The Wandering Knight

Karl nodded in satisfaction and instructed a guard beside him, "Take General Brendan to rest. Unless it's urgent, no one is to disturb him."

"Yes, my lord!"

Brendan took one last look at the busy, vibrant docks, then cast Lord Karl a grateful glance before turning and following the guard. With steps that were somewhat unsteady yet exceptionally firm, he headed toward the stone house that represented rest and care.

When he pushed open the crude wooden door and stepped into the room—simply furnished, but clean and tidy, even laid with dry straw mats—the clamor of refugee resettlement outside the window seemed to be cut off in an instant.

He slid the bolt shut behind him, not even having time to take off his clothes. He merely unfastened his sword and placed it at the head of the bed within reach, then collapsed heavily onto the hard bed like a giant who had exhausted his last shred of strength.

Almost the instant his body touched the planks, the fatigue, tension, and relief after completing his mission that had accumulated over these past days struck like an invisible sledgehammer, utterly crushing his will.

He did not even have time to think about anything before sleep, thick as ink, swallowed him whole.

Soon, heavy breaths carrying the salty tang of sea wind and the smell of gunpowder sounded evenly through the little stone house.

In a relatively quiet command post behind the temporary docks of Giant Island, hastily converted from an original harbor warehouse, Karl finally met the two core figures who had held out to the very end in that hellscape of the Iron Islands during Operation Hannibal: Baron Werner and Knight Klein.

After the guards reported in and the two entered the room one after another, Karl swiftly and carefully