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Chapter 56: Witness
Brandon stood to the side, observing the nobles as they bickered amongst themselves. Their private soldiers milled about in disarray, their panic palpable. The nobles were preparing to flee eastward out of the city, but no one gave a second thought to their subjects—the common folk who had lived and worked under their rule.
At this moment, political struggles seemed irrelevant; the focus was entirely on salvaging personal wealth. Some argued that survival was paramount, while others insisted on taking as much as possible with them. A few even vowed to die rather than abandon their possessions, as though Madara would show mercy simply because of their noble titles.
These heated arguments devolved into mutual accusations, leaving Brandon increasingly exasperated. He lowered his gaze and began cleaning his sword—a task made more satisfying by the fact that his earlier strike against the skeletal wizard had earned him 220 experience points, the most substantial gain he’d received since defeating the golden tree boss.
The creature had been a mid-tier skeletal wizard, and Brandon considered himself lucky. It likely hadn’t anticipated being targeted. Moreover, skeletal wizards were relatively weak compared to other undead creatures, and the Gargoyle’s grip had rendered it immobile, giving Brandon an opportunity to exploit its vulnerabilities.
But the benefits of slaying a mid-tier skeletal wizard didn’t end there.
Under the watchful eyes of the gathered crowd, Brandon unsheathed his blade once more and cleaved open the creature’s forehead, extracting a bone-like core. Then, with precise cuts, he severed the four fingers of its right hand before prying open its jaw to carefully extract each tooth and deposit them into his pouch.
His actions stunned the onlookers into silence. To them, Brandon now appeared less like a man and more like a demon—despite the skeletal wizard retaining some semblance of human form, Brandon handled it with the practiced efficiency of a seasoned hunter field-dressing prey.
Yet Brandon saw nothing unusual in his behavior. After all, he was merely processing a valuable resource. Mid-tier skeletal wizards differed greatly from low-level cannon fodder. Their soulfire cores could potentially be refined into gemstones for enchantment purposes, their finger bones served as spellcasting materials, and their teeth were prized ingredients for crafting paralytic poisons. In short, every part of the creature was worth harvesting.
Chael, familiar with such lore, remained respectfully at Brandon’s side after slipping away from the mercenaries. Those hired swords, motivated solely by coin, had already lost all cohesion, leaving no one to question Chael’s presence. As the young wizard reflected on recent events, he recalled Brandon testing his blade near Earl Duane’s corpse and realized how deliberate each of his lord’s actions truly were. Chael couldn’t help but feel immense admiration, likening Brandon to the wise Highland Mages of Karasu.
Meanwhile, Luc Besson regained his composure after a brief moment of shock. Still mounted on his horse, he refrained from joining the panicked retreat, instead watching Brandon with growing interest. To Luc Besson, Brandon embodied qualities rare in someone so young: calmness, adaptability, decisiveness, and formidable strength. Had he been born a decade earlier, Brandon might have risen to prominence in a different era. But in the current state of Eruin, even a staunch royalist like Luc Besson couldn’t help but shake his head. Gazing up at the darkening sky, he wondered what fate awaited this fractured nation.
For a fleeting moment, an uneasy quiet settled over the group.
Unbeknownst to the others, Brandon was mentally calculating the best escape route. Glancing at Chael, who stood nearby, he turned and asked abruptly, “Pale Knights or Black Warriors—which do you think would be easier to handle?”
Caught off guard by the sudden question, Chael hesitated, unsure how to respond.
Brandon shook his head. By now, the quarreling nobles had managed to rally their private forces and were retreating eastward, abandoning the bodies of their fallen comrades scattered haphazardly along the riverbank without a second glance.
“In his poetry, Gopeil likened the nobles of Karasu to bandits,” Chael muttered disdainfully. “I see little difference between them and those of Goran-Elsun.”
“This country is finished,” Brandon declared bluntely, heedless of whether Luc Besson overheard. He harbored no ill will toward these doomed men—they would soon encounter Targus’s most capable general, the infamous ‘Dragon Scourge’ Lord Tamara, upon exiting to the east. Until now, Brandon had puzzled over how history recorded none of these nobles surviving. Seeing their foolish decisions unfold before him made their fate seem almost inevitable.
“You’re not running?” Luc Besson interrupted, still seated atop his horse.
Before Brandon could reply, a deafening roar filled the air. Everyone instinctively looked up just in time to see two colossal skeletal dragons hurtling past overhead, their massive forms growing larger with each passing second.
For a brief instant, everyone froze in terror—an indescribable mix of awe and dread washed over them. The sight was both horrifying and mesmerizing: elegant yet ghastly undead soared across the heavens, their grayish-black skeletons wreathed in burning violet flames that surged through their ribcages. Each beat of their enormous wings produced a deep, resonant gust of wind, trailing streaks of purple fire behind them. The sheer force of their passage sent shivers down spines, accompanied by a piercing scream that seemed to pierce directly into the soul.
That scream carried the weight of a lingering nightmare, evoking images of desolation and despair: Bones sprouted from blackened earth, rotting tendons crawling with pale maggots. Endless barren plains stretched beneath a leaden sky, and Brandon stood alone at the center of it all.
Brandon snapped out of the trance-like state with a jolt, muttering inwardly about the potency of the bone dragon’s Fear Aura. Even flying overhead, the effect on those below was profound. He scanned the battlefield, noting how horses bolted in terror or collapsed trembling to the ground.
Then his gaze fell on Luc Besson, who also appeared to have recovered. Meeting Brandon’s eyes, Luc Besson raised an eyebrow. “Join us, young man. You’ve seen firsthand how insignificant individual strength is against power like this.”
Brandon studied him, then shook his head. Trusting Luc Besson wasn’t an option—not when historical records showed the man meeting his demise. After enduring so much to reach this point, escaping this dead city meant his plans were halfway complete. From here, he could focus on leveling up and awaiting Eruin’s inevitable collapse.
With visions of brighter days ahead, Brandon had no intention of jeopardizing his progress. Thinking quickly, he decided honesty might dissuade Luc Besson from pressing further. “I’ll break north. My friends are waiting for me there. If Commander Luc Besson doesn’t mind, you’re welcome to join me.”
Luc Besson scrutinized him, hesitating briefly before shaking his head. Flames burned blue in the northern, northwestern, and western skies, signaling the undead army’s advance from those directions. While he admired the young man, he wasn’t willing to throw his life away.
What Brandon didn’t mention was that, aside from the east, all directions posed similar risks—but heading north offered a shorter distance. Time was an advantage, and time meant survival.
Patting Chael on the shoulder, Brandon replied, “If that’s the case, we’ll take our leave. Perhaps fate will allow us to meet again.”
Though historically not much different from other nobles, Luc Besson was at least competent—and one of the few during that era capable of thinking beyond personal gain. On a subconscious level, Brandon didn’t object to letting him live. Yet, he refrained from saying anything unnecessary, fearing even a hint might trigger suspicion. Unlike naive youths like Freya or Roma, Luc Besson was sharp-witted enough to piece things together if given the slightest clue.
Astrologers commanded respect, but charlatans faced execution. Brandon wasn’t about to gamble his future on unnecessary risks.
…….
Year of Blossoms and Summer Leaves, June 2nd
Peace crumbled overnight as infernos engulfed the land. Wherever the undead army marched, scorched earth remained in its wake. Countless lives were lost, families shattered, homes destroyed. When prayers proved futile and the very nobles entrusted with protection fled, deep scars formed within society. This mistrust gradually spread from war zones to the rear lines.
But Brandon knew this was only the first step in Eruin’s descent.
News of Ridenburg’s fall reached Vimiel Fortress six days later. By then, Targus’s flank army had already threatened Ankerze, rendering the Vimiel-Ridenburg defensive line nonexistent. Only a solitary fortress remained, holding on by a thread.
On the eleventh day, reports of undead forces approaching from Viero reached Colcova. The next day, King Obergu VII secretly met with Madara’s emissary.
Thirteenth day: The Free Merchants’ Alliance of Ampersal declared its entry into the war.
Fourteenth day: Madara’s envoy formally presented himself.
Twentieth day: Frontline hostilities temporarily subsided as both sides formed delegations, ushering in prolonged negotiations. Yet the war continued to creep forward, bogged down in sluggish battles reminiscent of wading through mud. Madara’s forces fanned chaos wherever they went, exploiting Eruin’s sluggish responses to inflict heavy losses.
The monarchy, however, welcomed such setbacks.
Thus, negotiations dragged on. On July 5th, Madara’s army entered Jandel, clashing with Ampersal’s mercenaries for the first time. History remembers this engagement as the Battle of Flangenborg, where Enstallone rose to fame. Under his command, the Black Knights repeatedly tore through the flanks of Anlek’s mercenaries, supported by artillery barrages, ultimately securing victory.
From there, Madara’s forces advanced triumphantly, reaching as far as Jandel’s capital. Names like Enstallone, Targus, Viland, August, and Greta shone brightly as rising stars. Yet Brandon alone understood what these names would signify in the annals of history.
Still, history marched onward. On July 16th, Obergu VII met with Madara’s emissary once more. Three days later, negotiations concluded, marking the end of the First Black Rose War.
The conflict had erupted like lightning and ended just as swiftly. On the surface, it seemed as though nothing had changed—but everything had. The sole outcome appeared to be another predictable defeat for Eruin, offering little else worth discussing.
For the next ten years, Buchi ceased to belong to those who had once cherished its lands.
…..The end of Volume 1.......
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