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Chapter 66: Brandon's Swordsmanship Part 1
The Lantern Grass Inn of Chablis perched atop the highest cliff overlooking the town, its massive arched wooden hall resembling something out of ancient myth—a dwelling fit for heroes and gods. Weathered by wind and rain, the once-sturdy timber had darkened with age, its surface worn and rugged. Below the hall, rows upon rows of narrow windows dotted the gray-white cliffside, creating the illusion of a colossal beehive or a dragon’s lair carved into the rock.
But these were merely the inn’s guest rooms.
In the chamber where Macaro, the Mane Wolf, temporarily resided, the door had been pushed open a quarter-hour earlier. The seasoned mercenary commander raised his head from a rough sketch map of the Chablis region, his thick brows furrowing as one particular term caught his attention. His right hand, clad in a deerskin glove, still held a bronze-handled magnifying glass as he spoke. “Article Three Hundred Fourteen?”
“In the course of an official mission, should two parties of mercenaries find themselves in conflict over a shared objective, they may attempt to merge forces temporarily, treating the endeavor as a joint effort. Specific terms of the merger must be negotiated between both parties.”
The reply came from an elderly man seated in a wicker chair by the window. His hair and beard were snow-white, and his sharp eyes remained fixed on a thick red-bound tome nearly four inches thick. He seemed disinterested in the topic at hand but answered nonetheless.
“Master Liwutz, can this article be interpreted so broadly?”
“It is not impossible,” the old man replied.
“Good. Then let us see who this young man truly is.” Macaro waved dismissively at the subordinate standing before him. “Go. Have Radi test him.” But just as the man turned to leave, Macaro called him back. “Wait—any news about Aiko?”
“No, Commander.”
Macaro sighed, shaking his head. “Very well. You’re dismissed.” He muttered under his breath, “This time, I’ll make sure that boy learns his lesson. Perhaps I’ve been too lenient with him. If this keeps up, I won’t have a leg to stand on when the higher-ups come calling.”
The old man glanced up from his book, a faint smile playing on his lips as he shook his head slightly.
---
“You are Brandon?”
“I am.” Brandon looked up at the young man before him, whose pure white hair and amber-gold eyes gave him an almost ethereal appearance. His delicate features carried a hint of femininity.
A Yablian? Brandon thought, recalling the minority group native to the Celestial Realm. His only impression of them was the legendary silver-haired sword saint, Gureikes, who had roamed Vonder thirty years ago.
Brandon had expected resistance to his request, but he hadn’t anticipated that Macaro would send such a young man to test him. Truth be told, aside from Enlightened Ones and Chosen Ones, few of this era’s youth could rival him.
At Level 23, one could be considered Upper-Tier Iron-Rank. Moreover, reaching Level 15 in any profession marked the first significant threshold; surpassing it meant that the bonuses from one's class would begin transitioning from the First Level Strength into the Second Level Strength phase.
In fact, although Brandon had lost his Lustrous Stinger, his strength had paradoxically increased further, now peaking at an impressive 15 units—nearly twelve to thirteen times that of a trained soldier. Despite his slender and unassuming appearance, he possessed the raw power to fell a wild boar with a single punch if he so desired.
If Brandon were to open his status panel, he would see that his Absolute Strength had reached a staggering value of 220. In theory, this meant he could single-handedly carve through any company within second- or third-tier legions of any nation, emerging victorious with ease.
Such prowess was commonly referred to among Eruin adventurers as "company-leader level" strength.
And yet, this was but a fraction of Brandon's true potential. His mastery of Eruin Military Swordsmanship at Level 10 alone would leave most officers and knights of Eruin red-faced with shame. However, Brandon himself remained modest, feeling that he still fell short when compared to his grandfather’s legendary feats.
But before he could dwell further on these thoughts, he noticed the young man before him draw his sword. The tip wavered slightly, its cold gleam flashing menacingly in Brandon's line of sight.
“Listen carefully, merchant,” Radi said, his voice steady and commanding. “I do not accept weak challenges, nor do I show mercy. Combat between warriors is sacred—it is steel against steel, life against death. Do you understand?”
Brandon glanced back at Roma.
“Brandon, does he mean he’s stronger than you?” Roma asked, her wide eyes blinking innocently.
“No, I doubt it,” Brandon replied dryly, exasperated but amused by her naivety.
“Sir Brandon?” Antietta inquired softly.
Brandon shook his head, silently wondering why his companions lacked faith in him. Nevertheless, he drew his plain steel longsword, a replacement for the lost elven blade, Lustrous Stinger. Radi’s gaze flickered with disdain—the weapon was new, likely purchased straight from a blacksmith’s forge.
Brandon wasn’t offended; the observation was accurate. His previous sword had shattered during a battle, unable to withstand the immense force behind his strikes.
With a casual flourish, Brandon tested the weight of the unfamiliar blade. This simple act drew jeers and catcalls from the mercenaries and adventurers gathered in the inn’s hall. No self-respecting swordsman would adjust to a weapon moments before a duel. To them, Brandon appeared inexperienced, perhaps even foolish.
“Radi, isn’t your idol the famed Yabuli sword saint, Gureikes? Show us your skill by defeating this upstart!” someone shouted.
“Well said! As a fellow countryman of the saint, don’t embarrass yourself!”
“Come on, Radi! Crush him!” The mercenaries erupted into cheers, their unruly nature shining through as always.
But amidst the noise, one name caught Brandon’s attention. “Gureikes?” He paused mid-preparation, relaxing his stance as he looked up. “What did you say?”
His momentary distraction caused his form to falter, eliciting another round of boos from the crowd.
“You are unworthy to speak his name,” Radi growled, lunging forward with a swift strike.
To an ordinary observer, the attack was lightning-fast. But within Brandon’s perception range of 3.7 units, it was agonizingly slow. Reacting instinctively, he parried—not with elegance, but with raw power. His counterstrike sent Radi’s sword flying from his grasp, embedding itself deeply into the wooden ceiling above.
A collective gasp rippled through the room.
The mercenaries, who moments ago had been cheering wildly, now stood frozen, mouths agape. They stared at the quivering blade lodged in the ceiling, unsure whether to applaud or jeer.
Brandon’s response had been far from refined. In fact, it resembled a brute snatching a club rather than a trained swordsman executing a technique. Yet the key lay not in its grace but in its sheer force.
“Innate monstrous strength?” was the unspoken question on everyone’s mind.
Such tales weren’t uncommon in Vonder. Legends spoke of humans bearing traces of golden bloodlines, some born as Chosen Ones while others inherited specific traits—immense physical power, extraordinary resilience, or innate elemental affinity. Typically, such abilities were attributed to fantastical creatures like dragons or unicorns.
Yet whispers soon filled the air:
“First-Level Strength!”
“Iron-Rank power!”
Radi staggered back five steps, cradling his swollen wrist. Despite reaching lower-tier iron-rank in his early twenties—a feat many admired—he couldn’t fathom how he’d been bested by someone younger than himself. How could there be so many prodigies like Aiko in the world?
For a brief moment, Radi was dumbfounded.
But his shock didn’t last long. Macaro and a tall, burly middle-aged man ascended the stairs into the inn. Though they hadn’t witnessed the exchange, the sight of the embedded sword and the stunned faces of the onlookers told Macaro all he needed to know.
His gaze settled on Brandon, his brow furrowing slightly. He had known the merchant proposing to join his ranks was young, but not this young.
“Buga,” Macaro murmured, leaning close to the middle-aged man beside him. “Test him.”
“Me?” Buga’s voice carried a heavy Anlek accent.
“Yes. I suspect this youth may be affiliated with ‘the Cards.’” Macaro’s eyes narrowed as he studied Brandon.
“Do they have talents like this on their side, Macaro? Are you overthinking things?” Buga loosened the massive greatsword strapped to his back. “Still, if you insist, I’ll give it a try. One thing’s certain—this young man is no ordinary merchant.”
Macaro hesitated, glancing at his longtime friend. “It’s nothing. Just… a familiar scent.” Buga’s gaze lingered on Brandon, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face.
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