Hert's Ambition

Hert Chiron was a centaur—or more precisely, the leader of a small centaur clan.

His clan had once been part of the Orc Kingdom. They had lived comfortable lives, enjoying all the glory befitting the kingdom's people. At its peak, the clan had nearly a hundred adult warriors, controlled rich and fertile grasslands, and took pride in being citizens of a civilized nation.

But disaster always arrived without warning. For a small clan, becoming accidentally entangled in the kingdom's internal struggles was a fatal danger. Thus, overnight, the entire clan became wanted fugitives.

When the fully armed pursuers arrived, they had no way to resist. All they could do was run—run for their lives.

To survive, they embarked on an unimaginably difficult journey. They wandered from place to place, abandoned their former homeland, and came to the wilderness, where they joined forces with bandits and brigands.

Establishing a foothold in this lawless land filled with conflict was no easy task. Even the battle-hardened centaurs nearly bled themselves dry in the process, losing more than half their population within six months of ceaseless skirmishes.

The survivors won the recognition of the natives. They lived, and they gained the right to survive. That was good. But Hert himself often tossed and turned at night, unable to sleep.

He knew perfectly well that his clan was different from the half-civilized natives around them.

They understood etiquette, paid respects to their ancestors, mastered the calendar, sowed rye seeds in spring and waited for the autumn harvest, and joined their voices to recite and sing poems that had been passed down for hundreds of years whenever the first snow fell.

They understood many things that the instinct-driven natives could never possibly comprehend. All of this made Hert both proud and sorrowful.

Because if they continued reproducing here generation after generation, the children born in the future would inevitably become no different from the natives.

A small tribe could not carry anything beyond "foraging," much less luxuries such as "knowledge" and "wisdom." Only a nation—only a nation large enough—possessed that ability.

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

They could never return to the Orc Kingdom, but the nearby Pompeii Empire was not a bad choice. It was even more prosperous and fertile than the Orc Kingdom, with flourishing art, scholarship, and all kinds of crafts. It perfectly matched all his dreams.

The only problem was that Pompeii was a human nation. It would not readily accept centaurs...

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

And that day came quickly—the natives of different tribes had recently begun planning a joint armed action. As recognized members of the wilderness, the centaur clan had also received an invitation and learned the whole story behind it.

This was the opportunity Hert had been waiting for!

The centaurs watched in awe as a devastating javelin streaked across the sky and plunged deep into the ground with the force of a falling meteorite. It took them considerable effort to dig it out, and the violent impact had twisted its metal tip into a tangled mess.

The young man with the sharpest eyesight among them insisted that a human warrior had thrown the javelin bare-handed. The more experienced centaurs, however, could not accept that at all. They believed it had been fired from a heavy ballista.

Hert understood perfectly that this was a show of force and a warning, so he ordered his people to raise a white flag and continue forward. Sure enough, the wary human warriors on the hill did not attack, allowing them to approach to within fifty paces.

At that distance, they were already within range of most ranged weapons. They could not move any closer, no matter what.

"State your purpose!"

Richard could not understand how Gunther had recognized that scrap of cloth as a white flag. But judging by the centaurs' behavior, that was indeed what it was.

"I am Hert, chief of the Gale Clan. I have come bearing goodwill." Hert placed one hand over his chest and bowed.

The centaurs appeared to share close blood ties. Their horse bodies were covered in identical short brown hair, and their four limbs were long and powerful, no weaker than those of fine warhorses. Their human upper bodies were equally striking in their sturdiness, with especially long arms. They stood roughly two blades and three units tall overall, every inch of them radiating smooth, fluid strength.

Their clothes looked old, but they were reasonably neat and clean. They were a style unique to centaurs: the front hem hung down to the roots of their forelegs, while the back was extended slightly to cover half their backs.

They also all carried weapons resembling the curved sabers used by heavy cavalry. Compared with the jumbled assortment of whatever weapons the ordinary wilderness natives happened to possess, this was clearly different.

"I am Richard, lord of High Mountain Keep." Richard walked straight down from the hill. He wore only a thin fine-linen shirt on his upper body, his longsword was sheathed, and he casually kept both hands in his riding trousers' pockets.

Standing before centaurs whose bodies were like mountains of flesh, he looked like a defenseless, unarmed infant. If a clash broke out, he would almost certainly be trampled beneath their hooves and crushed into a sticky mass of meat.

Yet the centaurs noticed that the soldiers acted as though they had no idea their lord was in danger. They stood where they were in groups of three or five without moving an inch, and some even pointed at the centaurs and whispered among themselves. Ordinarily, such behavior represented extreme incompetence. If it did not, then it represented extreme confidence.

"You are Richard?" Hert shook his head slightly. His four hooves tapped lightly against the ground, and his eyes were filled with astonishment.

"I doubt any other noble would have a commoner's name like mine." Richard examined the centaurs curiously. Their eyes were calm, completely unlike those of the natives who were always preparing to kill or be killed. That was why Richard had been willing to attempt peaceful contact.

"I have heard of your invincible reputation in the arena!" Hert had always yearned to join the Pompeii Empire, so he paid special attention to any information related to Pompeii. After accumulating knowledge for several years, he had become something of a Pompeii expert.

Even in this distant, remote wilderness, he had heard obscure news such as "the Southern Province Arena Overlord," a title that circulated only within certain circles.

"You flatter me! It's just an empty reputation, an empty reputation." Richard very rarely blushed with embarrassment and waved his hands repeatedly, though he felt secretly pleased. He was well known among lower- and middle-ranking swordsmen in the Southern Province, but this was the first time someone had called him that since he arrived here.

"My lord, we have something to tell you."

Hert took a fan-shaped ox shoulder blade from his pocket. Richard accepted it and saw numerous reddish-brown symbols drawn in ochre across both sides. They appeared to be some kind of simple written language circulating in the wilderness.

The natives had been heavily influenced by humans in matters of culture, and this shoulder blade offered a glimpse of that. The text contained quite a few ready-made Pompeii characters, though they were scattered and lacked any coherent system.

"What does it say?" Since he could not understand it anyway, Richard casually tossed the bone fragment back.