he went during the day, there would be no ship by the time he arrived. He would have to spend the night at the port, and with so much luggage, there would be nowhere safe to put it. By the next morning, it would probably all be gone.
So he had to travel at night. By the time he reached the port, it would be daylight, and he could catch the ship.
Besides, traveling at night was unavoidable. Rather than doing it later on, it was better to cover part of the journey at night from the start. This place was close to the Imperial Capital, so no matter how bad the security was, bandits would be more restrained and would not dare kill people recklessly.
As Hart's thoughts churned, rustling came from the hedges on both sides of the path. Under the moonlight, he could see the leaves shaking, but it was definitely not the wind.
Hart's heart abruptly tightened. He scarcely dared breathe and could only let the horses continue slowly down the narrow path.
The surroundings were deathly quiet. Only the rumbling of the wheels rolling over the uneven dirt road could be heard, while his heart beat in time with the carriage's advance.
Suddenly, a black shadow shot out from the hedge, and Hart's breathing stopped at once.
But when he saw it clearly, he realized it was merely a somewhat large rabbit.
Hart's taut nerves relaxed, and he inwardly mocked himself for being too jumpy.
He raised his head and looked ahead again. At that very moment, two cold gun barrels were quietly pointed at him from the road ahead.
Hart's expression did not change. He slowly exhaled. Though he had always feared encountering bandits on the road, now that it had actually happened, he felt much calmer. After all, he had rehearsed this scenario countless times in his head.
He steadily brought the carriage to a gradual stop. The two men aiming guns at him approached warily. Their faces were covered with cloth, making their features impossible to see, but both were thin—one tall and one short.
They seemed very young. The hands holding their guns trembled slightly, and they clearly did not look practiced. A trace of fear showed in their eyes as well.
Seeing this, Hart felt somewhat reassured. These two young men were probably not professional bandits. They had likely only turned to robbery because they could no longer survive otherwise. People like that generally wanted money, not lives.
The two bandits slowly approached Hart's carriage. When they reached him, the taller one, evidently the leader, spoke viciously in a deliberately deepened voice.
"Hand over all your money, and I'll spare your life!"
Hart took out the money pouch he had prepared beforehand and tossed it over. He had given the larger portion of his cash and property to his wife and child to take away. The money he carried had been carefully calculated.
It was not enough to pain him too badly if he lost it, but neither was it too little to anger the bandits.
The shorter man caught the pouch and opened it, rifling through its contents. He seemed delighted.
"Brother! That's a lot of money. People from the Imperial Capital really are different."
His voice made him sound even younger—at most in his teens.
The taller man also glanced at the money pouch, but quickly turned back. His gun remained aimed at Hart, his gaze alert.
He pointed his gun toward the things behind Hart.
"What are those?"
"Just some odds and ends. Nothing valuable."
The taller man glanced at the shorter one. The shorter man immediately stepped forward and began trying to remove the horses' reins. Clearly, they wanted the two horses.
Seeing this, Hart was just about to warn him that the horses did not listen well to strangers when he heard a long neigh. One horse flung its head to the side and knocked the shorter man straight to the ground.
But that alone would not have been a major problem. The worst part was that the bandit's face covering slipped off as a result, allowing Hart to see his face clearly.
In Britannia, serious crimes were generally punished by hanging, and highway robbery was one such serious crime. Thus, those who robbed travelers were usually desperate criminals.
If Hart had had a good chance of surviving just moments ago, then from this moment onward, his death was certain.
After a brief silence, Hart reacted. He immediately reached beneath his seat, where he had hidden a flintlock pistol in advance.
Bang!!!
A spark burst through the pitch-black night.
The startled horses let out long cries and pulled the carriage forward at a gallop.
The taller man looked at the carriage fleeing into the distance, then at the shorter man lying on the ground. He gripped his flintlock tightly in his hand, faint smoke still rising from its barrel.
The two looked at each other. Each could see the terror and panic in the other's eyes.
It was their first time killing someone.
Yet neither spoke. The taller man pulled the shorter one up, and the two fled the place as swiftly as frightened rabbits.
The carriage ran several kilometers with its cargo before finally stopping. Hart lay slumped against the seat, unconscious. His foot had become tangled in the reins; otherwise, he would have been thrown out by the jolting earlier.
Part of the clothing around his left arm had been stained red with blood, and blood dripped down his arm.
After an unknown amount of time, Hart slowly opened his eyes. Enduring the intense pain, he pushed himself up from the seat and leaned against the cargo. He forced his eyes open to look around, then looked over his carriage.
He stared blankly at his blood-covered hand.
"I didn't die?"
"No, you died."
The sudden voice by his ear made him jerk his head around. A white bone mask filled his vision.
An icy chill shot from his tailbone straight to his scalp.
The being before him was neither clearly human nor ghost. He wore a black hooded robe that swayed lightly in the cold night wind, black smoke drifting around its hem. In his right hand, he held a massive scythe that gleamed with cold light.
Seeing that classic appearance, how could Hart not know what the being before him was?
His entire body trembled as he tried to flee, but his foot was tangled in the reins, preventing him from leaving his current position.
He frantically reached down to untie the reins, while the Grim Reaper beside him simply watched in silence without moving.
Perhaps because he was too panicked, no matter how he tried, he could not undo the reins. After a while, he finally realized that he could not escape at all, and despair gradually consumed his heart.
He looked at the Grim Reaper, tears filling his eyes as he spoke in a trembling voice.
"I still have a wife and an underage child."
"Many people who die in this world are the same," the Grim Reaper said patiently. "But these are the rules. No one can defy them."
Hart's fingers trembled uncontrollably. He raised a hand and clutched his hair, then began to sob.
After an unknown amount of time, Hart gradually calmed down. He raised his head and looked at the Grim Reaper.
"When do you intend to take me away?"
"When you completely die," the Grim Reaper said. "Your lung has been pierced. You won't survive."
His lung had been pierced?
Hart raised a hand in confusion and touched his chest. Then he looked at the only injury on his body: his arm had been grazed by a bullet, and the bullet had not even remained in his arm.
"Lord Grim Reaper," Hart said doubtfully, "have you made some kind of mistake? There isn't any injury on my chest. It's only a graze."
The Grim Reaper also seemed to realize that Hart was a little too energetic. A human with a pierced lung could not possibly converse with him like this.
Beneath the mask, he frowned slightly and asked again.
"Are you Hart Valentine?"
Hart nodded.
"Is there anyone nearby traveling with you who has the same name as you?" the Grim Reaper asked.
Hart shook his head. "Although my name isn't particularly rare, it can't be that much of a coincidence."
"Then there is no mistake. Your time is up, Hart Valentine."
As he spoke, he raised the scythe in his hand. He seemed unwilling to wait any longer and intended to take Hart away directly.
"Wait! Wait!" Hart shouted loudly in terror. "There must be some mistake!"
"The Book of the Dead does not make mistakes," the Grim Reaper said coldly.
As he spoke, he raised a hand, and the Book of the Dead appeared in it. The book swiftly opened like a bird spreading its wings, revealing words that only he could understand.
He looked at the words and began to read.
"Hart Valentine, died of."
His expression suddenly froze. His pupils contracted into tiny points as he stared at Hart in disbelief.