Escape

As time passed, the Barren Land officially entered its season of ice and snow. The dark clouds hanging over Saint Brieuc Fortress grew heavier, and before long, snowflakes drifted down, blanketing the entire town in white.

Judging by past experience, the snow would fall for three to five days. The farmers would probably be delighted, since the heavy snow could kill off many pests and ensure a bumper harvest the following year. But for the homeless, it was undoubtedly a calamity from heaven.

To survive the blizzard, they had no choice but to knock on the doors along the street. They would never have done so under ordinary circumstances. "Please, kind sir, spare me some charcoal."

Before they could finish, they were often met with a merciless scolding—or even a basin of cold water dumped over their heads. "Get lost, you filthy vermin!"

The homeless had gathered on this old street day after day, year after year. No matter how simple and honest the locals were, their patience was bound to run out eventually.

Besides, this wasn't some prosperous region. It was the desolate Barren Land, and the people who lived here were no saints.

So, after being turned away countless times, the homeless gathered outside the tavern with resigned expressions, warming themselves with the heat drifting out from within.

It seemed that even with hunger and death waiting around the corner, they still had no desire to work.

Travelers passing by took one look at the scene and hurriedly kept their distance, as if avoiding the plague. Some even covered their noses and mouths with embroidered handkerchiefs, as though afraid of breathing in bad luck.

The scene before them was a true reflection of the Barren Land: a life of poverty, and people hardened by it.

Perhaps someone had complained to the tavern keeper. Before long, two workers rushed out of the tavern and expertly drove off the homeless gathered at the entrance. "Get lost! If you keep Baron Taylor from making money, he'll break your legs!"

The homeless, usually weighed down by their own laziness, heard the name Taylor and scattered like mice at the sight of a cat. In the blink of an eye, they vanished around the street corners and down the alleys.

Taylor, the tavern keeper, was famous in Saint Brieuc Fortress for his eccentric temperament and mercurial moods. More importantly, he was powerful. Baron Hamilton, a High-level Battle Qi Warrior, had once admitted that he was no match for Taylor.

Clearly, Taylor was one of the strongest High-level Battle Qi Warriors. He might even be a Legendary Warrior.

Not long after the homeless left, the heavy clatter of hooves rang out from the town center. It grew louder, clearer, and more urgent, like a rainstorm beating against a pot lid.

The residents living alongside the street instinctively curled up and pulled thick quilts over their heads to block out the clatter. It was no use, though. The irritating noise showed no sign of letting up.

A drunk who had just stumbled home after a night of drinking woke from his sleep. Rubbing his bleary eyes, he sat up and clenched his fist as he cursed, "Damn it, why can't he be quieter? I hope his horse trips and he falls to his death."

The drunkard's curse clearly had no effect. Renard had already reached Beginner Warrior strength, and his Riding Skill had reached level five. The odds of him falling to his death were next to none.

He kept his warhorse under control as he galloped toward the shabby tavern, only pulling hard on the reins when he was just a few yards from the entrance.

The horse reared up, frightening the passersby into hurriedly getting out of the way.

Then Renard dismounted in one swift movement, handed the reins to a stable boy greeting customers, and strode into the tavern.

As soon as he entered, he saw two stable boys struggling to carry a bundle in from the back courtyard. He called out to them from a distance. "Hey, Tim, David! You two are right on time."

The two boys he had called looked toward the entrance. When they saw him, their faces grew uneasy.

They hesitantly approached Renard and said respectfully, "Young Master Renard, we've prepared everything you asked for. Is there anything else you need?"

Renard found their timid expressions amusing. Without replying, he bent down and began inspecting the food and drink he had ordered a few days earlier. "Wine, white bread, cured meat, smoked sausage. Excellent."

He praised their work generously as he reached into the leather pouch at his waist.

A moment later, several gleaming coins arced through the air toward the bar. A pleasant clinking rang out as silver coins struck the inside of the money jar.

Taylor, the tavern keeper, had been nodding off. He opened his eyes at once, then said flatly, "Well, if it isn't you."

As he spoke, he fished four slightly tarnished silver coins out of the jar and expertly weighed them in his hand. Apparently satisfied with their weight, he tucked them into his pocket under the envious gazes around him, then returned to his half-dead demeanor.

Renard seemed used to Taylor's coldness. He shrugged and replied, "Mr. Taylor, your business might do better if you were a little more courteous and watered down the ale a little less."

Of course, he knew his comment was pointless. Saint Brieuc Fortress had only one tavern, so the service did little to affect its profits.

Taylor gave a faint snort without even lifting his eyelids, then mocked him in a deeply sarcastic tone. "Worry about yourself first, you spoiled little brat."

Not many people in Saint Brieuc Fortress dared to speak to Renard that way. Taylor was one of them.

Renard wasn't angry. He raised his middle finger and said, "When I inherit the title, the first thing I'll do is tear down your lousy tavern."

Before Taylor could get angry, Renard bolted out like a rabbit chased by a dog.

Renard had sneaked out without telling any of the dozen or so people in the castle. He couldn't stay long, and he certainly couldn't cause trouble.

Thinking of the chaos in the castle, the flustered servants, and the clueless pursuers, he couldn't help the corner of his mouth twitching. I might've taken things too far this time.

Then he thought of Baron Hamilton's old face, and a chill ran through him. He quickly tossed the bundle onto his horse and called out, "Goodbye, Taylor! Goodbye, Saint Brieuc Fortress! Goodbye, Barren Land!"

With that, he swung onto his horse in one smooth motion. Just before riding off, he seemed to remember something and called, "Tim, David, you two idiots, come here!"

Renard summoned the two trembling tavern boys and stared at them. For a long moment, he couldn't think of any heartfelt words of farewell. With a helpless sigh, he tossed them two silver coins and said, "Wish me luck, and I wish you luck too."

Then, under their astonished gazes, he turned his horse around and nudged its belly with his spurs. The warhorse, stung by the prodding, raised its four hooves and galloped out of town.

The two tavern boys stared blankly at each other. It took them a long moment to recover before they said in unison, "Did he take the wrong medicine today?"

Whether he had or not was anyone's guess, but those two silver coins were real enough.

If Renard had known that his generosity had earned him curses instead of praise, he would've gone back and slapped them both.