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Chapter 56: The Invitation of Ouroboros
The battle had ended before it even began. Brandon commanded the mercenaries of Rubis to toss the two unconscious soldiers from the Silver Wing Cavalry into a corner of the room. As he did so, his thoughts turned to the swordsman who might already be closing in on him. He pressed his left shoulder—the wound left by the rapier throbbed painfully. At his current level of strength, even the slightest hesitation against a Gold-rank swordsman would prove fatal. This wasn’t like facing the Crusader Executioner or White Knight Eberton; the gap between them was nearly twentyfold, rendering experience all but irrelevant.
In simpler terms, if Teste were to unleash his full potential, Brandon’s senses wouldn’t even register the man’s movements.
Wiping sweat from his brow, which pulsed with tension, Brandon’s mind raced with questions. Though he didn’t know the motives of these pursuers, their immediate focus on him made him wary. Could they be assassins sent by the Ouroboros Society? After all, that organization was the only one he’d offended recently.
But something about it didn’t add up. The Ouroboros Society operated with stealth and subtlety. A public place like an auction hall wasn’t their style for retaliation.
Unless they were colluding with Madara. But that notion was laughable. The Ouroboros Society revered chaos and secretly followed the Twilight Dragon—how could they possibly align themselves with the order of darkness represented by Madara? Shaking his head, Brandon dismissed the jumble of thoughts swirling in his mind. Turning to his six “subordinates,” he instructed, “You six, scatter.” Survival came first.
He gave the command but immediately felt it was unnecessary. An impulse to call them back tugged at him, yet he let it go. Better safe than sorry, he reasoned. Whether they stayed or fled, their presence wouldn’t make much difference.
In Amber Sword, having twelve lower-tier iron-rank warriors at his beck and call would have been exhilarating at his level. But here, in this cold, unforgiving reality, there loomed a swordsman whose Third Level Strength had awakened—a force that unsettled him deeply.
Those who achieved Third Level Strength possessed an average power exceeding a hundred units. Brandon surmised that this rapier-wielding swordsman likely followed a path of agility-focused elven swordsmanship. If his agility surpassed 120 units, his reflexes would be twenty-three times faster than an ordinary person’s, and his explosive speed forty-seven times greater.
Under such capabilities, the man could reach speeds exceeding 700 kilometers per hour in a straight line—nearly double the top speed of a Formula One race car and approaching that of early-generation jet fighters. His physical resilience would also support such velocities, allowing him to withstand air resistance and internal organ stress.
According to Amber Sword calculations, someone with 120 agility units would possess at least 60 strength units. Such a person’s natural defenses would rival over 200 millimeters of sloped armor. Brandon considered the damage his strongest attack, the Wind Blast, could inflict on 200 millimeters of steel—it might leave a dent, nothing more.
In other words, a swordsman with Third Level Strength was practically a humanoid monster.
Brandon couldn’t help but imagine what would happen if he crossed blades with such a foe. Would he be flung across the auction house, smashing through walls? Such a warrior could search the entire venue within seconds. Even sending out all twelve mercenaries would buy him mere moments.
A few seconds meant little to him, but to the enemy, it was enough time to kill him multiple times over.
Taking a deep breath, Brandon reflected that everything since arriving in this world had largely unfolded within his plans. He’d tread carefully to avoid drawing attention from higher powers. Throughout his adventures, the only misstep had been offending the Ouroboros Society, though he’d always taken care to stay under their radar.
Still, no matter how hard he racked his brain, he couldn’t fathom that this was merely an unfortunate coincidence. Retrieving a sword from one of the fallen soldiers, he glanced toward the door. The remaining mercenaries blocked the corridor, their chaotic arrangement creating an eerie stillness that sucked the air from the space. This silence was unsettling.
Brandon revealed the Holy Sword card. Behind him materialized a massive blade with snow-white wings and intricate golden patterns flowing along its surface. It was the third time he’d summoned this card, and the surge of honor coursing through him made it feel as though he could topple walls with a flick of his wrist. Yet Brandon knew this was an illusion born of newfound power. In truth, the Holy Sword card merely compensated by boosting his attack capability, elevating him to mid-tier silver-rank levels in that aspect.
But this power offered only the solace of being able to harm his opponent. Brandon understood that in a real fight, he might not even see the enemy’s movements before a rapier pierced his throat. Still, he wasn’t entirely without hope.
At that moment, cries echoed down the corridor. Half of the Rubis’ Mercenaries stationed in the Sacred Grove instantly dimmed.
Brandon’s heart tightened. Looking up, he saw the silver-haired young noble emerge slowly from around the corner. The man wore a short black cloak, his hand resting casually on the hilt of a rapier. Blood streaked the crystal-like blade. Brandon recognized it: Sting of the Crystal Scorpion. In Amber Sword, while its damage ranked low among level-60 weapons, its durability and strength were unparalleled. He recalled hearing once from a veteran player that anyone favoring such a blade must be supremely confident in their own abilities.
Brandon wasn’t sure he fully believed that assessment, but judging by the young man’s earlier performance, confidence certainly seemed to define him.
As Teste cleaned his blade, the noble swordsman appraised Brandon with glassy purple eyes. His gaze lingered briefly on the spectral image of the Holy Sword behind Brandon before sweeping over the others. Lower-tier iron-rank fighters—all of them. The young noble clearly deemed them insignificant. Since showing venom or restraint would equally intimidate, he chose the latter, sheathing his sword with a smile as sweet as a maiden’s serene grin.
Raising an eyebrow slightly, the young man asked, “Have we met somewhere before?”
Brandon couldn’t decipher his intentions and forced himself to remain composed. With a smirk of disdain, he replied bluntly, “Naturally, because about a minute ago, you thrust your rapier into my shoulder. Before that, I’m certain I’ve never seen you, sir.”
As he spoke, Brandon covertly opened his attribute panel. Streams of data cascaded before his eyes like flowing water.
First, idle experience: 4,730 points.
After consecutive battles, his reserve experience had climbed again. Moreover, acquiring The Elemental Revelation Scroll saved him nearly 2,000 experience points and bypassed the series of quests required to unlock the Elemental Pool. For someone pressed for time like Brandon, this was invaluable.
Teste shook his head, unperturbed. “No, it was earlier. I recall seeing you once at the Cavalry Headquarters.”
“Cavalry Headquarters?”
“Yes.”
“Who are you?” Brandon suddenly realized something but found himself relaxing instead. Taking a calming breath, he regarded the other man steadily.
“I am Teste, a name I chose for myself. It derives from the ancient Cruzean word ‘tiryhd,’ meaning ‘struggle,’” Teste explained with a smile. “If you ask about titles, I am the second-in-command of the Silver Wing Cavalry, a third-level captain of the White Mane Legion, and Viscount Manowell of the Eruin Kingdom. However, I prefer this name—simple yet rich with profound sacrificial meaning.” Brandon rarely encountered someone who could wax poetic about their own name with such ease, but now he bore witness to just that.
So it was him. Brandon’s mind cleared. Had their actions in Gray Rat Street been discovered? That seemed unlikely unless the cripple had betrayed them—but would he dare? Shaking his head, Brandon forced himself to remain calm, lest Teste find any leverage against him.
Viscount Teste.
The illegitimate son of Duke Goran-Elsun, Viscount Manowell occupied neither prominence nor obscurity in the brief final chapter of Eruin’s history. Brandon’s impression of him stemmed from a tragic love story involving a female bard—though that came later.
Yet Brandon knew the man’s character. On the surface, this viscount appeared open-minded and unconventional, but inwardly, he was meticulous to the point of rigidity. While Brandon had once suspected Teste, as the second-in-command of the Silver Wing Cavalry under Maguske, of ties to the Ouroboros Society, the man’s elusive nature hinted at such connections. Still, meeting this historical figure for the first time left Brandon astonished. Unlike the twisted psyche often depicted in poetry and novels due to years of ostracism, Teste exuded calm assurance. His ill intentions, if present, were delivered with the same disarming sincerity, devoid of hypocrisy or insincerity.
His smile resembled that of a beautiful venomous snake—dangerous yet graceful.
Teste held his rapier, sheathed like a cane, the implied threat unmistakable. Yet the silver-haired young man seemed to say, “There’s something between us to resolve. I won’t rule out running you through, but beyond that, there’s nothing we can’t discuss.” Life and death appeared irrelevant to him—he had his principles and pursuits.
Seeing this, Brandon knew finding weaknesses on such a man was futile. But as Su Fei, he possessed a stubborn resilience when faced with overwhelming odds, having clashed with Madara for ten years. Now, he calmed himself and smiled coldly.
“I don’t recall offending you, Viscount Teste.”
Teste’s purple eyes flickered. He’d always sensed this young man was no ordinary soul. When he’d struck earlier, the fact that a lower-tier iron-rank swordsman evaded so effortlessly proved the young man’s mettle. Now, his suspicions solidified further.
That simple sentence served both as a retort and a probe, suggesting the young man had gauged his personality accurately. Teste felt a twinge of discomfort, instinctively touching his nose. He refused to be led but couldn’t ignore the remark either—not without compromising his confidence.
“Well said, but not everything in this world offers a choice,” Teste replied.
Brandon narrowed his eyes. Teste’s softening followed by hardness indicated the situation wasn’t as straightforward as he’d hoped. Handing over Antietta was out of the question. Meanwhile, he covertly allocated all available experience into advancing his mercenary profession. Instantly, he crossed levels 11 and 12, bringing his total level to 20 for the first time.
Simultaneously, his strength broke double digits, reaching 10 units.
Though still insufficient against Teste, it marked entry into the mid-tier iron rank.
“What do you want?” Brandon suppressed the power of the Holy Sword, his palm slick with sweat but his demeanor calm.
“To the point, then: What is your relationship with Retto?” Teste noticed Brandon’s subtle movements but gave no sign, asking leisurely. Yet his posture put Brandon further on edge. As a seasoned warrior, Brandon perceived potential sword paths emanating from every angle of Teste’s stance, causing cold sweat to trickle down his spine.
This Teste, seemingly indifferent, was in fact highly vigilant.
But what shocked Brandon more was the question itself. Upon hearing it, his composure nearly faltered, though years of experience allowed him to mask it. Exhaling imperceptibly, he countered, “What Retto?”
Outwardly feigning ignorance, Brandon’s mind churned like stormy seas. Which faction was Teste representing? Local nobility? The White Mane Legion? Or perhaps the Ouroboros Society? Each possibility seemed plausible, yet none had definitive evidence to support it. The key question was: How much did they already know?
Forcing himself to meet Teste’s gaze—a tactic he’d used countless times in-game to deceive Madara’s top players—Brandon found it ineffective now.
Teste detected no trace of deceit in Brandon, which only heightened his suspicion. Smiling faintly, he said, “Your answer holds little value to me. Killing you would be simplest. However, your performance has sparked my interest. I care not what you say—it means nothing to me.”
He fixed Brandon with his glassy purple eyes and smiled. “Your name is Brandon, correct? I’ll ask one question: Are you willing to join us?”
At that moment, Brandon desperately wanted to play dumb and ask, “Us?”
But seeing Teste’s hand on the sword and the ominous serpent ring on his finger, he swallowed hard. He understood this was Teste’s ultimatum: accept or face judgment from Marsha.
Joining the Ouroboros Society was torment for Brandon. In his past life, they were second only to Madara as his mortal enemies.
Yet that wasn’t the worst part. Once branded by this notorious organization, escape was impossible. This wasn’t the path he sought. Unless utterly desperate, he wouldn’t consider it—even slightly.
Between joining the Ouroboros Society and Teste’s blade, he had to choose.
Halting his attribute adjustments, Brandon froze… Silence reigned.
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