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Chapter 28: The End of the Tale
After hearing the story, the silver-haired princess remained silent for a long while. Resting her chin on her hand, she thought deeply before turning to gaze at the sunlight streaming through the tall arched window. Outside, the sun was already tilting westward.
“So, what is the ending of this story, Lord Orville?” she finally asked.
“The ending, Your Highness, is that I am here recounting this tale to you. Isn’t it obvious by now?”
“True enough,” the princess replied with a faint smile. “But there’s one thing you haven’t mentioned yet, Lord Orville.”
“Oh?”
“You said, ‘He obtained something valuable along the way.’ Yet from beginning to end, I haven’t heard a single word about this item from you.” The half-elf girl tilted her head inquisitively.
“Is that so, Your Highness? I believe I made it quite clear,” Orville replied with a feigned look of surprise and a subtle smile.
“Are you referring to the badge Eberton gave him, Lord Orville? A magical badge hardly counts as something extraordinary. With your vast knowledge, surely you wouldn’t consider that a great treasure.”
“No, no, of course not. Perhaps you should think more carefully, Your Highness.”
The silver-haired girl fell silent again, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “I imagine it must have happened in the Valley of Saints. I recall that part of the story was rather brief—surely the secret lies there.”
“Your wisdom knows no bounds, Your Highness,” Orville praised sincerely. “However, my brevity wasn’t intentional. At the time, I sensed two powerful presences lurking nearby and dared not approach. I had intended to warn him, but alas, I discovered them too late.”
“Oh? Though you’re not renowned for your swordsmanship, Lord Orville, I recall your strength placing you among the lower-tier gold-rank. Are there truly beings who could deter you so completely?” The half-elf girl blinked in astonishment.
“Indeed. Fortunately, it seems those powerful entities didn’t wish to be discovered—they likely employed some stratagem to discourage intrusions.”
“In that case, he must have found something within,” the princess mused. “Come to think of it, you never told me what he saw when he opened his pouch.”
Orville’s face lit up with admiration. He glanced around cautiously before mouthing a silent response.
The silver-haired girl froze, her expression shifting slightly. “Surely such a thing doesn’t truly exist?”
Orville nodded. “I’ve only ever heard of it in legends. At the time, I was as astonished as you are now. Unfortunately, once touched by mortal hands, it can never belong to another.”
“It’s a pity. It might have tempered my brother’s soft nature—something Eruin sorely needs.” She looked at the trusted minister beside the king and added, “Otherwise, Lord Orville, you would have seized it regardless, wouldn’t you?”
Orville shrugged nonchalantly. “Even if he were a friend of Lord Everton’s daughter, the outcome would be no different.”
“I suspect their relationship runs deeper than mere friendship,” the princess remarked with a knowing smile.
Orville glanced at her, understanding the veiled warning not to involve her in his schemes. This seasoned minister couldn’t help but shake his head. Initially, he had indeed considered leveraging Obergu VII’s only daughter to win over the Highland Knight.
But given the princess’s assertiveness, such plans seemed unlikely. Still, as he observed her, he mused that as a royal, marriage alliances were inevitable. If so, perhaps the young man wasn’t a bad match after all.
At least he was far better than many noble youths Orville had encountered.
Of course, these thoughts were best left unspoken. Bowing slightly, he said, “With the story concluded, Your Highness, and the hour growing late, allow me to take my leave.”
“Lord Orville, please do. I’d like to stay here alone for a while longer.”
As Orville rose, he couldn’t help but suppress a chuckle. He knew full well the princess was avoiding Sir Panoson, her history tutor, who had likely waited for her in the side hall all afternoon and might soon go to the king to complain.
“Evasion isn’t the best solution, Your Highness,” he whispered teasingly.
The silver-haired girl smiled, her silvery-gray eyes glinting mischievously. “But it is still a solution.”
The door closed behind him. Alone, the princess sat quietly, gazing at the motes of dust dancing in the golden sunlight beneath the grand arched window. The scene felt like a dream woven from light, prompting her to wonder:
What happened after that?
…………
A breeze stirred in the forest.
Low winds swept gently across the treetops like flowing water, causing the thick mist to drift slowly. Layers of white fog filled the spaces between branches, contrasting with clusters of fiery red berries beneath the trees on either side.
The morning’s stillness shattered as the dull thud of hooves grew louder, approaching steadily.
Iron-shod hooves crushed bushes and berries, splashing through shallow streams and scattering water droplets like crystalline pillars. Thirty-four horses galloped through, trampling skeletons that rose groggily from the earth. Their phosphorescent eye sockets barely registered the charging steeds before they were smashed or flung against jagged rocks, shattering into scattered bones.
The cavalry carved a path through the remnants of undead, gradually slowing until the lead knight raised his hand high. Momentum carried the horses forward a few steps before they halted in unison—over a hundred hooves planted firmly in the rushing stream, forcing the water to flow around them. A triumphant cry pierced the dawn.
“We’ve won!”
“We’ve won!” came the second shout.
“Hail!”
“Hail Sir Brandon!” As the horses stopped, the mercenaries atop them suddenly realized the significance of the moment. Cheers erupted in unison, echoing through the valley.
Amidst the jubilation, Brandon removed his leather helmet and tossed it aside. Wiping sweat from his brow, he felt the cool morning breeze against his skin. Clad in gray leather armor, he sat upright on his horse, gazing at the verdant hills around him.
It’s over. Finally over.
He clenched his fists.
The battle had been a nightmare. By the time they entered the Valley of Saints, every last ounce of strength had been drained from them.
Two thousand refugees breaking through tens of thousands of undead sounded like a fairy tale, yet it had happened. Some had fled, others lay dead, some mourned, and some wept—but most had survived, hadn’t they?
Turning back, Brandon saw the mercenaries Freya had brought from Copper Dragon Tales. Nearly all bore wounds, yet their eyes reflected trust and gratitude. They understood who had led them to this victory.
It was nearly a miracle—but this young man had achieved it. He had promised to guide them to salvation with his sword, and he had delivered.
Freya and the militia caught up.
Her first words to Brandon were, “Brandon, have we really won?”
Looking at the spirited young woman on horseback, Brandon nodded.
His silence caused the militiamen behind Freya to fall quiet. Suddenly, townsfolk, stragglers from the White Mane Legion, and down-and-out mercenaries dropped their weapons in disbelief. After days of escape, had they truly triumphed?
Enemies the White Mane Legion itself couldn’t defeat—they had repeatedly broken through their encirclement?
Someone shouted incredulously, “Sir Knight, have we truly won?”
Brandon nodded.
“Hail!”
“Hail!” The crowd erupted, cheering and leaping with joy. Some wept tears of happiness, while others ran to share the news with the refugees trailing behind.
The riders watched these ecstatic people, smiling silently. Only moments ago, hadn’t they been the same?
But Brandon noticed Freya staring at him, lost in thought. “What is it?”
The ponytailed girl blushed. Days of warfare and managing refugees had matured her; she was no longer the simple country girl she once was. Looking at Brandon, she wondered if fate had sent such an extraordinary young man to lead them out of despair.
“Thank you, Brandon,” she murmured softly, bowing her head.
Brandon smiled but turned his gaze toward the distant green hills, lost in thought. He remembered the Buckhorn Forest fondly—the place where he had traveled alone from Braggs to Ridenburg. There was a wolverine habitat higher up, and beyond that, an ancient castle—one of the places he needed to visit in the future.
Speaking of which, it was time to make plans.
Over the past few days of battle, he had accumulated nearly 5,000 experience points. However, not all could be spent on leveling up. First and foremost, unlocking the Elemental Pool required 2,000 experience. Brandon had realized that Fate Cards were invaluable magical items, though they were unheard of in the game. Regardless, unlocking the Elemental Pool was now a priority.
Next came advancing as a Scholar and Knight. Scholars were secondary classes every player pursued, offering additional primary class slots and abundant skill experience. However, their inherent skills were weak, and they occupied one of the three available secondary slots.
As for the Knight class, it was essential groundwork for becoming a Temple Knight. Building rapport with the Temple of Flames was indispensable.
Only recently had Brandon realized how rare skills were in this world. But upon reflection, this wasn’t due to differences between the game and reality—it was his misunderstanding. Viewing the world’s inhabitants as NPCs made everything clear. Only players received “class-inherent skills.”
This realization gave him a significant advantage. Many quests he knew for acquiring skills became priorities. Thus, learning skills had to be scheduled.
Perhaps fate had brought him here for a reason. Goran-Elsun’s southern front during the First Black Rose War was the least intense battleground, akin to a beginner zone. It allowed him to gradually acclimate to this seemingly familiar yet subtly alien world.
Even so, he had barely completed his objectives.
Historically, Enstallone’s ragtag army of skeletal wizards, skeleton soldiers, Pale Knights, Black Warriors, and wraiths had fought Eruin to a stalemate, marking the beginning of the kingdom’s decline. Once dismissive of Eruin’s decay, Brandon now understood that war wasn’t as simple as he had thought.
Viewing history through a player’s lens was overly biased. History had its own inertia. When it fell into the hands of the Princess Regent, perhaps she too would find herself at a loss. One could only wonder what Obergu VII was thinking at this moment.
Eruin’s decline hadn’t happened overnight.
Snapping out of his thoughts, Brandon exhaled deeply. For now, he had won this round. Since yesterday, they had dismantled part of Magus’s outer forces. Compared to the first night’s battle, it was unremarkable—but ahead lay the open plains of Thornstone Valley’s northern edge.
This was victory.
Then he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Retto, accompanied by Barthom, Uriel, Voltaron, and Mano. Surprised to see them gathering together, he was momentarily taken aback.
“What are your plans, Sir Brandon?” Barthom, with his unmistakable reddish-brown beard, spoke first.
“Plans?”
“We’ve discussed it. If you’re willing to take us in, we’d like to follow you,” Mano answered bluntly.
These mercenaries had little left to say. They lived by the sword, and after recent experiences, they preferred serving under this young man.
Brandon was taken aback, realizing they wished to become his retainers.
But he wasn’t yet a noble—his status rested solely on Chael, his mage squire. Still, he considered needing people to assist him. After a pause, he replied:
“For now, it’s best if you don’t follow me.”
Everyone was stunned, but Retto caught the subtext. “Then what are your plans, Sir Brandon?”
“What are yours?” Brandon countered.
They exchanged glances, and to Brandon’s surprise, it was Uriel, the former captain of peacekeeping cavalry, who spoke. “If you have other intentions, we plan to form a mercenary group. We’ve fought alongside each other and trust one another.”
“Uriel, you’re leaving your post as captain of peacekeeping cavalry?”
Uriel chuckled. “It’s meaningless. I’ve come to terms with it, and my brothers agree.”
“What about the others?” Brandon asked.
“Besides us, quite a few refugees are considering it. After all, most of them are displaced now. However, the people from Ridenburg might have more complicated thoughts. Also, many from the White Mane Legion and the mercenaries are willing to join us. The rest are mostly farmers.” Barthom explained.
Brandon glanced at him, realizing Barthom had discreetly assessed the refugees’ composition—a task made easier by Freya’s lack of vigilance.
“Voltaron, you too?” Brandon eyed the former White Mane Legion officer, a pillar of the kingdom. He doubted the man harbored ulterior motives.
Voltaron met his gaze, replying gravely, “I merely wish to follow you, Sir Brandon. If you refuse, I’ll return to the White Mane Legion.”
“Are you disappointed?” Brandon asked after a pause.
Voltaron nodded.
“Then form this mercenary company. Name it Amber Sword,” Brandon declared.
Everyone was stunned.
Only Retto asked, “And what of you, Sir Brandon?”
“Try to retain some craftsmen among the refugees, but don’t force them. As for you, leave Barthom with me—I need someone to assist me.”
Turning his horse, he addressed Voltaron. “If you truly wish to stay, remain with Retto. I don’t know what I can offer you, but you’ll soon find out.”
Voltaron hesitated, then nodded slowly.
“And where will you go, Sir?” Uriel asked.
“To Anzek, where someone awaits me. Then I’ll head to Braggs. If all goes well, I’ll inherit a fief soon. We’ll discuss the next steps then.”
They exchanged glances. Nobles were common, but knights with actual land were rare. Clearly, this young man was the legendary Highland Knight.
Many felt a flicker of hope—they had chosen wisely.
Brandon gazed at the distant hills, his plans crystallizing in his mind.
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