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Chapter 6: The Natural Lord
A miraculous sight unfolded before the eyes of the fleeing refugees. To them, the cavalry charging toward the young man seemed as fragile as paper dolls. As they raised their swords to clash with Brandon, their steel blades bent backward, shattered, and exploded into countless needle-like fragments that ricocheted back at them. The sheer force sent both riders and horses rearing violently, hurling them backward through the air.
One, two, three… The refugees behind Brandon couldn’t help but count aloud, their voices rising in unison until they reached seven. By then, the remaining three riders were trembling with fear, gripping their reins so tightly they refused to advance any further.
Uriel stared at Brandon, his expression frozen as if he’d seen a ghost. Markov’s guards, meanwhile, were so terrified they forgot what they were doing. In the chaos, the defensive line crumbled, allowing some of the panicked civilians to surge past and join Brandon’s side.
“Who are you?” Uriel’s voice faltered, his hands growing cold. He had seen the captains of the White Mane Legion—men whose skill and swordsmanship he considered godlike—but compared to this young man, those legends suddenly paled in significance.
Who on earth was this person?
Brandon sheathed his sword and exhaled softly. Using Strength Surge seven times consecutively had drained a fifth of his stamina, leaving his arms tingling slightly.
“I already told you,” he said calmly, pointing his sword at Uriel. “My name is Duane. So now, are you ready to listen?”
Uriel and Markov exchanged uneasy glances. Did they have a choice? Their eleven subordinates weren’t elite warriors, but they were among the best drawn from the local militia—mid-tier white-rank swordsmen. Add the momentum of their horses, and even ordinary soldiers of the White Mane Legion would think twice before facing them head-on.
Yet here stood Brandon, effortlessly dispatching seven opponents in succession without breaking a sweat or showing the slightest sign of fatigue. In Uriel’s mind, only Luc Besson’s six company commanders could match such prowess—and those veterans were all in their thirties or forties.
Mid-tier iron-rank… at such a young age? Uriel swallowed hard. Those company commanders under Luc Besson were seasoned fighters, not youths barely out of adolescence.
“It seems we’re listening,” Brandon remarked dryly, noting the stunned expressions on Uriel and Markov’s faces. “Earlier, I told you to leave. But now I’ve changed my mind. Forget that—I want you to block the road instead. No matter how many undead come, your job is to hold them off.”
“Chael.”
“Yes.” Chael leapt down from the carriage and handed over the pocket watch when Brandon extended his hand.
Brandon checked the time. Fifteen minutes remained until four o’clock, but Freya still hadn’t arrived. Frowning, he looked up and addressed the group. “You are Ridenburg’s peacekeeping cavalry. Helping fleeing citizens buy time should be second nature to you. I shouldn’t need to remind you to rise to the occasion.”
“But Sir, I’m just a merchant,” Markov stammered, no longer daring to act arrogantly.
Brandon glanced at him dismissively. “Consider yourself conscripted.”
Markov opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it.
“Of course,” Brandon added, surveying the peacekeeping cavalry who were slowly regrouping. “I’ll personally oversee your efforts. Anyone thinking of desertion can try their luck against my sword. You have a choice: fight me or face those skeletons. Pick wisely.”
He turned back to the civilians gathered behind him. While a small group remained close by, most of the others—spurred by panic—were rushing northward, trampling each other in their desperation to escape. Cries of pain, shouts of anger, and wails of despair blended into a cacophony of horror. Compared to the chaos elsewhere, their little corner felt eerily calm, like the eye of a storm.
And at the center of that calm stood Brandon.
“You should go too,” he said, waving them off. “Don’t waste the chance Ridenburg’s peacekeeping cavalry is buying for you with their lives.”
To his surprise, however, most of the civilians refused to budge. They had witnessed the plight of those pushing forward in blind panic and chose not to follow suit. Instead, they placed their hopes in Brandon, trusting that this formidable young man might lead them to safety.
In a world where power was abundant but protectors of the weak were rare, Brandon’s actions had left an indelible impression. His final words especially inspired trust.
“You won’t leave?” Brandon asked, realizing their reasoning. He tapped his sword hilt and turned to see Chael gazing at him with admiration. Sighing, he asked, “What’s on your mind now?”
“In the Age of Saints, knights swore by eight virtues. Compassion was one of them. Every year, countless knights take oaths at the Temple of Flames, yet how many truly live up to them?”
“Being someone the weak can rely on is part of a strong leader’s charm. The question is, what will we do about it, my lord?” the young mage squire asked.
“Let them stay. I’ll figure something out,” Brandon replied, stepping toward Uriel and Markov. “Have you made your decision?”
“Of course, of course.” Markov nodded nervously.
Uriel said nothing, merely signaling his men to prepare for battle. They understood: fighting skeletons offered at least a sliver of hope, whereas provoking the young man meant certain death. Besides, Brandon had promised to stay, implying he wouldn’t abandon them entirely.
As captain of the peacekeeping cavalry, Uriel prided himself on his pragmatism. It wasn’t hard to see which option was smarter. Unlike Markov, who fidgeted nervously, Uriel accepted the situation with practiced ease. After all, whether answering to Luc Besson, Lord Ceberus, or this mysterious youth, bowing to authority was simply part of life in Ridenburg.
Brandon appreciated Uriel’s straightforwardness. Standing beside the two leaders, he watched as the disarmed cavalrymen replaced their broken swords with shorter backups. For now, weapon shortages weren’t a concern.
Aside from Uriel, everyone else looked visibly uneasy.
The peacekeeping cavalry and merchant guards, accustomed to bullying others, now quaked like ordinary folk confronted with the unknown horrors of the undead. Even the mere thought of facing skeletal soldiers filled them with dread. Markov clutched a spear, trembling uncontrollably, unable to speak or stand steadily.
Behind them, the civilians stared at Brandon’s back, puzzled why this noble youth didn’t flee. Hearing Chael address him, they assumed he must be at least a knight. Having decided to follow him, they resolved not to leave unless he did.
For a moment, silence reigned.
Soon, the first skeleton soldier appeared amidst the roaring flames, followed by a second and third. Scouts, Brandon recognized immediately. Clutching swords, they advanced with mechanical precision, neither fast nor slow.
Checking his pocket watch again, Brandon noted ten minutes remained. If Freya didn’t arrive by then, he planned to send Chael, Roma, and the civilians ahead while confronting her alone. Though he’d still consider her a comrade, failure on such a simple task would disappoint him deeply.
Pocket watch in hand, he observed the skeletons nearing Markov’s guards. Seven men—if they split into groups of three, defeating these low-level undead would be effortless. Alas, these cowards collapsed first, too paralyzed by fear to even attempt escape.
Three skeletons slaughtered seven men.
Meanwhile, the eleven peacekeeping cavalry lacked the courage to intervene. Brandon briefly entertained the notion of executing these useless fools but reconsidered. If he intended to carve a path through Madara’s forces with the civilians, he’d need every available fighter.
“You cowards,” Brandon muttered, shaking his head. Turning to Uriel, he ordered, “You. Demonstrate how it’s done.”
“Me?” Despite his usual composure, Uriel’s hands trembled.
Brandon stared at him expectantly.
Gritting his teeth, Uriel knew refusal wasn’t an option. Long accustomed to luxury, he’d neglected his swordsmanship entirely. Desperate, he glanced at his subordinates, but the eleven peacekeepers deliberately avoided his gaze.
“Damn cowards!” Uriel cursed, raising his sword shakily. Facing three skeletons, he closed his eyes, convinced this was the end.
But just then, thunderous hoofbeats echoed from the opposite end of the street. Uriel, a cavalryman himself, recognized the sound instantly—a cavalry charge. The rumble grew louder, shaking the ground like rolling thunder. Even the skeletons paused, sensing the disturbance.
A trio of horses burst forth from the flames, swords flashing. In an instant, the three skeletons crumbled to the ground. The riders reined in their steeds, turning gracefully to halt in place.
Brandon looked up to see a striking figure silhouetted against the fiery backdrop. She wore azure half-plate armor, her long ponytail swaying behind her as she held a sword in one hand and the reins in the other. Her presence radiated confidence and martial prowess.
Behind her, more riders emerged from the flames, assembling into a disciplined formation. Most resembled mercenaries, their skills ranging from lower-tier iron-rank to mid-tier. Brandon’s eyes widened in astonishment.
Where had Freya found such a group? Over a dozen fighters, all above iron rank? This level of strength rivaled the elite squads led by company commanders in the White Mane Legion. Could these be private troops left to her by her father? Knowing Freya’s true origins, Brandon couldn’t help but wonder.
“Brandon, where’s Roma?” Freya called out, spotting him amidst the crowd.
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