Act Fifty: Count

The brass alarm bell of Pine Castle hung high atop its soaring spire. When rung, its chimes reverberated throughout more than half the city. The sound was like an invisible ripple, expanding outward. As it spread, the streets and alleys, deep in their midnight slumber, seemed infused with a new vitality, awakening one by one.

People poured into the streets, filled with surprise and uncertainty, asking each other what had happened.

Lyckbeson was waiting for news in the eastern barracks of Ridenburg when the clear, resonant sound of the alarm bell rang out from beyond the stone-framed window. He turned his head, gazing towards the inner city, dimly lit by scattered lights, his expression shifting. Without waiting for a messenger to push open the door and report, the captain of the swordsmen opened the door himself and roared outside:

"Didn't you hear? Get up! Get up and assemble! Have the Second and Third Companies outside come with me to Pine Castle immediately, that idiot Seber!"

Everyone exchanged bewildered glances.

"Captain, what about the city gates?" someone asked, standing up.

"Are you an idiot? Besides that Highland Knight, who else could possibly attack Pine Castle? Seber, that fool, wants to hide the news and let him suffer the consequences himself!" After his outburst, he took a breath and softened his tone slightly, saying, "If the person in the castle has any problems, you'll all face the wrath of His Majesty the King's dragon. Perhaps someone wants him dead, but I don't want to take the blame for this—as for the rest, just keep a close eye on your targets!"

The crowd was stunned, and then they each began to act.

Lyckbeson let out a sigh. However, the thought of the Highland Knight and his mage escort made him feel a bit uneasy. Highland Knights had always maintained their own distinct system throughout history; even during the most powerful periods of the Kolkova dynasty, the royal family couldn't do anything about these protective fellows. How could he?

He couldn't help but inwardly curse Seber, the Golden Fruit Lord's, female relatives again.

Freya walked with the girl down a long, deep alley. When she heard the bell, she paused, instinctively turning her head and looking back, her face showing a worried expression.

"What's wrong?" the girl named Su asked.

"I'm sorry, it's nothing."

"There's going to be a war," Su suddenly said.

Freya blinked, turning back to look at her with confusion.

"The nobles have issued a travel ban. It's only like this when there's a war. Even though no one says it, everyone knows. It's always been like this before," Su said quietly as she walked ahead.

"You mean they know there will be a war?"

"Who are 'they'? The noble lords? Of course, they know. They have their own channels for gathering information. Usually, by the time news starts circulating in the city's taverns, they already know."

Freya didn't reply, merely clenching her fists. She lowered her head, and a calm anger flashed in her bright eyes.

"But why isn't there much reaction in the city?"

"If there were a reaction, we wouldn't see it, but the nobles will definitely be prepared. Ridenburg is very secure, so the people in the city don't need to worry too much. However, the prices of bread and wheat have increased by ten percent today. These are changes that usually go unnoticed."

"What if Ridenburg falls?"

"How could it?"

Freya couldn't help but recall Brando's confident demeanor. She shook her head, casting the thought from her mind. "But I have a friend who said Ridenburg will be breached."

"Then he must be a liar," Su replied calmly from ahead.

After ringing the alarm bell, Sharr went to the rooftop of the barracks. He glanced along the parapet towards the outside of the moat. The streets were teeming with people and horses, a dense, dark mass. It looked like the nobles' private soldiers had arrived first.

However, this wasn't what he needed to worry about. He withdrew his gaze and went to the other side. He roughly estimated the distance from this end to the castle and then found a feasible route. He lit the Witch Candle in his hand. He recalled how Brando had taught him to use it and murmured, "Et'ham—"

The first syllable was to activate a portion of the mana that connected to the Abyss. The Twin Goddess Ilian governed this portion of mana. Witches, unless using Spiritism, would typically use this mana as a medium—then Sharr raised the candle, letting its flame reach about fifteen feet away.

He selected a tree, and his entire being seemed to instantly enter a channel of light, being pulled forward. When he recovered from the daze, he found himself in the treetop.

"Truly magical, worthy of Brunson's witches." Sharr looked around, and this time he selected another tree on the opposite side.

After repeating this seven or eight times, the Witch Candle in Sharr's hand had burned down to a short stub, but he had reached the stone-framed window on the other side. He raised the candle and placed it on the window opening, then his entire body flowed through a stream of light into the corridor within. The next time he regained his senses, he was in complete darkness.

He shook his head, dispelling the dizziness from the teleportation. He could already faintly hear the sounds of fighting coming from ahead.

It seems a bit late, but it doesn't matter. The lord will surely leave some buffer time. Sharr consoled himself, unaware that at this moment, Brando wished he could stab him.

Time returned to a few minutes earlier—

When Brando pushed open the heavy oak door, he didn't find the Count cowering in a corner as he had expected. Instead, the room was comfortably lit, with enough tallow candles to provide illumination that was neither too harsh nor too dim. The Count was seated leisurely on the sofa, his black velvet dress coat impeccably neat, without even the slightest wrinkle. He looked up and met Brando's gaze. On the low table before him lay the Elven Treasure Sword—Gleaming Thorn.

Brando was slightly taken aback when he saw this. He hadn't expected such courage from a high-ranking minister close to the King. Of course, this also made him vigilant. The other party's confidence suggested they had some backing.

"I didn't expect it to be you, young man. I thought it was another assassin sent by those useless Gobsburgs. But of course, you could also be a hired killer by those fellows. Can you tell me the answer?" The middle-aged man, seeing him, showed a slight surprise but maintained a calm expression as he asked.

Gobsburg? Wasn't this guy a royalist? Brando was confused but shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't. However, if you cooperate well, I'm actually not interested in killing you."

"Oh, you're not interested in killing me? Then I should thank you, but unfortunately—I am very interested in killing you." As the middle-aged man spoke, a hand crossbow suddenly appeared in his hand. The moment Brando saw the faint blue glow shimmering on the edge of the bolt, he realized it was poisoned.

But he had been guarding against this. He was well aware of the nobles' tricks. The moment the other party made a move, he swung his sword and blocked the arrow with a "clang." However, before he could even breathe a sigh of relief, a gust of wind suddenly struck him from behind. Brando's experience of surviving countless battles made him instinctively swing his sword behind him to block—

With a loud bang, Brando was almost sent flying into a cabinet on the side. After a cacophony of crashing sounds, he gritted his teeth and climbed out from a pile of splintered wood.

A Black Iron High-level Swordsman, and a sneak attack at that. Was there any justice or law in this world?

Brando felt a surge of lingering fear, thinking how fortunate it was that his opponents in the past were players. Otherwise, such a sneak attack would have instantly taken him out. Of course, he remembered those old opponents from the game—players had no, nor did they need, any sense of honor. They were practically synonymous with shamelessness. Some even sought to be despicable for the sake of being despicable; that was true martial artists gone rogue, unstoppable by anyone.

Therefore, Brando had long been accustomed to it. Guarding against sneak attacks had become an instinct for him. In other words, has anyone ever seen a player who didn't like sneak attacks? However, even so, the Black Iron High-level Swordsman made him feel troubled. That was a powerful individual with an Energy Level of at least 15. Even if he activated Power Burst, he might not gain any advantage.

On the other side, the middle-aged man and his companion were also surprised. They had expected this sure-hit attack to miss. Although Brando looked quite disheveled, everyone knew in their hearts that the damage from a Black Iron level swordsman was nothing significant.

The middle-aged man frowned but immediately sneered, "I didn't expect this commoner, like an insect, to have some skills. But this won't change the outcome."

He picked up the Elven Treasure Sword from the low table, stood up, and sneered, "You can see the strength of my guard. You are no match for him. But then again, how could a small fry like you possess such a treasure? I'll give you a piece of advice: either chop off your dirty hand that touched this sword yourself, and I'll spare your life. Of course, I'm taking your two companions. I want them as my slave girls. I promise to treat them a little better, at least let them live a life like dogs, haha—"

He spoke, a wild laugh spreading across his face.

Upon hearing this, Brando couldn't help but gasp, his expression darkening. Even though he knew the other party was deliberately trying to provoke him, he still felt a surge of anger. When he first arrived in this world, the first people he met were Romane and Freya, as well as everyone in the militia squad. These people represented a precious sense of reality to him in this new world.

Just like the grandfather he'd seen in his dreams, they had become his greatest spiritual support in this vast world. For that reason, how could he tolerate this fellow spewing such filth here?

The fingers gripping his longsword turned slightly pale.

The middle-aged man was secretly observing Brando's expression, while his hand gestured to his companion behind his back. Both men in the room showed a hint of surprised delight. Usually, seasoned swordsmen rarely lost their composure due to external factors—but they hadn't expected that a simple test would hit the other's sore spot.

"Ulysses, push him!" the middle-aged man commanded with a gesture.

The tall swordsman immediately advanced towards Brando's flank. His swordsmanship was exquisite, and his attack routes offered almost no openings to exploit. Brando, however, only had eyes for the middle-aged man. He leaned forward, adopting one of the most aggressive offensive stances from military swordsmanship.

Seeing this, Ulysses couldn't help but chuckle inwardly. A greenhorn is still a greenhorn, he thought, daring to be so impetuous in front of a stronger opponent.

He couldn't help but tighten his grip on his treasured sword, waiting for an opportunity to strike a killing blow. He could almost see an opening appear on Brando's flank.

"Ulysses!" the middle-aged man suddenly shouted. Ulysses instinctively thought it was the signal to attack. Yes, now! he thought, having already spotted an unguarded gap in Brando's defense.

His sword didn't even have time to retract—

But as the tall man's sneer was only half-formed, the silvery-gray ring on Brando's right index finger caught his eye—

"Oss!"

A deafening roar erupted, leaving no chance for evasion. Sharp spikes formed from currents of air surged forward. The tall swordsman, hit head-on, had his face, chest, and abdomen contorted into a strange indentation. Then, his entire body was propelled towards the ceiling by a massive gust of wind—with a thunderous crash, the ceiling ripped open into a large hole leading upwards. The light dimmed instantly, and dirt, sand, and stone fragments rained down, accompanied by some viscous liquid and dismembered limbs…

On the other side, the middle-aged man had barely registered the sudden turn of events before a cold, treasured sword was pressed against his neck from the side.

"Speak," Brando emerged slowly from the dust and smoke, asking coldly, "How do you wish to die?"