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Chapter 36: Brandon’s Preparations Part 1
As Breyson walked through the courtyard, he noticed the ground littered with palm-sized leaves from the Goran-Elsun Four Seasons Tree. According to Eruin legend, each leaf of this sacred tree bore the spirits of fallen warriors. It was for this reason that such trees were often planted in military camps—to symbolize the eternal valor of soldiers.
Gazing at the scattered leaves, Breyson couldn’t help but recall the faces of comrades lost in battle. So consumed was he by these thoughts that even his father’s voice—Sir Habbuck, a municipal councilor of Braggs—barely registered in his ears.
“Once the commendations come through, I’ll see about pulling some strings to get you transferred back to Braggs. What do you think of joining the Peacekeeping Cavalry? I still hold sway in the town hall.”
“If you’d rather stay in the Guard Unit, there’s also an opening in the patrol team along Needlewood Road. Though they’re under Anzek’s command, so it might be a bit tougher.”
“My real hope is for you to take up a secure position in the noble council hall once you’re formally knighted. What do you say, Breyson?”
Breyson gave a noncommittal reply.
“And what are your thoughts on all this?” Sir Habbuck asked, studying his spirited son with a sigh. The young man reminded him of himself in his youth—confident, yet overly proud. While pride wasn’t inherently bad, it could prove costly in the treacherous world of nobility, where humility was often preached as virtue.
At sixty-two, Sir Habbuck was considered middle-aged in Vonder, though streaks of silver now framed his otherwise meticulous hairline. In his younger days, he had been known as a radical figure in southern Goran-Elsun, but age had tempered his fiery nature into cautious pragmatism.
Dressed in the long blue coat of a councilor, paired with a white double-breasted waistcoat and black riding trousers, Sir Habbuck leaned on his cane, regarding his only son with affectionate concern.
Breyson glanced at his father before replying, “I may apply to Bastar Royal Cavalry Academy.”
“What?” Sir Habbuck exclaimed, startled.
“I heard from Walter—there are four spots available. The Guard Unit might nominate me, and White Mane Legion has shown interest too. But Father, don’t mention this to anyone in the noble circles just yet.” Walter, vice commander of the Silver Wing Cavalry, was a close friend despite owing much of his current position to familial connections.
“The secrecy around this is remarkable. Not a whisper reached us here in the noble council hall. Such rewards should fall under royal jurisdiction—is something amiss?” Sir Habbuck frowned, voicing his suspicions.
“It’s hard to say, but I’ve made up my mind,” Breyson replied firmly.
“Very well, then. Learn all you can. Just remember, our family has always leaned toward local governance. While at the academy, avoid conflict with the royalists—but don’t fear them either,” Sir Habbuck advised after reconsidering his stance.
Breyson gazed toward the courtyard, responding absently, “Who pays attention to a small fish?”
“That’s not something I care to hear. Every member of the Vikofield family has been a hero in their own right. Your grandfather served as Head Councilor of Braggs’ noble council, and I earned renown across southern Goran-Elsun in my prime. You, my son, will surely rise no less.” Sir Habbuck chided gently.
Breyson remained expressionless, but both men paused mid-conversation as a young man approached. Clad in a deep navy uniform, his belt adorned with a cavalry sword from the thirty-second year’s standard issue, the stranger’s long silver hair cascaded past his shoulders. His features carried an almost delicate beauty, underscored by a faintly pursed smile.
“Viscount Teste.”
“Viscount Teste.” Sir Habbuck quickly pulled his son aside, offering a respectful greeting.
The man addressed as Viscount Teste paused, lifting violet-hued eyes to regard the elder and younger pair. Nodding curtly, he moved to pass them but stopped briefly upon noticing Breyson, offering a fleeting smile before continuing onward.
“Strange…” Sir Habbuck muttered, watching the retreating figure.
“What is it?” Breyson asked.
“Isn’t that bastard son of Lord Goran-Elsun? Always so arrogant—what’s gotten into him today?” Sir Habbuck wondered aloud.
Breyson glanced back at the departing silhouette without comment, though his thoughtful expression betrayed deeper contemplation.
….
When Teste pushed open the doors of the Silver Wing Cavalry’s command post, Commander Viscount Maguske sat staring out of the wide arched window behind his desk. Hearing the door creak, the gray-haired man turned, visibly relaxing upon seeing Teste.
He gestured toward a seat with his pipe, chuckling, “You’re not exactly prompt, Teste.”
“I had to deal with some troublemakers outside,” Teste replied smoothly, settling into the offered chair with a faint smile.
Rumors held true; Teste was indeed the illegitimate son of Lord Goran-Elsun. His mother hailed from the Sioux—a legendary lost branch of the Silver Folk—and thus he claimed silver blood flowed through his veins. Beneath his outward aloofness lay a shrewd mind, which had earned him a key role within the Ouroboros Society. However, this affiliation remained known only between himself and Maguske.
“So you encountered those individuals?” Maguske inquired.
Teste nodded.
Leaning back languidly, he remarked, “A young man and that red-bearded Barthom are minor figures, barely noteworthy. But the Buchi militiaman among them caught my eye. Surely, Commander, you’ve already received word about her?”
Maguske set down his pipe. “Her name is Freya. She’s one of the four candidates selected. What do you make of it?”
“Interesting,” Teste smirked. “Are you going to tell me she’s someone’s illegitimate child?”
“Hardly matters to us,” Maguske shrugged. “But this clears them of suspicion. The one who killed ‘Torr’ must possess strength at least in the upper tiers of iron rank—or perhaps even silver.”
“And what of Copper Dragon Retto?” Maguske mused casually. “Word is, the ‘Silver Dove’ faction is furious we didn’t assign a silver or gold-ranked swordsman to protect that fool.”
Teste sneered. “A mere pawn. Let him prove himself worthy first. The organization has no use for mediocrity. Besides, I suspect Orville may have sensed something that night.”
Maguske nodded thoughtfully.
“One of my informants uncovered rumors of unrest near Ridenburg that evening—around the noble council hall and Usson Castle. Whatever transpired remains known only to those nobles. Pity they all perished so recklessly.” Teste shrugged.
Maguske raised an eyebrow. “Do you think Luc Besson knows anything?”
“That tiger wouldn’t speak even if he did. He’s not one of us,” Teste replied cryptically.
“True enough. Whether viewed from the White Mane Legion or our perspective, he’s an anomaly,” Maguske agreed.
“And your plan?”
“This matter falls under your purview now. Why ask me?” Maguske chuckled, feigning surprise.
But Teste shook his head. “I’m here to transfer responsibilities—and request leave as a member of the White Mane Legion.”
“For what purpose?”
“The Lionheart Sword has surfaced.”
Maguske blinked. “So soon? How did they uncover its whereabouts?”
Teste smiled enigmatically, offering no answer.
……
After leaving Freya at the Silver Wing Cavalry barracks, Brandon met Tama outside the bustling Lagunboun Market in Braggs. The future alchemical master likely never imagined he’d become a formidable figure in Madara’s history. For now, however, he stood awkwardly in a garish plaid robe beneath the scorching July sun, bowing respectfully as Brandon approached.
“Sir Brandon, I’ve prepared everything you requested,” Tama said, hoisting a heavy backpack while keeping his son close.
His deference stemmed not from Brandon’s status as a noble but from gratitude for saving his life. His son, however, gazed at Brandon with unabashed admiration—the children of refugees rarely failed to revere the knight.
“You found them?” Brandon asked, genuinely surprised. He hadn’t expected genuine elven-crafted alchemical tools to be available in Braggs’ markets. Asking Tama had been more of a casual suggestion, given the serviceable alternatives from Ampersal’s merchants.
Tama glanced at the young knight. “I rented them from the local alchemists’ guild. They charged two thousand torr.”
Though polite, Tama inwardly grumbled. Such high-quality equipment was excessive for ordinary alchemy. Back when he worked in the noble council hall, second-hand tools sufficed. Still, Brandon’s generosity, while impractical, was characteristic of the man.
Brandon smacked his forehead, recalling the oversight. Purchasing the items outright was better, especially since funds would soon cease to be an issue.
However, Brandon harbored plans beyond Tama’s understanding. He intended to craft a set of poisoned daggers imbued with 15 oz of dryad venom and another set of cursed crossbow bolts requiring 32 oz of materials. Though he possessed basic strength, hidden trump cards aligned more closely with his style.
Dryad venom, colorless and odorless, mimicked death by illness—a perfect tool for subterfuge against those below iron rank. Meanwhile, cursed bolts, renowned for inflicting debuffs like fatigue, weakness, and increased damage, suited Brandon’s personal arsenal. Though ineffective against higher ranks, their potency against lesser foes was undeniable.
The drawback? Materials were exorbitantly priced. Souls of mid-tier skeletal wizards, rare below level forty, were essential. Thankfully, the inept nobles of Ridenburg had unwittingly provided.
Crafting gears of 35 oz demanded mastery of Level 8 Alchemy—a challenge for Brandon. Fortunately, the elven-crafted tools granted +1 to alchemical proficiency, and collaborating with a skilled alchemist added another point. Renting an enchanted workshop would suffice to meet the requirement.
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