A miraculous scene unfolded. In the eyes of the fleeing civilians, the cavalry charging toward the young man seemed to be made of paper. They raised their swords and crossed blades with Brando, but the fine-steel longswords immediately bent backward, shattered, and transformed into countless steel needles that shot back at them. The tremendous force sent both riders and horses rearing high into the air, flinging the men backward.
One, two, three... Finally, the refugees behind Brando could not help counting aloud, all the way to seven. The last three men were already shaking with terror. They hauled desperately on their reins, not daring to come any closer.
Yuriol stared fixedly at Brando as though he had seen a ghost. Markov's guards were even more frightened, forgetting what they were doing. For a moment, the refugees behind them broke through their line and rushed to Brando's side.
"Who are you?" The cavalry captain could not help feeling his hands and feet go cold. He had seen the captains of the White Mane Legion's swordsmen. In his eyes, those men's strength and swordsmanship were already extraordinary, but compared with the young man before him, they seemed like nothing.
Just who was this man?
Brando withdrew his sword and let out a light breath. Using Power Burst seven times in succession had consumed a fifth of his total stamina, and he could faintly feel his arm going numb.
"I told you, my name is Duen." He pointed his sword at the other man. "So, can you calm down and listen to me now?"
Yuriol and Markov exchanged glances. Could they refuse to listen? His eleven subordinates might not be exceptionally strong, but they were at least the best men selected from the local militia, around the middle level of White rank swordsmen.