As soon as Renard stepped out of the passageway, the hearty shouts of the trainees rang clearly in his ears. Dozens of Martial Arts apprentices were earnestly practicing their cuts with wooden staffs.
The youngest apprentices were only seven or eight, while the oldest were no more than twelve or thirteen. Judging by their clothes, they all came from wealthy families.
Watching them practice swordsmanship so diligently, Renard couldn't help sighing. Even if they devoted themselves to Martial Arts training day and night, how many of them would truly make it onto the path of a warrior?
As usual, Sir Howard sat on a stone stool instructing the apprentices, but his expression was rather gloomy, as if he'd found a rat dropping in his breakfast.
The apprentices seemed to know he was in a bad mood, and were being so careful that they gave him no opening to reprimand them.
Unable to find an outlet for his frustration, Sir Howard was itching to take it out on someone. He could only nitpick, constantly making the training harder while muttering curses to himself, trying to vent his resentment.
His mood was highly unstable. Renard saw him repeatedly thrashing apprentices whose movements weren't up to standard with a wooden stick, and felt a chill run down his spine. Perhaps today really wasn't the best time to come.
He slowly drew back the foot he'd stepped forward with, but it was too late to leave. Sir Howard turned and spotted him at once. Though the man's skills had declined considerably, his eyesight was still sharp. "When did you get here?"
Renard gave a couple of dry coughs, then steeled himself and walked over, wearing a stiff smile as he replied, "I just got here. I saw you were busy training the apprentices and thought I'd leave, but I didn't expect to disturb you after all."
Sir Howard nodded expressionlessly. Paired with the centipede-like scar on his face, he had an imposing air even when he wasn't angry.
He smoked his cigar down to the butt, then tipped back his head and drained an entire bottle of strong vodka. With a cold laugh, he said, "You don't need to be afraid. I'm in a very good mood today. After all, the family has a new member."
Very good mood? As if!
Renard shook his head to himself. If Sir Howard were in a good mood, he'd be holding a cup of vanilla milk tea, with a faint smile at the corner of his mouth—not gulping down liquor strong enough to choke a man.
Sir Howard waved away the trembling apprentices. Before Renard could refuse, he turned and headed for the drawing room of his own accord. "I haven't left this place in two years. Tell me what's happening out there."
The drawing room was the oldest-looking building in the inn. It had two floors: the ground floor was the sitting room, while the second floor was an exhibition hall displaying Sir Howard's lifelong collection—mostly armor, weapons, and trophies from monsters he'd hunted.
When the old oak door swung open, streaks of sunlight spilled inside, brightening the dim room. Dust motes drifted visibly through the air, swirling and rising before eventually settling back to the ground as the most inconspicuous specks of dust.
A long oak table stood in the middle of the room. It looked ancient, but its finish was still bright. Eight chairs stood on either side, and the broad oak chair at the north end belonged to Sir Howard.
Perhaps because he hadn't had a visitor in a long time, the room was filled with the same musty smell. A thick layer of dust covered the floor. Sir Howard grumbled, "It's been ages since anyone came to see an old man like me."
Then he sat down with some difficulty, looking as if he might return to eternal night at any moment.
Renard settled into a chair on the left near the end of the table and asked curiously, "Don't your other students come to visit you?"
Sir Howard's expression stiffened slightly at the question, then he shook his head helplessly. "They're either dead or busy earning a living. Who has time to care about an old man like me?"
The atmosphere in the room grew somber.
After a long while, a drawn-out sigh broke the silence. Sir Howard fixed his gaze on Renard and asked softly, "How is Hamilton?"
"Father's well." Renard shrugged. "He thinks of you often, but there are a lot of affairs to deal with in the territory. If he gets the chance, he'll come visit you."
Sir Howard tilted his head in a noncommittal manner, then asked again, "What about Staff? How's he doing?"
Staff was the captain of Saint Brieuc Fortress's Third Guard. His strength was second only to Wilson's, having reached the High-level Warrior rank. But he had one advantage of his own: he wasn't yet forty and had plenty of time ahead of him.
"Staff left the Barren Land two months ago." Renard licked his lips and sighed as well. "You know how it is. This poor place can't keep anyone."
He recalled the scene when Staff had left. The man had proudly told the others, "I've joined Viscount Albert Clayton's guard. I'll get a reply before long, and then I'll be able to leave this place."
The burly man hadn't bothered to hide the pride on his face, or to consider how the others might feel.
Of course, there was no need to consider that. Before long, he'd be part of the Clayton Family.
It was a powerful family with one Marquis, two Earls, six Viscounts, and more than twenty Barons. Its lands lay in the extremely prosperous Cabbage County.
Its name might not carry as much weight as the Duncan Family's, but its members had much deeper pockets.
After all, Cabbage County bordered the kingdom's administrative center, Province of Roses. The lords there were rolling in wealth—nothing like Saint Brieuc Fortress.
"He left?" A trace of despondency appeared on Sir Howard's face. "He was my proudest apprentice."
Renard knew that Sir Howard had once intended to raise Staff as his son-in-law. Unfortunately, people always climbed toward higher ground, while water flowed downhill.
Fortunately, Sir Howard wasn't a sentimental man. He quickly recovered from his disappointment and asked again, "What about Andrew..."
"He's dead." Before Sir Howard could finish, Renard cut in. "He said his family had pulled some strings and wanted him to find a place for himself in the army."
Andrew had been Renard's childhood playmate—or his lackey, if you preferred. His family had been farmers for two generations. What connections could he possibly have? If he had anything to rely on, it was the little he'd learned from Sir Howard about handling a blade.
Renard took a deep breath, then continued, "Two years ago, Andrew left Saint Brieuc Fortress to go adventuring. Less than two months later, his family received the terrible news of his death. Apparently, a bugbear killed him."
Bugbears were a devolved offshoot of goblins. They weren't very strong; four or five sturdy commoners could handle one. For Andrew to die at their hands was bitterly ironic.
Sir Howard opened his mouth, then let out a long, despondent sigh. The sound struck Renard deep within, suddenly making him feel as if he were witnessing a hero's twilight years.
They sat facing each other in silence. The stillness gradually drained Renard's desire to keep talking, so he got straight to the point. "I came to say goodbye today."
"I know." Sir Howard showed no surprise. "You just said it yourself. This poor place can't keep anyone."
Before you continue