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Chapter 5: The Standoff
No matter how one looked at it, in a backwater like Ridenburg, the sword strike Brandon delivered upon stepping out of the carriage was nothing short of earth-shattering. It silenced every scheming, restless soul who had been lurking nearby, leaving their throats dry and their tongues frozen—forcing them to stand obediently aside. Though the main street remained congested with people, each passerby now understood that the occupant of this carriage was not someone to trifle with. Without a word being spoken, an unspoken agreement rippled through the crowd as they collectively maintained a cautious distance from the vehicle.
The two corpses lay sprawled beneath the carriage, their presence both brazen and foreboding. The young man hadn’t given any instructions on what to do with them, so no one dared take it upon themselves to act. After all, the bodies served as a deterrent in their own right. Newcomers arriving on the scene would glance at the lifeless forms, then at the solitary carriage standing apart amidst the throng, and quickly grasp where they ought—and ought not—to tread.
Inside the carriage, Brandon harbored his own concerns. Where was Freya? Why hadn’t she arrived yet?
But none of these worries showed on his face. He turned his head toward the window, watching the chaos unfold outside. At that moment, another group of menacing figures approached from behind. They shoved anyone in their path aside, beating those who resisted without mercy.
“Trouble never seems to end around here,” Brandon muttered under his breath, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword.
“Who are they?” Chael asked, peering out curiously.
“Merchants from the city.” The carriage driver, who had initially been terrified when Brandon drew his blade earlier, was beginning to regain some composure. Abandoning thoughts of fleeing, he realized something important: the more formidable this master proved himself to be, the greater his chances of survival.
“They appear to be bullies of the worst kind,” Brandon observed dryly, noting the merchant’s thugs’ behavior and the driver’s barely concealed disdain. “Though I doubt our friend here feels inclined to say much about it.”
He glanced back at Roma, seated beside him. “Your fellow merchants don’t seem like upstanding citizens, little Roma.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Roma replied calmly, exuding an air of invulnerability.
As they spoke, the newcomers reached the vicinity of the carriage. At first, it seemed they intended to seize Brandon’s vehicle for themselves. However, the sight of the two corpses lying ominously by the wheels gave them pause. Unlike the previous rabble, these merchants and their guards were sharper-eyed, discerning whom they could oppress and whom they should avoid crossing.
After a brief hesitation, they pushed forward again, continuing their advance. But accustomed to throwing their weight around, these brutes lacked restraint even in moments of crisis. Before long, several individuals were jostling against Brandon’s carriage. One middle-aged man stumbled backward, colliding with the wheel of the carriage. Blood immediately began streaming down his forehead.
“Father!” A child’s voice cried out from the crowd, high-pitched and panicked.
Groaning, the man somehow managed to pull himself upright using the side of the carriage. With surprising ferocity, he charged straight at the guard who had pushed him, catching the thug off guard and sending him sprawling into the crowd.
A collective gasp erupted from the onlookers.
Without wasting a second, the injured man grabbed the boy’s hand and bolted into the crowd. But his pursuers weren’t about to let him escape so easily. Just as he reunited with his son, several guards tackled him from behind, pinning him to the ground.
“Let go of my father!” the boy screamed, tears streaming down his face as he tried desperately to pry the guards off the man. His efforts were futile; with a casual flick of an arm, one of the guards sent the child sprawling.
By now, the guard who had been knocked down had regained his footing. Cursing loudly, he unsheathed his sword and strode over, grabbing the man by the hair and wrenching his head upward. “You filthy peasant! You want to die, huh? Let me grant you that wish!”
The man trembled, struggling feebly against the grip of the guards holding him down. Around them, bystanders averted their eyes, hearts heavy with pity but too afraid to intervene.
The guard spat venomous insults as he raised his sword, poised to strike. But before the blade could descend, a sharp gust of wind tore open the carriage door, slicing it cleanly in half. The invisible ripple surged outward, knocking the guard’s weapon from his grasp. It clattered noisily, embedding itself in a wooden door nearby. The guard let out a bloodcurdling scream, clutching his mangled wrist—the hand severed cleanly at the wrist.
This sudden turn of events sent shockwaves through the opposing group. Instinctively, they drew their weapons. Brandon stepped out of the carriage, drawing his own sword in one fluid motion. The metallic ring of steel echoed through the air.
“Who are you?” one of the merchants shouted shrilly, his voice trembling despite his attempt to sound authoritative. He recognized the skill behind Brandon’s strike, but seeing only a young man dressed plainly—not nobility—his initial alarm waned. Like many others in Ridenburg, the merchant’s experience was limited, and he failed to grasp the true danger posed by Brandon’s abilities.
Brandon spared him only a fleeting glance, deeming him unworthy of further attention.
Yet, this single act transformed the dynamics of the situation entirely. Those who had suffered under the merchants’ tyranny—young and old, men and women alike—had long resented their oppressors but lacked both the means and courage to resist. Now, with someone seemingly capable stepping forward, they instinctively aligned themselves with Brandon.
In an instant, Brandon became not just their savior but also their natural leader. The atmosphere shifted subtly. Initially confident in their numbers, the merchants now hesitated, unnerved by the growing crowd rallying behind Brandon.
A flock of sheep may seem harmless, but led by a lion, they become a force to reckon with. And Brandon was precisely that lion among lambs.
Of course, had the merchant known that Brandon alone could slaughter his entire gang multiple times over, he might have reconsidered his stance altogether. Instead, indecision gnawed at him, compounded by the agonized cries of his wounded guard.
It was then that reinforcements arrived. Recognizing their uniforms, Brandon identified them as Ridenburg’s peacekeeping cavalry.
Ridenburg, being home to the White Mane Legion’s swordsmen regiment, did not maintain a formal Guard Unit. Local security typically fell to the town watch and cavalry, though neither force was officially sanctioned—they answered instead to the local noble council. Over time, these unofficial units often grew into regional powers, overshadowing even lawful citizens like the merchant. In fact, Brandon recalled with amusement that Ridenburg’s town watch and cavalry despised each other so intensely that they once hired adventurers to settle territorial disputes.
Memories of past quests flooded back, fueling his disdain for the newcomers.
“What’s going on here? Street brawls?” The towering cavalry captain barked imperiously, surveying the scene. Spotting the merchant, his tone softened slightly. “Ah, isn’t that Markov, the renowned dye merchant? How fares your business?”
Markov forced a smile. “Well enough, Captain Uriel. But there’s a problem here. This man has killed openly and injured my men. What do you propose we do?”
Uriel frowned. Normally, he’d relish the chance to extort money from such situations, but with impending disaster looming over the city, he lacked the patience. Still, habit compelled him to adopt a condescending demeanor. “And who might you be?” he demanded, turning to Brandon.
“Duane,” Brandon replied casually, inventing a name on the spot.
Uriel narrowed his eyes suspiciously. But before he could press further, commotion erupted from the rear of the crowd. Terrified screams pierced the air: “Monsters! Monsters! There are countless monsters behind us!”
“Undead! Run for your lives!”
Madara’s vanguard had arrived.
Panic surged through the crowd, accelerating the flow of bodies. The crush inevitably spilled over onto Markov’s guards and Uriel’s subordinates. Determined to hold their ground, the guards swung their sheathed swords wildly, striking anyone attempting to push through. Trapped between advancing horrors and hostile defenders, the trapped civilians wailed in despair.
Uriel scowled, assessing the situation. Unlike the ignorant merchant, he possessed some worldly experience. Realizing that blocking the surge was futile, he sought alternatives. His gaze landed on Brandon and the others near the front.
“You!” he barked, pointing at Brandon. “Bring your carriage here. And the rest of you, block the way. Everyone else, clear out—we need passage.”
His words stunned the civilians gathered behind Brandon. Already irritated by Uriel’s callous disregard for human life, they exchanged uneasy glances. Though silent, their shared plight as refugees bound them together.
“On what grounds?” someone challenged angrily from within the crowd.
“Silence!” Uriel snapped, signaling his men to draw their swords. “As citizens of Ridenburg, aiding the peacekeeping forces is your duty. Or do you intend to resist?”
The assembled crowd stared at the line of cavalrymen, their blades gleaming coldly. Behind them, the streets burned with eerie blue flames, casting skeletal shadows that danced amidst rising smoke. For a moment, no one knew how to respond.
All eyes turned to Brandon.
“Damn it,” Brandon muttered under his breath, feeling the weight of expectation pressing down on him. Yet, gazing at the desperate faces of the civilians held back by Markov’s guards, he sighed inwardly.
Despite everything, half of his soul hailed from a modern world—a civilization built on order and peace. That heritage was a source of immense pride, one he refused to see trampled.
Leaning slightly forward, Brandon assumed the basic offensive stance of Eruin military swordsmanship.
“I’ll count to ten. If you’re still here by then, don’t blame me for what happens next.”
His calm declaration left everyone stunned.
Especially Uriel and Markov, who thought they must have misheard. The cavalry captain felt as though he’d been slapped in the face. Enraged, he abandoned all pretense of civility. “Kill him!” he roared.
The cavalry surged forward, swords raised high.
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