Escape

Time flew by, and the Barren Land officially entered its winter season. The dark clouds hanging over Saint Brieuc Fortress grew heavier, and before long, the gentle snowfall adorned the entire town in a silver coat.

Based on past experience, the snow could last for three to five days. Farmers would likely be delighted, as heavy snow could kill many pests, ensuring a bountiful harvest the following year. However, for the vagrants, it was undoubtedly a disaster.

To survive amidst the flying snow, they were forced to knock on the doors along the streets, something they would never have done before: "Honorable lords, we beg you to lend us some charcoal."

Before they could finish speaking, they were often met with ruthless rejection, or even a basin of cold water poured over their heads: "Get lost, you damned vermin."

The vagrants gathered on this old street day after day, year after year. Even with the most honest folk, patience would eventually run out.

Moreover, this was no land of plenty, but the desolate Barren Land, where the people who lived here were none too kind.

Therefore, after countless rejections, the dejected vagrants gathered at the entrance of the tavern, seeking warmth from the heat emanating from within.

It seemed that even facing hunger and death the next second, they still had no desire to work.

Travelers passing by saw this scene and immediately avoided them from afar as if they were plague gods. Some even covered their mouths and noses with embroidered handkerchiefs, as if afraid of inhaling bad luck.

The scene before them was a true reflection of the Barren Land: a life of poverty and dull minds.

Perhaps someone complained to the tavern owner, because soon two employees rushed out of the tavern, skillfully driving away the vagrants gathered at the entrance: "Get lost! If you delay Boss Taylor's business, he'll break your legs."

The vagrants, who had been overcome with laziness, scattered like mice seeing a cat upon hearing Taylor's name, disappearing around street corners in the blink of an eye.

The tavern owner, Taylor, was known in Saint Brieuc Fortress for his eccentric temper, unpredictability, and, crucially, his formidable strength. At the very least, Baron Hamilton, a High-level Battle Qi Warrior, had once said he was no match for Taylor.

It was clear that Taylor was an outstanding figure among the High-level Battle Qi Warriors, possibly even a Legendary Warrior.

Not long after the vagrants left, the heavy sound of horse hooves echoed from the town center, growing louder, clearer, and more urgent, like raindrops splashing on a pot lid.

Residents living by the street habitually curled up, covering their heads with thick quilts to block out the clattering sound, but it was useless. The annoying noise showed no signs of abating.

A drunkard, just returning from a night of heavy drinking, was startled awake from his sleep. Rubbing his sleepy eyes, he sat up and cursed, clenching his fist: "Damn it, why can't he be quieter? I hope he stumbles and falls to his death."

The drunkard's curse clearly had no effect, because Renard had already reached the strength of a Beginner Warrior, and his Riding Skill was at level five. Falling to his death was simply a pipe dream.

He steadily steered his warhorse towards the humble tavern, only yanking the reins sharply when he was two or three meters away.

The warhorse reared up on its hind legs, startling the surrounding pedestrians into hastily moving aside.

Then, he dismounted with practiced ease, handed the reins to the attendant who was greeting customers, and strode into the tavern.

As soon as he entered, he saw two attendants struggling to carry a bundle from the tavern's backyard. Renard called out from a distance: "Hey, Tim, Dave, you two are right on time."

The two named attendants looked up towards the entrance. Upon seeing him, their faces turned somewhat grim.

They hesitated before approaching Renard, bowing respectfully: "Young Master Renard, the items you requested are all prepared. Do you have any other instructions?"

Renard found their timid demeanor amusing. Without a word, he bent down to inspect the food and drinks he had ordered a few days prior: "Wine, white bread, cured meat, smoked sausage. Excellent."

He praised them generously, and at the same time, reached into the leather pouch at his waist.

Immediately, several shiny coins flew in an elegant arc towards the counter, accompanied by a pleasant clinking sound as silver coins struck the inside of the money jar.

Taylor, the tavern owner, who had been dozing, suddenly opened his eyes. He then said indifferently: "So it's you, kid."

As he spoke, he reached into the money jar, pulled out four slightly dull silver coins, skillfully weighed them, and, seemingly satisfied with their weight, pocketed them amidst envious glances. He then returned to his half-dead appearance.

Renard, accustomed to the man's indifferent attitude, shrugged and replied: "Mr. Taylor, if your service were better, and you watered down the ale less, your business would likely be even better."

Of course, he knew his words were superfluous. After all, there was only one tavern in all of Saint Brieuc Fortress, and customer service had little impact on its income.

Taylor snorted in response, not even lifting an eyelid, and taunted in a highly sarcastic tone: "Worry about yourself first, you damn second-generation brat."

Few people in Saint Brieuc Fortress dared to speak to Renard like this. Coincidentally, Taylor was one of them.

Renard was not angered by this. Instead, he raised his middle finger and said: "When I inherit the title, the first thing I'll do is tear down your dilapidated tavern."

With that, before the other man could become enraged, he fled like a rabbit being chased by a dog.

Renard had snuck out without the knowledge of the dozen or so people in the castle. He couldn't linger, nor could he cause trouble.

Thinking of the already chaotic castle, the overwhelmed servants, and the clueless pursuers, his mouth twitched involuntarily. He muttered to himself: This time, I've really messed up.

Then, he remembered Baron Hamilton's aged face, and a chill ran down his spine. He immediately threw the bundle onto his horse and exclaimed: "Goodbye Taylor, goodbye Saint Brieuc Fortress, goodbye Barren Land!"

With that, he stylishly mounted his horse. Before leaving, he seemed to remember something and called out: "Tim, Dave, you two bastards come here."

Renard called the two trembling tavern attendants over. He stared at them for a long time, unable to come up with any heartfelt farewell words. He sighed helplessly, threw out two silver coins, and said: "Wish me luck, and wish yourselves well too."

With that, under their astonished gazes, he turned his horse, lightly spurred its belly, and the warhorse, in pain, galloped out of the town with its four hooves flying.

The two tavern attendants exchanged a bewildered glance. It took them a while to recover before they said in unison: "Did he take the wrong medicine today?"

Whether he took the wrong medicine or not was unknown, but these two silver coins were very real.

If Renard knew that his generosity had not only gone unrewarded but had also earned him curses, he would have gone back to slap them twice.

If you find this book good, remember to add it to your bookshelf to avoid losing it next time.