Lineage Support Arrives

Gray Fog hung over the wilderness as a convoy laden with supplies and Convicts slowly made its way along the muddy, Frozen Tundra.

At the head of the convoy, the leader, Rook, was wrapped in a heavy cloak and rode a tall horse.

To others, this family Knight leader, who was only in his thirties, was impeccable.

Whether it was taking inventory of supplies or driving away stray Convicts, everything was done efficiently and flawlessly.

But only Rook himself knew that this identity was just a facade; he was never a simple guard Knight.

It took the Count Greywood twenty years to train him into a dagger in the shadows, to do those shady tasks.

The jolting on horseback reminded Rook of that late night before he set off.

The high and mighty count had little affection for the illegitimate son who was sent to Blackpine Fief.

He didn't care whether Shien was doing well or not, nor did he care how long the fourteen-year-old boy could hold on; all he cared about was whether Graywood could continue to live.

For the past few decades, the Graymist Defense Zone has been relatively peaceful. For the Inland nobles, that place is actually very useful. Bastards, abandoned children, and people who have made mistakes but are not easy to deal with publicly can all be dumped there. As long as enough taxes are paid, the Church will generally turn a blind eye.

But things are different now. After last year's crushing defeat, no one expected the Church to become increasingly insane.

Not long ago, the fate of the Augustine Lineage had already sent chills down the spines of all the nobles; in just one night, a family that had been passed down for centuries was burned to ashes.

That's what the count feared most.

That young illegitimate son, who has never truly seen a bloody millstone, might do something foolish if pushed to the limit.

Whether they flee, act recklessly, or even provoke Heretic and taboos to survive, as long as they cross the line, the Church's fire will eventually reach the Greywood Lineage.

Thinking of this, Rook lowered his eyes, his fingers naturally brushing against the leather sheath of the dagger at his waist.

The dagger was short and unremarkable in design, but its blade was coated with a deadly poison that could kill instantly upon drawing blood.

The count gave him only two orders.

First, we need to find out exactly what the current situation is at Blackpine Fief.

He needed to personally assess the progress of the defenses, the morale, and whether the fourteen-year-old lord still had a chance of holding out.

Second, kill Sheen immediately if Shien shows any fear, considers running away, or does anything that could drag the family down with him.

Be decisive and clean up the mess afterwards, and then disguise the scene as Magic Creature attack.

It's perfectly normal for a young lord to die on the border; the Church won't investigate too much, and the Greywood Lineage can still absolve themselves of responsibility.

Afterwards Rook will take over Blackpine Fief in the name of the family.

It's best if we can hold on, but it doesn't matter if we can't.

As long as we wipe out all the people here and make a show of it, at least the Church will see that the Greywood Lineage has not escaped.

If this is achieved, the family will still have room to maneuver.

Rook's expression remained unchanged, but there was not a trace of warmth in his eyes.

In his mind, Blackpine Fief should be a dilapidated wooden fortress teetering on the brink of winter, with a group of Convicts huddled at the base of its walls, barely clothed and waiting to freeze or starve to death.

But when the last wisp of Gray Fog was torn apart by the gale, the scene that truly came into view made this family Knight, who had spent several years on the Eternal Night Wall, fall silent for a moment.

Before me lay a vast expanse of Frozen Tundra that had been completely overturned.

The earth looked as if it had been repeatedly plowed, digging out ring-shaped trenches that intersected with each other, stretching as far as the eye could see.

At the bottom of the outermost trench, countless sharpened Black Iron and thorny stakes were driven upside down, and the slope was covered with large patches of yellowish-black viscous liquid, the pungent acidic smell of which could be detected from a distance.

Further on, the previously unseen polygonal bunker was finally built, its firing ports revealing a chilling reflection.

Rook reined in; he couldn't quite figure out how the defense worked, but his Knight instincts had already given him the answer.

This is a bear trap with its mouth wide open.

Just as Rook frowned and looked ahead, a patrol of light cavalry covered in mud came towards them.

The lead Knight raised his hand and lifted his mask, revealing a rugged face with scars.

Rook's eyes narrowed; he recognized the man.

Keaton, an old Knight from the Greywood Lineage guard, was later demoted to Convicts.

In Rook's previous impression, this guy was just a drunken, crazy soldier who would be nothing special on the battlefield.

But Keaton now seems like a completely different person.

He was covered in mud, and his eyes were sunken from exhaustion, but his back was taut as he sat on the horse.

Those bloodshot eyes held no trace of numbness or despair, but rather something that made Rook very uncomfortable.

Keaton spurred his horse closer, his gaze sweeping over the convoy before finally settling on Rook's face. He offered no sign of deference, simply asking, "A supply convoy?"

"Winter supplies sent by the Greywood Lineage," Rook said steadily, "Ordered to be escorted to Blackpine Fief."

Keaton nodded, turned his horse around, and said, "Keep up, but be careful not to go astray."

Rook said nothing more, and simply led the convoy to follow slowly.

As he entered the camp, he observed his surroundings discreetly, and the more he looked, the more somber his expression became.

There were no starving corpses everywhere, nor the oppressive atmosphere of waiting to die that he had imagined.

On the contrary, there were people moving almost everywhere in my field of vision.

Hundreds and thousands of Refugees and laborers, shirtless, moved stones, rammed earth, and dragged timber through the mud.

The campsite remained dilapidated; the wooden sheds and cloth tents still swayed precariously in the wind.

Despite the chaos, there was order. The roadsides had been clearly cleared, and pungent Quicklime was scattered on the ground. The living area, material storage area, and waste disposal area had all been cut off, and several blast furnaces in the distance were still emitting black smoke.

Rook, mounted on horseback, asked in a low voice, "Keaton, what exactly have you been up to these past two months?"

Keaton grinned, his lips cracked, but his smile was a little cold, "Digging graves, the lord said, building walls is too slow, and might not even be enough to stop it."

Since that's the case, why not dig graves for those Werewolf and Ghoul to the North first? If they want to come, let them jump in themselves."

The convoy continued forward, and when they reached the second line of defense, the smell Rook detected became even stranger.

The soil was black, and the wind carried a mixture of sulfurous and acidic smells, along with a hint of diluted Holy Water; smelling it for too long made one's nasal cavity numb.

His gaze swept across the area and he quickly noticed that the black soil had been leveled too much, with almost no trace of digging.

Keaton, as if guessing what he was thinking, said without turning his head, "Keep an eye on your men and livestock. If you accidentally trample them to pieces, even collecting the corpses will be a hassle."

Rook's eye twitched slightly. "What is that?"

"Something that can blast Third-Tier Demonic Beast so badly that even its bones are turned out."

Rook paused for a moment before asking casually, "You've done so many things that violate the rules, hasn't the Church sent anyone to deal with it? Aren't you afraid of being labeled a Heretic?"

Keaton laughed out loud.

He raised his riding whip and pointed to the Sacred Flame Altar in the direction of the Inner Fortress: "What do we care? Defending our territory on the Eternal Night Wall is what truly matters."

Rook didn't speak. The image of his young, incapable, and inevitably troublesome illegitimate son in his mind was slowly crumbling.

Upon reaching the Inner Fortress drawbridge, Keaton pulled on the reins, glanced back at Rook, and the smile in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold reminder:

"Old Rook, for the sake of our past drinks together, I'll give you a word of advice: never underestimate this young lord."

As soon as he finished speaking, the heavy iron-clad door of the Inner Fortress slowly opened with the sound of a winch.

Ivan emerged from the shadows, glanced at Rook, and spoke in a flat, emotionless voice.

"Supplies leader, the lord summons you."

Rook took a deep breath and touched the poisoned dagger hidden in his sleeve.