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Chapter 44: Isn’t This a Prison Break?
The three of them emerged from the cells, watching as Brandon effortlessly dispatched the three guards patrolling this level. The entire process was silent, executed with an ease that bordered on the infuriating. Freya had always suspected that Brandon must have undergone specialized training at some point—though did Highland Knights really need such skills?
The dungeon beneath the barracks wasn’t exactly bustling with prisoners; security here was lax for good reason. Ridenburg had another dungeon for common criminals, while this one was reserved primarily for deserters and bandits. But the army’s usual method of dealing with such men was summary execution, so this place hadn’t seen much use since its construction. The guards were little more than figureheads, going through the motions.
In the game, however, this dungeon was notorious for housing players—a far cry from its current desolation. If the White Mane Legion had any mortal enemies besides Madara in the game, it was undoubtedly this very dungeon.
After neutralizing the patrolling guards, the four made their way toward the center of this floor. The guard in charge of the keys was startled to see several figures step out of the shadows. Instinctively, he reached for the sword hanging on the wall.
But Brandon raised his gauntlet just in time, a faint blue glow emanating from it as it intercepted the guard’s blade. The luminescent sphere, about the size of a football, seemed to repel the sharp edge of the sword with an outward force.
The White Mane light infantryman was taken aback, and before he could react, Brandon had already disarmed him. With a swift push, Brandon sent the man crashing into the wall, where he grunted and promptly lost consciousness. To Brandon, these were merely ordinary soldiers—no need to kill them. A single blow to render them unconscious was sufficient.
Freya, watching from behind as Brandon dealt with the last enemy, couldn’t help but exclaim, “So you’re this strong, Brandon. If it weren’t for the attack this time, I’d have gone on thinking I knew everything while being clueless.”
“You’re not bad yourself. Don’t sell yourself short. You’re a mid-tier white-rank swordsman—more than qualified for the Guard Unit,” Brandon replied as he searched the unconscious guard for the key to the upper levels.
“White-rank?” Freya asked, puzzled.
“That’s what we call ‘unranked,’” Chael interjected. “Swordsmen are divided into ranks: Iron, Silver, and Gold, corresponding to squire, knight, and grand knight respectively. In Eruin, iron-rank swordsmen are also referred to as knight aspirants. Noble youths with potential are often sent to serve as squires in prominent noble households.”
“Traditionally, swordsmen of this rank are entitled to keep their hats on when greeting lesser nobles like country squires or barons. But that custom has largely fallen out of practice over the past fifty years. Below the Iron Rank lies the unranked. Generally speaking, members of your Guard Unit and militia fall into this category, though there are distinctions within it.”
“I see,” Freya said, realization dawning. Her previous perspective had been confined to being the best swordsman among the militia. Now, her horizons were broadening.
But Chael wasn’t finished. He seemed to sense his lord’s intentions regarding Freya’s development and continued, “Iron-rank swordsmen represent the First Level of Strength (3-20 oz), Silver-rank the Second Level (20-100 oz), and Gold-rank the Third Level (100-500 oz). For wizards, these correspond to intermediate, first-circle, and second-circle mages. Clerics and other professions have similar classifications. In fact, this hierarchy isn’t based on any single nation’s standards—it’s strictly defined by the Temple of Flames.”
Freya and Roma blinked, surprised by the depth of knowledge Chael possessed. Then again, this wasn’t exactly rare information among the common folk—it was just that Buchi was an exceptionally remote place.
“In powerful empires like Grulz and Bance, even the lowest-ranking soldiers in standing armies are typically at least lower-tier iron-rank swordsmen, and captains rarely fall below Silver Rank. But here in Eruin, more than half of the frontline troops in our border legions don’t even reach Iron Rank status. Even those in command positions are often only mid-tier Iron Rank at best,” Chael added pointedly.
“Chael, if word gets out about what you’ve just said, we’ll all be beheaded,” Brandon warned lightly.
“My lord isn’t afraid of losing his head, so why should I, as his squire, fear it?” Chael responded cleverly. “Besides, my lord likely possesses the strength of an iron-rank swordsman—at his age, that’s exceedingly rare. It’s an honor to serve someone so exceptional.”
Brandon thought to himself that, not to mention the Enlightened One or the Chosen Ones, this wasn’t particularly impressive—even to those born with natural knightly talents.. His rapid rise might seem extraordinary, especially given how quickly it happened, but Chael didn’t know the full story. Still, flattery was always pleasant, and Brandon saw no reason to dispel the illusion. After all, the slightly awestruck looks from Roma and Freya were quite satisfying.
Chael glanced at the unconscious soldier on the ground and whispered, “There are prisoners in cells 5, 17, and 22. Should we release them to help us escape? If the barracks above are as crowded as expected, having more people might increase our chances.”
Freya shot him a glare. What kind of foolish idea was that? Hadn’t Brandon already explained that the prisoners here were truly vile offenders?
“No need. More people will only complicate my plans,” Brandon replied confidently.
“As you wish.”
Brandon turned back to Roma. “Do you know where your aunt is staying?”
Roma shook her head. “I’m not sure, but I heard she’s staying with a cousin?”
“And where does this cousin live?”
“I know—it’s in the Bonneau Market. My aunt mentioned that the person is a distant relative of hers, a small wool merchant named Hood,” Freya answered.
Brandon looked at Roma. “Your family certainly has a tradition of merchants.”
Roma responded with a sweet smile.
With their destination confirmed, the next steps became clear. The first level of the dungeon beneath the barracks was even smaller, with only a single jailer—Brandon now realized that the four jailers on the lower level had been temporarily assigned because of their group. After dispatching the lone jailer on this floor, they continued upward into the heart of the barracks.
Brandon knew the layout well. He swiftly retrieved Freya’s Half-Body Armor of the Wind Sovereign from the temporary armory and armed everyone with swords scavenged from the unconscious soldiers. Unfortunately, knocking out the guards yielded no experience points—otherwise, Brandon might have considered reviving them just to knock them out again.
Chael repeatedly suggested releasing the prisoners to incite a riot, arguing that their numbers would make escaping easier. While ambushing one or two White Mane soldiers was manageable, facing the courtyard outside with only four of them would be nearly impossible.
But Brandon rejected the idea every time.
By the time they reached the topmost level of the barracks, they had stealthily infiltrated the structure. Brandon pushed open the wooden door leading to the tower’s rooftop. Outside was an open walkway flanked by temporary battlements. Without looking, Brandon knew that the Usson River’s tributary flowed below, offering a view of about a fifth of the city.
But he wasn’t here for the scenery. They had incapacitated seven guards on their way up, and given the White Mane Legion’s training, it wouldn’t take long—perhaps ten minutes—for their absence to be noticed. Brandon gazed skyward. The moon was beautiful tonight, its silver disk shining brightly despite the thick clouds.
“What are you doing, Brandon?” Freya poked him from behind, half-jokingly thought that perhaps he had escaped just to admire the moon. Though unlikely, given Brandon’s dubious reputation, it wasn’t entirely out of the question.
She glanced at Chael, who stood silently beside his master, hands clasped behind his back, staring up at the sky. Master and servant were perfectly in sync.
“The moon is lovely tonight,” Brandon remarked casually.
“You—” Freya gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to punch him and wipe that smirk off his face.
“Aunt Jenny says the moon’s name is Luka. Luka was born because of Elaine, Alice’s twin sister—the goddess of mystery. Because of the moon, the world holds secrets,” Roma murmured, her small face tilted upward, eyes fixed on the glowing orb.
“Your aunt knows quite a bit,” Chael commented. “That’s a secret passed down among wizards. There’s a book called The Dark Epic that recounts events from countless ages past.”
“So you’re saying Roma’s aunt is a wizard?” Freya asked, startled.
“Not necessarily. She could be someone connected to magic. Some rural witches know these kinds of tales too,” Chael clarified.
Freya glanced at Roma, whose long ponytail swayed gently as she stared dreamily at the moon, seemingly lost in thought. Freya recalled that Aunt Jenny did carry an air of mystery, often bringing strange items home from her travels. Villagers whispered that she was a witch and kept their distance.
Meanwhile, Brandon listened to their conversation, his mind inexplicably recalling a phrase:
xvi: thetower—
The lost ‘moon’ stole the light.
He froze, wondering if he was hallucinating. Shaking his head, he couldn’t suppress the memory of the dream he’d had while unconscious that night.
In the dream, everything was bathed in eerie darkness except for a black moon. At the center of a pitch-black lake stood a towering structure, its presence dominating the surreal landscape.
And then he had met Freya. But before he could dwell on that thought, Roma spoke up, her gaze still fixed on the moon. “Something’s coming, Brandon.”
The other three looked up.
After about twenty seconds, a deep, rhythmic flapping sound echoed from above. Freya felt uneasy, but Brandon and Chael remained calm. Brandon tilted his head upward.
A moment later, a Gargoyle emerged from the clouds, its stone wings spread wide under the silvery moonlight. Against the backdrop of the night sky, the creature’s silhouette exuded an aura of ancient mystery.
“Brandon, that’s your Gargoyle!” Roma exclaimed, recognizing it instantly.
“Hmm, are you afraid of heights?” Brandon asked.
Roma hastily shook her head.
“What… what are you planning, Brandon?” Freya stammered, her face turning pale as realization dawned.
…
Lord Ceberus stormed into Burnley’s residence, his expression grim. The self-proclaimed industrialist and honorary noble was examining a finely crafted brass armor piece through a magnifying glass. After all, the armor style popular in the Year of the Glorious Return was priceless in any collector’s hands.
Burnley lowered the magnifying glass and glanced at his companion, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “What’s wrong? Did Duane sneak out of the city in the dead of night?”
“It’s not that serious—just that the prisoners escaped tonight!” Ceberus fumed, his anger not entirely directed at the escape itself but rather at the lunatic who had barged into his mansion yelling at him.
“That’s a minor issue. How did they escape?”
“It’s not the escape that bothers me,” Lord Ceberus sighed deeply. “It’s that damn ‘Tiger’ from the White Mane Legion, Luc Besson, storming into my house and accusing me of imprisoning a descendant of a Highland Knight in my dungeon. He practically demanded that I hand the prisoner over!”
“Highland Knight?” Burnley raised an eyebrow.
“Yes! He claims one of the three fugitives is a Highland Knight—and that a mage accompanies him. Can you believe it? He came to my house demanding I release the man, claiming he needed him for his unit!” Lord Ceberus was practically seething with rage.
“And what happened?”
“What happened? Now I have to deal with this mess in the middle of the night! That bastard has gone too far!” Ceberus snapped.
“Calm down. Let Glanson handle it. I’ll lend you some men from my private army,” Burnley offered with a placid smile.
Lord Ceberus gave him a grateful look, momentarily softening his opinion of the round-faced industrialist. But then he added, “Actually, there’s one more thing. I heard you recently brought a shipment of armor into the city. Be careful—it’s fine to build your own forces these days, but don’t give anyone a reason to accuse you.”
His gaze swept across the room.
“Just a personal hobby,” Burnley replied with a knowing grin.
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