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Chapter 42: A New Recruit
“Sword… sword energy…” The cripple’s face turned pale in an instant.
He couldn’t help but scrutinize Brandon more closely, wondering if this young man was truly the same person he thought he knew. The Brandon he remembered was nothing more than a fresh-faced youth who had recently left the militia. Sure, he might have been somewhat renowned for his swordsmanship, but to think that in just half a year he could ascend to the level of a master swordsman wielding elemental power? That seemed impossible.
Antietta gripped the doorframe tightly, then let go. The sudden turn of events stretched her imagination to its limits. She bit her lip, unable to fathom that the one bringing her news of her father was none other than an upper-tier gold-rank Grand Swordsman of Thistle Flower—a title reserved for those of immense skill. Such a young and accomplished swordsman… Could it be that this youth was one of the Enlightened, born with First Level Strength?
Barthom crossed his arms, maintaining a calm demeanor. He observed the reactions of everyone around him, a faint smirk forming in his mind. The first time he had witnessed this knight’s swordplay, even he had been awestruck. But now, he felt a subtle sense of superiority knowing that Brandon’s true strength went far beyond what they had just seen.
As for the so-called "peacekeeping cavalry" on the other side, they were utterly dumbfounded. They had tried their best to guess Brandon’s identity, but even their wildest imaginings only stretched as far as picturing him as some noble scion or heir to a great house. Beyond that, their minds refused to venture.
But who could have expected a Thistle Flower Grand Swordsman of such youth to appear before them?
Of course, perhaps Brandon wasn’t truly a grand swordsman. Still, he didn’t mind fostering that illusion in front of these people. As he had hoped, the impression had already taken root in their minds, enough to make them consider retreating.
Brandon sheathed his sword and said, “Did you hear that, Lady Antietta’s father doesn’t recognize any Viscount Teste.”
“But…” Their leader finally snapped out of his shock, his face contorted with hesitation, instinctively opening his mouth to protest.
Brandon subtly signaled Barthom with a gesture.
“What ‘but’? Get out of here!” The red-bearded mercenary glanced at Brandon, then turned back with a sharp command.
The group exchanged uneasy glances. It was clear their opponents weren’t interested in reasoning with them—a stance they were all too familiar with, though usually, it was they who dismissed others with disdain. They considered drawing their weapons, but standing before them was a Thistle Flower Grand Swordsman. Even without his bodyguard stepping in, that young man alone could likely incapacitate them all within ten seconds.
Their leader nearly choked on his words but managed to swallow his pride. Taking a deep breath, he replied, “I understand, sir. You’ve decided to interfere in this matter. Then allow me to ask—what manner of person dares to oppose Viscount Teste?”
Brandon glanced at the man, inwardly amused. This one had a bit of cunning, trying to corner him with words. If Brandon were truly a noble, he might have fallen for it. But players like him didn’t carry such attributes. Still, he grew cautious. Refusing to answer might raise suspicions about his identity.
This leader wasn’t entirely foolish. His overt manipulation was a textbook example of open scheming. Brandon silently noted the name: Jon the Owl.
After a moment’s thought, Brandon chuckled softly and pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. Folding it neatly, he tossed it over. “Deliver this to your Viscount. As for my identity, you lot aren’t worthy of knowing.”
The group stared blankly at the folded paper lying on the ground.
With no other options, they reluctantly picked it up and retreated the way they came, casting a deep glance at the cripple. Not a single word was exchanged beyond that. After all, the initiative had been entirely in Brandon’s hands, and further argument would only invite humiliation.
Once the last figure disappeared around the corridor, Brandon turned back. His gaze fell first on the cripple, whose eyes darted nervously. Smiling faintly, Brandon asked, almost casually, “What are you thinking, Lorne?” Among those present, aside from Barthom, only the cripple knew his true identity.
Barthom could be trusted, but this wily old fox? That remained to be seen.
“N-nothing,” the cripple stammered quickly.
Beneath his outward composure, Lorne’s heart churned with bitterness. He hadn’t anticipated that guiding them here would lead to such a calamity. Knowing what he did now, he would have gladly accepted death by Brandon’s blade rather than involve himself in this mess. Offending Viscount Teste was bad enough, but the final glare from their leader made it clear they wouldn’t forget him anytime soon. Life in Braggs would surely become unbearable.
And that wasn’t even the worst part. He understood the gravity of the situation, and he was certain the young man beside him did too. As for whether Brandon trusted him—Lorne doubted even he could trust himself. Yet here he was, privy to Brandon’s secret. Would he seek out Viscount Teste to explain, to reveal Brandon’s true identity? No need to ponder; that was exactly what he had considered moments ago.
But as he stole another glance at Brandon, he couldn’t help but wonder if the young man would even give him the chance.
What would Brandon do? The Brandon of old might have hesitated, but this new incarnation—a Thistle Flower Grand Swordsman—was far more decisive than the youth who had once left Braggs. The realization sent a chill down Lorne’s spine. He could already envision his fate.
The more he thought about it, the more his hands began to tremble.
“B-Brandon,” he stammered, “if you kill me, they’ll surely suspect your identity.”
“A disappearance works just as well,” Brandon replied with a smile.
“True, true,” Lorne muttered bitterly.
“But you don’t expect us to trust you, right? What are the chances of that?” Brandon asked.
“There’s… a slight possibility.”
Brandon regarded the man with distaste but shook his head. “I won’t kill you.”
Lorne blinked, disbelief flickering in his small eyes. Was this some trick? It didn’t seem necessary, yet Brandon didn’t strike him as naive. He racked his brain for an explanation but found none.
Could this young man have a cruel streak, toying with his prey? The thought sent shivers down his spine.
But Brandon simply asked, “Have you ever heard of a blood oath, cripple?”
“What?”
“You haven’t? No matter. All you need to know is that once you deliver something like that, we’re comrades.” Brandon smiled faintly.
“You want to drag me into this?” Lorne gasped, his expression darkening as Brandon’s smile took on a devilish hue. He hesitated, weighing his options. Perhaps deception was his only recourse—for now. But how could he earn the young man’s trust?
Betrayal? He barely knew Viscount Teste.
Eliminating one of Teste’s men? Nobles rarely cared about such trifles.
Lost in thought, Lorne was startled when Brandon spoke again, his tone light and dismissive. “Lorne, before you took up this line of work, didn’t you commit a certain… indiscretion in Anlek?”
A bolt of lightning seemed to strike Lorne’s mind. His face drained of color as he stared at Brandon, wide-eyed, as if seeing a ghost. “N-no…”
“That noble’s name was—”
“Don’t say it!” Lorne shrieked, his face ashen. Sweat poured down his face as he gasped for air, raising a trembling hand. “I understand, Brandon! Stop! I know what I must do. Damn you, Brandon—you’re a devil! I never wronged you—!”
Brandon chuckled. Thirty years ago, Lorne had slaughtered a noble family in Anlek, fleeing under a new identity to Braggs. It was a notorious questline in the Amber Sword. Lorne’s eventual fate wasn’t kind—he was hanged—but truthfully, the fault lay less with him and more with the corrupt noble in the story.
Still, Brandon revealing this now served only one purpose: forcing Lorne onto his side. In Eruin, crimes like Lorne’s ranked just below treason. Even Viscount Teste couldn’t shield him from such sins. Only by holding this leverage could Brandon control this slippery fox.
Seeing Lorne’s unease, Brandon softened his tone. “Relax. I’m not using this to threaten you. I know the full story, and the blame doesn’t rest with you. I’m no paragon of justice—I’m merely looking out for myself. As for you following me, I can at least ensure Viscount Teste won’t bother you. Remember, this is a mutually beneficial arrangement, not submission.”
Lorne eyed him skeptically.
“You doubt me? That slip of paper explains everything,” Brandon said.
“What was on that paper?” Barthom interjected curiously.
“A little habit of mine,” Brandon replied with a faint smile. “I’m certain Viscount Teste will trace it back to a plausible rival.”
His folding and tossing of the paper mimicked the style of Earl ‘Turtle Dove,’ a core member of the Treeminders and a fierce political opponent of Duke Goran-Elsun. Privately, this Earl was also an admirer of Teste’s betrothed—a rival and love interest rolled into one. Brandon was confident this would give the viscount plenty to worry about.
Would Teste eventually uncover the truth? It didn’t matter. Brandon had nothing to lose. He wasn’t a Knight Templar of the Temple of Flames; he owed no loyalty to honesty when dealing with enemies.
Lorne listened, stunned. Finally, he looked up at Brandon and murmured, “I swear, Brandon, sometimes I think you’re a devil incarnate. You weren’t like this before.”
“Circumstances change,” Brandon shrugged, turning his attention to Antietta, who had been quietly observing their exchange.
“What are your plans, Lady Antietta?” he asked.
The girl lowered her head, realizing she no longer held the reins of choice. Doubts crept into her mind—had she misjudged this young man? He didn’t seem as courteous as she had imagined. After a moment’s hesitation, she replied softly, “You’ve already planned everything for me, haven’t you, Sir Brandon?”
Brandon smiled. Antietta’s intelligence put many noblewomen to shame. What kind of upbringing had shaped such a remarkable girl? Still, there was no need for pretense. Patting the scroll tucked in his coat, he said, “Lady Antietta, I value your talent and wish to employ you. I need your skills, and in return, I’ll support your research in magical engineering. Rest assured, as my ally, I’ll ensure you’re free from harassment.”
Antietta coughed lightly, then raised her head, her bright eyes locking onto Brandon’s as if searching for lies. “You want me to craft these machines for you? But my mentor always said my talent in this field isn’t exceptional.”
“It’s true,” Brandon nodded. “There are many craftsmen skilled in constructing magical devices. However, when it comes to designing that particular creation, I’ve found only one person capable—Lady Antietta.”
“That’s just a prototype,” Antietta countered earnestly, cutting him off. Realizing her rudeness, she shrank back slightly, lowering her gaze.
Brandon didn’t mind. Instead, he asked, “Lady Antietta, by gifting me the design of that prototype, you’ve acknowledged its worth. Why deny me the right to place even higher value on it? There’s an old saying from my homeland: ‘The first step is always the hardest.’ That alone speaks volumes about the significance of your design.”
Antietta paused, her eyes lighting up. “The first step is always the hardest?” She looked up again, her voice tentative. “Sir Brandon, do you truly intend to fund my journey down this path?”
“To be honest, I lack the funds—and even a proper base of operations—at the moment. But I believe that will change soon,” Brandon admitted frankly. “Isn’t that right, Lorne?”
“Indeed, indeed,” the bewildered cripple nodded fervently.
Antietta thought for a moment, biting her lip. “Very well,” she said, her resolve hardening. “I accept your offer, Sir Brandon. But I refuse to remain idle. Until you’ve secured sufficient strength, I’ll serve as your advisor. Only when I see it with my own eyes will I feel at ease. Besides, I believe I’m capable—”
Her gaze bore into Brandon as she finished her sentence.
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