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Chapter 42: The Middle-Aged Man
Seeing Freya’s flustered expression, Brandon figured she was beginning to understand the true nature of Ridenburg’s so-called local militia. But her understanding wasn’t complete yet, and he intended to make it crystal clear. Only reality could teach Freya the situation they were in.
Brandon didn’t want to shatter her last shred of hope for the nation, but sometimes actions couldn’t be driven solely by passion. Charging ahead recklessly would only lead to disaster. He had never been an impulsive man, and he hoped Freya would learn to act with composure. Of course, when necessary, he would step in to protect her and Roma—his bottom line was that these men wouldn’t truly harm them.
He watched calmly as Freya handled the crisis, but then noticed her gaze shift toward the distance. Surprised, he followed her line of sight and saw a group of people near Ridenburg’s eastern barracks. They surrounded a tall, middle-aged man, with White Mane light infantry fanned out behind them. Clearly, this was a noble.
Brandon found the situation amusing. Their luck was unexpectedly good—it was like having a pillow handed to them just as they wanted to sleep. Freya had also reacted quickly, spotting the important figures immediately. He roughly understood her thoughts and nodded inwardly.
From a normal person’s perspective, Freya’s reaction was correct. Still, Brandon merely wanted to see how she’d crash into reality. It felt a bit cruel to put it that way, but his intentions were ultimately for her benefit—and that was enough. Besides, it was Freya’s own choice.
He turned back to see two guards drawing their swords and approaching Freya. They hadn’t expected this girl to resist so decisively after their comrades had surrendered without a fight. As soon as she jumped onto the tower, she charged toward a nearby weapon rack.
Startled, the guards quickly drew their swords and moved to intercept her. But Freya spun around, grabbing one guard’s wrist with her right hand while sidestepping. With her left hand, she delivered a precise strike to his armpit. In an instant, she disarmed him and forced him to the ground, groaning in pain.
The ponytailed girl snatched the sword and clashed with the second guard. Three swift strikes later, her newfound strength from battling the Golden Magic Tree drove the guard back five steps until he hit the wall. She then reversed her grip and struck him on the head with the hilt, sending him sprawling unconscious.
Turning around, her presence alone caused the remaining four guards, including their captain, to retreat a step. Freya felt a pang of bitterness. The Ridenburg forces she had relied on were nothing more than this? She had assumed they were at least close to Brandon’s level—if not quite there, then not far off.
But Brandon silently applauded. The local guards were merely skilled militiamen, while Freya’s current abilities firmly placed her among the Guard Unit’s ranks. Her calmness under pressure was especially commendable.
Still, he glanced at the distant White Mane infantry, thinking that if Freya believed the kingdom’s regular army fought at this level, she might soon find herself in trouble.
For now, though, his task was not to interfere with the future Valkyrie’s judgment. So, he suddenly grabbed the two guards beside him, tossing them aside before they could react. Then, he seized his Elven Blade and knocked the swords from the hands of the two guards restraining Roma.
“What do you plan to do?” Ignoring the groaning guards on the ground, he grabbed Roma’s hand and ran over.
Freya shot him a glare, then looked toward the barracks. Her meaning was clear.
“Go there? Fine. As they say, it’s easier to deal with the king than the minions.” Brandon smiled.
“What does that mean?” Roma asked curiously, rubbing her sore wrist. Those guards had gripped her too tightly, leaving her hand aching.
“It means we’ll see what those big shots have to say.”
Freya sensed hidden meaning in his words but had no time to argue. She shot a disgusted look at the trembling guard captain and leaped out of the tower first.
“Brandon, Freya seems angry.”
“No problem, just follow.”
Roma gave him a curious glance.
…….
Lord Ceberus of Golden Fruit had been in a good mood all day—until this incident occurred.
When the young girl suddenly rushed before him, surrounded by guards, Ceberus froze. Seeing the two others in peasant attire, anger surged within him. How had three filthy peasants managed to intrude here? Who was the captain on duty tonight? He’d make sure that fool regretted it!
Ceberus’s face flushed red, then pale, as he prepared to explode. But someone tapped his shoulder with a cane. Turning, he saw the repulsive industrialist and workshop owner, Sir Burnley, whose bloated face was covered in fat. Ceberus despised the man’s greed and pettiness, but he remained clear-headed enough to remember they were currently allies.
Following Burnley’s gaze, Ceberus spotted Freya’s armband. Buchi militiamen? Hadn’t Madara’s army already reached Beldor Forest? How had they gotten here?
He glanced nervously at the distant nobles, hoping they hadn’t noticed the commotion. Then, gripping his sword, he growled at the guards, “What are you doing? Take the assassins away!”
Assassins?
Freya was stunned by the accusation. She opened her mouth to protest but found herself surrounded by drawn swords—their metallic ring piercing her heart.
“What’s going on here?”
A calm, stern voice cut through the tension, causing everyone to instinctively part. A tall, sharp-featured middle-aged man emerged, leaning on a golden cane. His icy gaze swept over the scene.
Ceberus inwardly cursed. The trouble had drawn unwanted attention. Thinking quickly, he replied smoothly, “A few peasants broke in—likely assassins.”
“Peasants?” The man frowned.
“My lord, we’re not assassins! We’re Buchi militiamen,” Freya urgently explained. “We came to deliver a message—Buchi is under attack by Ma—”
The man’s expression darkened, cutting her off. “Your name?”
“F-Freya,” she stammered, feeling his cold gaze like a snake’s stare. She lowered her head.
“And you?” he asked, turning to Roma.
“I’m Roma, Sir,” Roma chirped innocently.
A few stifled laughs erupted from the crowd but were quickly silenced. The man’s expression didn’t change as he waved dismissively. “Take them away for questioning.”
“My lord, we…” Freya protested, raising her head.
But he ignored her, signaling the guards to restrain them. Just as they moved in, the man raised his hand. “Wait.”
His words carried authority, and everyone froze.
“Let me see the sword that man is holding.” He pointed his cane at Brandon.
Sword?
Everyone paused, finally noticing the distinctive shape of Brandon’s blade—an Elven sword renowned for its beauty and often treated as art among the upper class. Ceberus inwardly cursed again. This ruthless man’s eyes were sharp—he’d noticed both the women and the sword.
What unsettled Ceberus most was the man’s status and influence. Even if he demanded the sword, Ceberus could only comply. He dared not offend the power behind such a figure.
He gestured, and several guards immediately surrounded Brandon, swords drawn.
Brandon glanced at Freya, her expression lost and dazed. He knew it was time, yet he forced himself to stay calm. With a quiet resolve, he shrugged and handed over the sword.
Smart move, Ceberus thought.
A guard hurried over, presenting the sword to the middle-aged man. He examined it coolly, flipping the blade to read the inscription:
“A’ssonston, donamiru—-” (Elvish: Born amidst the radiant glow, Striking fear in every foe).
Raising the sword, it shimmered brilliantly in his hand, drawing gasps from the crowd. A magical sword! The nobles exchanged glances, further convinced these three were assassins. After all, what militiaman carried enchanted weapons? It was unbelievable.
But the man’s face softened slightly as he gazed at the glowing leaf-shaped blade. Turning to the industrialist, he asked, “Sir Burnley, with your vast wealth and experience, can you tell me the origin of this sword?”
The corpulent noble hastily waddled forward, simpering, “I’ve seen some Elven weapons, but my knowledge pales compared to yours, my lord.”
The man smirked coldly. “Then, for the sake of this sword, ensure they’re treated well tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll personally interrogate these assassins. And take good care of the ladies.” His tone grew colder. “You’d best relay my exact words to your captain, Glanson. Don’t think I’m unaware of your schemes…”
His words chilled the guard to the bone, but others exchanged knowing smiles. The clearer the man’s favor, the better it was for them.
After all, it was just two women and a sword. Compared to their vested interests, the latter mattered more.
Freya’s face flushed with anger. She took a deep breath, clenching her fists. For a moment, Brandon feared she might act impulsively, but the Valkyrie-in-training had grown much steadier since they first met.
He looked at the middle-aged man, then at the gleaming Lustrous Stinger in his hand. Frowning slightly, he wondered, Who is he? He seems powerful. Though Brandon couldn’t recall every historical detail, the man’s reaction intrigued him.
Still, he wasn’t overly worried. The real show was yet to come.
As they were led away by the guards, Brandon distinctly heard the man ask:
“Now, back to business. Lord Ceberus, when do you intend to let me leave the city?” The man’s voice was cold, laced with subtle mockery.
“My lord, these are perilous times. Madara’s forces are at Vimiel Fortress. Buchi’s flank may be attacked at any moment. The wilderness is too dangerous, especially for someone close to the king. How could we justify letting you risk yourself?”
The man chuckled, saying nothing more.
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