Hert's Ambition

Hert Chiron was a Centaur, or more precisely, the chieftain of a small Centaur clan.

His clan had once been subjects of the Orc Kingdom, living in prosperity and enjoying all the glory befitting citizens of a kingdom. At their peak, they boasted nearly a hundred adult warriors, controlled lush and fertile pastures, and took pride in being citizens of a civilized nation.

But disaster always strikes unexpectedly. Inadvertently getting caught up in the kingdom's internal strife was a fatal danger for a small clan. Thus, overnight, the entire clan became wanted fugitives.

When fully armed pursuers arrived, they were utterly defenseless. All they could do was flee, desperately flee.

To survive, they embarked on an incredibly arduous journey of survival, drifting from place to place, abandoning their former homeland, and living among bandits and brigands in the wilderness.

Establishing a foothold in the lawless lands, fraught with conflict, wasn't easy. Even the warlike Centaurs nearly bled themselves dry in the process, losing over half their population in endless skirmishes within six months.

The remaining members gained recognition from the natives. They had survived and earned the right to live, which was good. But Hert himself often tossed and turned at night, unable to sleep peacefully.

He knew clearly that his clan was different from the semi-savage natives around them.

They understood etiquette, honored their ancestors, were skilled in calendrical calculations, would plant rye seeds in spring awaiting the autumn harvest, and would recite centuries-old poems in unison when the first snow fell.

They understood many things that the natives, who only followed their instincts, could never comprehend. All of this made Hert both proud and sorrowful.

Because if they continued to multiply here generation after generation, the new children would inevitably become indistinguishable from the natives.

A small tribe couldn't sustain anything beyond "foraging," let alone luxuries like "knowledge" and "wisdom." Only a nation, only a nation of sufficient scale, possessed that capability.

For the future of his clan, Hert resolved to lead his people to join a true nation.

The Orc Kingdom was, of course, out of the question, but the nearby Pompey Empire was also a good choice. It was even more prosperous and wealthy than the Orc Kingdom, with advanced arts, academia, and various crafts, perfectly aligning with all his dreams.

The only problem was that Pompey was a human nation and wouldn't easily accept Centaurs...

All Hert could do was wait patiently for the right moment to arrive.

And that day came quickly—the natives from different tribes were recently planning a joint armed operation. As recognized members of the wilderness, the Centaur clan also received an invitation and learned all the ins and outs.

This was the opportunity Hert had been waiting for!

The Centaurs witnessed a powerfully launched arrow cut across the sky, embedding itself deep into the ground with the force of a falling meteorite. They expended great effort to dig out this javelin; the powerful impact had twisted the metal spearhead into a tangled mess.

The young man with the sharpest eyesight among them insisted that it was a javelin thrown by a human warrior with his bare hands. But the more experienced Centaurs absolutely couldn't accept this, believing it must have come from a heavy ballista.

Hert completely understood this was a display of power and a warning, so he ordered his clansmen to raise a white flag and continue forward. The vigilant human warriors on the hill indeed did not attack, allowing them to approach within fifty paces.

This distance was already within the range of most ranged weapons; they couldn't get any closer.

"State your purpose!"

Richard couldn't for the life of him understand how Gunther recognized that tattered cloth as a white flag. But judging by the Centaurs' behavior, it clearly was.

"I am Hert, chieftain of the Gale Clan. I come with good intentions." Hert placed one hand on his chest and bowed.

Centaurs seemed to have close familial ties with each other. Their equine bodies were covered in identical short brown fur, and their limbs were long and powerful, no less impressive than those of a superior warhorse. Their human torsos were equally remarkably robust, with exceptionally long arms. Their overall height was about two and a half blades, radiating a graceful sense of power.

Their clothing appeared old but was still neat and clean, in a unique Centaur style—the front hem extended down to the base of their front legs, and the back hem was slightly lengthened to cover half their backs.

Moreover, they uniformly carried weapons similar to heavy cavalry sabers, distinctly different from the motley assortment of weapons used by typical wilderness natives.

"I am Richard, Lord of High Mountain Keep." Richard walked directly down from the hill, wearing only a thin fine linen shirt and with his longsword sheathed. His hands were relaxed, tucked into his breeches pockets.

Facing the Centaurs, who were built like mountains of flesh, he, alone and unarmed, seemed as helpless as an infant. If a conflict broke out, he would surely be trampled into a sticky paste by hooves.

But the Centaurs noticed that the soldiers seemed oblivious to their lord's perilous situation. They stood in groups of three or five, showing no intention of moving, and even pointed and gestured at them. This behavior usually indicated extreme incompetence, but if not, it implied extreme confidence.

"You are Richard?" Hert shook his head, his hooves lightly tapping the ground, his eyes filled with surprise.

"I imagine other nobles wouldn't share a commoner's name with me." Richard curiously observed the Centaurs. Their eyes were calm, utterly unlike those of natives constantly ready to kill or be killed. That's why Richard attempted a peaceful approach.

"I have heard of your invincible renown in the arena!" Hert had always yearned to join the Pompey Empire and always paid extra attention to any information related to Pompey. Over years, he had accumulated vast knowledge about Pompey.

Being in the remote wilderness, he had even heard obscure news like "Southern Province Arena Overlord," which usually circulated only within specific circles.

"You're too kind! Mere fleeting fame, all of it." Richard, uncharacteristically, blushed and waved his hands repeatedly, though he felt a little pleased inside. He was well-known among the lower and mid-level swordsmen in the Southern Province, but this was the first time his title had been called out since he arrived here.

"My Lord, we have something to tell you this time."

Hert pulled a fan-shaped ox shoulder blade from his pocket. Richard took it and saw numerous reddish-brown symbols scratched with ocher on both sides. It seemed to be some simple writing system used in the wilderness.

The natives were deeply influenced by human culture in terms of their writing. This was evident in the shoulder blade before him. The text contained many ready-made Pompey characters, though they were very fragmented and unsystematic.

"What does it say?" Richard couldn't understand it anyway, so he tossed the bone shard back casually.