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Chapter 55: The Sword, the Light
A piercing scream split the air as the Gargoyle dove down, its iron-hook claws seizing Sir Burnley by the shoulders and lifting his rotund figure into the sky. At first, the industrialist flailed in panic, trying to shout or struggle, but once he realized his predicament, his face turned ghostly pale, and he froze stiff.
The crowd looked up, their expressions a mix of disdain and reluctant understanding—none of them believed they’d fare any better if placed in his position.
Brandon stood alone before the army, his sword held casually in one hand. Without turning, he raised his free hand and called out, “Gargoyle, uom!” (Witch Tongue: Return!)
When he turned back around, it was as though the tide had receded. Over a hundred men involuntarily took a step backward under his gaze. As the nobleman’s private soldiers retreated, they revealed Chael, pinned down by countless spears behind them.
“Wait! I surrender!” The young wizard apprentice, seeing no other option, immediately raised his hands, signaling his complete lack of resistance.
Brandon sighed inwardly, shaking his head. Doesn’t this guy have even an ounce of pride? But Chael, seemingly oblivious to Brandon’s frustration, winked at him instead, silently conveying: It’s all on you now, my lord. I’ve done my part. Brandon nearly choked on his own anger.
Meanwhile, the White Mane riders were entering the scene, forming a semicircle behind Brandon. It seemed they intended to take control of the chaotic situation from the disorganized private forces.
In the distance, Lord Ceberus watched with mounting fury. He wanted to curse aloud, but he restrained himself. Marcaru was gone, Burnley—his trusted strategist—was dangling in midair, and Glanson, another of his captains, was busy storming the castle. All that remained at his side were a ragtag group of mercenaries.
Suppressing the cold sweat trickling down his spine, Ceberus spurred his horse forward. He couldn’t help but wonder why the Gargoyle had targeted Burnley instead of him. What purpose could that serve?
Ceberus approached the encirclement, accompanied by a retinue of nobles, and halted opposite Luc Besson. Neither side exchanged pleasantries—there was no need for superficial courtesies when tensions between Goran-Elsun’s nobility and the local legion had simmered for decades.
Luc Besson, known as “The Tiger,” sat atop his horse like a spear ready to strike. His dark-skinned frame exuded confidence as he glanced dismissively at Ceberus and his entourage. Though part of the White Mane Legion, his loyalty lay with the royal revivalists. He held both factions in contempt and saw no reason to engage in pointless banter with these shortsighted fools.
Instead, his eyes fixed on Brandon—the young man who stood calmly before an entire army, having single-handedly repelled four of his captains with a single swing of his blade. To Besson’s surprise, Brandon’s gaze met his across the field.
Does he know me?
Besson furrowed his brow but quickly regained composure. “Young man,” he began, smoothly taking command from Ceberus, “I’ll give you one chance to release poor Sir Burnley. As you can see, your companion is also in our possession.”
At the sound of Besson’s voice, Brandon recognized him immediately. During his honorary service at Ridenburg Fortress before the First Black Rose War, he’d heard Besson speak several times.
“The Tiger” Luc Besson—an upper-tier silver-rank swordsman and one of Eruin’s most formidable warriors.
Facing such a master, Brandon dared not underestimate him. He exhaled softly to steady himself while his mind raced. Glancing between Ceberus and Besson, he understood that his survival hinged on exploiting the rift between them.
This conflict wasn’t coincidental. In Ridenburg, the conflict between the local noble council and the regional legions mirrored many of this ancient kingdom's enduring contradictions—a legacy rooted in Eruin’s unique political system. Born out of the fractured Grulz Empire, Eruin’s laws were derived from the infamous Black Imperial Code. However, after centuries of devastating feudal wars, the fourth ruler of the realm, King Aine I, instituted reforms to prevent history from repeating itself. He decreed that military authority would be centralized under the crown, while civil governance and defense were separated at the local level.
The system was built around duchies and earldoms, where lords governed small quasi-independent "states." Within their domains, they enjoyed full legislative and administrative powers but were subject to taxation rules: the king held primary rights over all mines, forests, and farmland in any given territory, with nobles relegated to secondary tax privileges. Furthermore, nobles were forbidden from raising private armies beyond militias and Guard Units; regional defense fell under the purview of royal-controlled legions.
Through a network of tax collectors and central legion oversight, the monarchy maintained tight control during periods of strong royal power, forging a formidable Eruin Kingdom. Yet Brandon understood that human error inevitably lurked behind fleeting glory. As the crown’s influence waned, so too did its ability to enforce these systems, exposing latent flaws within the kingdom’s structure.
The discord originated from internal divisions within the royal family. Sixty years prior, when the devout Edward ascended the throne, ushering in the Colcova dynasty, Duke Anlek—another rightful heir—harbored deep resentment. As the royal house grew increasingly fragmented, regional legions began splintering into rival factions. When the crown found itself unable to effectively command its vast armies, its authority over the provinces began to crumble. Since the Year of the Burrowing Beast, royal tax collectors had been barred from entering nearly a third of the kingdom’s territories—a stark indicator of how far the monarchy’s prestige had fallen.
Brandon knew that eleven years ago, when Duke Anlek succeeded his father and forced then-King Obergu VI to amend the defense ordinances, the true military forces remaining under royal control dwindled to just three entities: the Royal Guard, the Black Blade Legion stationed in Sifah, and the Eleventh Free Cavalry Corps based in Ampersal.
Against this backdrop, the monarchy’s influence over the regions continued to weaken. Yet even amidst this decline, local politics remained far from unified. The struggle for dominance between regional nobles and legions intensified into fierce competition. In Goran-Elsun, the bitter feud between Earl Pral and the Duke Goran-Elsun had long been fodder for gossip.
In Ridenburg, this tension manifested in the rivalry between Lord Ceberus and Luc Besson. While both agreed on abandoning the Buchi region, neither wished to shoulder the blame. Each sought to maneuver themselves into a position of advantage—until now. Luc Besson, who had previously held the weaker hand, saw an opportunity shift in his favor with the arrival of Brandon and his companions.
That turning point hinged on whether Brandon’s group could credibly claim to be Buchi militiamen. If they were, Lord Ceberus’s carefully prepared excuses would unravel into outright lies—a grave offense tantamount to deceiving the crown. Though the monarchy existed more in name than in power, such accusations provided ample ammunition for noble houses to attack one another under the guise of loyalty to the realm.
Realizing this, Brandon understood he wasn’t in immediate danger. While Ceberus might wish him dead, Besson’s approval was required.
A pang of sorrow struck Brandon. He’d long foreseen this outcome but hadn’t been able to explain it to Freya. If she learned their efforts were doomed because of infighting at the eleventh hour, how would she react?
Still, sorrow aside, he thanked Marsha for making these men shortsighted enough to give him leverage. Turning to Besson, he smirked. “How amusing, gentlemen.”
His cryptic remark left everyone puzzled.
“Amusing?” Besson chuckled from atop his horse. “What’s so amusing?”
Brandon gestured for the Gargoyle to bring Burnley closer. He twirled the elven blade in his hand, switching it from left to right. “Sir Luc Besson,” he said, addressing the swordsman before turning to Ceberus. “You want me to release this fat pig?” He slapped Burnley’s cheek, recalling the moment hours earlier when Earl Duane had confiscated his sword—and then brandished it triumphantly.
Memories flowed through him like water, calming his nerves. Looking up, he replied, “What amuses me is that some people are oblivious to their impending doom. Do you really think Ridenburg is safe? That Madara’s forces won’t dare set foot in Eruin?”
“Madara?” Both Besson and Ceberus blurted in unison.
“What nonsense are you spouting, boy?” Ceberus demanded, advancing his horse.
Brandon ignored him, pressing the sword against Burnley’s neck. Before uttering another word, the elven blade erupted in radiant light, shimmering with an ethereal glow.
“Sir Burnley, wealthy and worldly, perhaps you can tell me the origin of this sword?” Brandon asked coldly, mimicking someone else’s tone.
The portly man thrashed wildly in the Gargoyle’s grip, desperate to escape. But Brandon paid him no heed. Confirming his suspicions, he spat angrily, “This is Lustrous Stinger, a blade born of light. No undead can hide from it. Yet you fools admired the weapon without remembering the circumstances under which Earl Duane claimed it. You’re blind to Targus’s spies planted among you!”
Luc Besson and the nobles stared, stunned. Though Luc Besson instinctively believed Brandon, he desperately hoped otherwise.
But Brandon didn’t wait. With a swift motion, he plunged the sword into Burnley’s spherical body. The man screamed, his flesh rapidly withering until he transformed into a grotesque, desiccated monster.
“A skeletal wizard!” Besson identified it instantly.
Ceberus collapsed onto his saddle, shouting, “Impossible!”
His reaction startled the crowd, drawing all eyes toward him. Only Brandon remained composed, fully aware of what had transpired. History hadn’t changed; he’d merely uncovered its truth. Now he understood why Ridenburg fell so swiftly.
Sweat poured down Ceberus’s forehead as every word Burnley had spoken replayed in his mind, now revealed as malicious traps. To hunt Brandon, he’d replaced a third of the castle’s garrison with Burnley’s private troops—troops that, upon reflection, were clearly something else entirely.
Before anyone could act, eerie blue flames erupted in the west and northwest of Ridenburg. No explanation was needed; everyone knew what it meant.
For a moment, Ceberus felt the world spin. “Retreat! Quickly! Through the eastern gate!”
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