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Chapter 70: Departure
The morning of July in Chablis was a melody composed of the chirping of mountain sparrows. As dawn spread its golden light across the forested slopes, the small town nestled among the peaks came alive with energy.
The scent of fresh mint leaves lingered in the air inside the modest stone dwelling where Brandon had risen early. It seemed that his life as a swordsman in this world had entirely supplanted his former habits as a gamer. Sleeping in late now felt like a relic of another lifetime.
Standing by the narrow stone window carved into the wall, Brandon gazed out at the rolling hills of Chablis. With two fingers pressed lightly on a card, he flicked it open with his thumb. A crystalline shard of wind elemental essence sitting beside him instantly vaporized into a wisp of pale green smoke, which melded seamlessly onto the surface of the card. Within moments, a miniature whirlwind stirred within the confined space, dimensional rifts opening and closing in rapid succession. From these rifts emerged over twenty Wind Spirit Spiders, their translucent forms shimmering faintly in the dim light.
Brandon issued an immediate command. The tiny creatures from the Plane of Wind let out a chorus of high-pitched squeaks before dissolving into wisps of mist. They dispersed through cracks and crevices in the room, vanishing without a trace. Satisfied, Brandon gave a small smile and uncorked a vial of mana potion.
“It seems like a questline,” he thought, his brow furrowing slightly. This realization had kept him awake for two consecutive nights.
In the game he once knew, quests were often tied to dungeons or ruins. These storylines unfolded unpredictably yet seamlessly, crafted by algorithms to feel natural. Dynamic task systems had been one of Amber Sword’s most celebrated features. Yet here, in this strange echo of that virtual world, those scripted events appeared to be unfolding in reality.
Realizing this, Brandon cast his mind back, piecing together fragments of memories. After some effort, he recalled something—a forum post from years ago. It was buried deep within discussions about the “Balrogan Ruins,” detailing the experiences of the first team to enter the dungeon. Certain details resonated faintly with what he observed now.
But his train of thought broke as a sharp knock sounded at the door. Three taps, deliberate and firm. It couldn’t be Roma; she never knocked—propriety wasn’t exactly her forte. Nor could it be Antietta, whose noble upbringing dictated politeness. Whoever stood outside was impatient, urgent even.
In an instant, Brandon guessed who might be waiting beyond the threshold.
“Enter,” he called.
The door creaked open, revealing two young men. One was the pale-haired youth from two days prior—the same effeminate figure who had glared daggers at him then and continued to do so now. The other was unfamiliar but appeared roughly the same age, shorter and wirier, with cropped hair and wide eyes full of curiosity.
“Bran- Sir Brandon, we’re setting out. Are you ready?” the smaller youth asked, his voice tinged with awe, suspicion, and admiration. Clearly, Brandon’s duel with Buga had left a lasting impression on the younger members of the Gray Wolves Mercenary Company. To them, a man barely twenty years old holding his own against the vice-commander was nothing short of extraordinary. And if they knew Buga’s true strength surpassed Macaro’s, their reverence would only grow.
Brandon himself remained oblivious to the young man’s thoughts. Had he known, he might have chuckled aloud. For all his skill, he was still leagues away from being considered a Chosen One—or even an Enlightened One.
“Yes, thank you,” Brandon replied smoothly, nodding toward the youth. “We’ll join you shortly.”
The pale-haired Radi immediately snorted derisively behind his companion.
Brandon glanced at him, already familiar with the arrogance bred into nobility’s scions. He’d encountered plenty during his travels. Why this particular brat had joined the mercenaries was anyone’s guess—but Brandon didn’t care enough to ask.
However, while he chose not to provoke, Radi clearly lacked such restraint. Fuming silently after being ignored, the young noble snapped, “Listen well. Though I may not best you, I’ll keep my eyes on you. Don’t think you can pull anything sneaky.”
His companion blinked in surprise, unprepared for such hostility. He opened his mouth to intervene but hesitated, ultimately saying nothing.
“Oh?” Brandon mentally cursed the fool, then raised an eyebrow. “You’re Radi?”
“That’s none of your concern,” Radi spat.
“Are all nobles so ill-mannered?” Brandon countered coolly.
Radi clenched his fists, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his sword. But remembering the vast chasm between their skills, he reluctantly stepped back, defeated.
“I heard Aiko escaped.”
“How did you know? You—”
Radi froze mid-sentence, realizing too late that he’d confirmed Brandon’s claim. Scowling, he snapped, “It’s none of your business. I’ll report this conversation to the commander.”
Brandon suppressed a smirk. Aloud, he said lightly, “Just making conversation. After all, I met him briefly two days ago.”
“Liar,” Radi thought bitterly, though outwardly he maintained his icy facade.
Changing the subject, Brandon remarked casually, “I heard you’re acquainted with Gureikes, the Silver Sword Saint.”
Radi stiffened, recalling Brandon’s earlier barb about nobility’s lack of manners. He swallowed whatever retort hovered on his lips, opting instead for another disdainful sniff. Realizing he couldn’t win verbally, he grabbed his comrade by the arm and stalked off, leaving Brandon alone.
Brandon chuckled softly to himself. So Gureikes had admirers now? Back in the day, he’d trained under the infamous sword saint, mastering the technique known as “Heaven’s Boundary.” Despite possessing three intermediate arts—“Fate’s Blade,” “Thunderclap Blade,” and his self-created “Boundary Blade”—Gureikes hadn’t exactly been a model teacher. The man was notorious for his gambling addiction and atrocious luck, losing every bet and refusing to pay up whenever possible.
Still, thinking of “Heaven’s Boundary,” Brandon allowed himself a faint smile. Having experienced it once, navigating it again would be easier. Unfortunately, Gureikes was currently wandering near Cruze; otherwise, Brandon would have sought him out immediately.
---
Buga and Macaro exchanged uneasy glances. Finally, the latter—the famed ‘Mane Wolf’—spoke up, gesturing toward the twelve foreign-dressed mercenaries flanking Brandon. “Sir Brandon, who are these?”
Macaro’s confusion was palpable. For three days, their sentries had reported only ordinary guests staying at the Lantern Grass Inn. Yet these warriors, armed with throwing axes, spears, round shields, horned helmets, and curved blades, hardly resembled “ordinary” travelers. Where had they come from?
Unaware of Macaro’s turmoil, Brandon shrugged nonchalantly. “They’re mine. I believe I mentioned hiring mercenaries? They hail from a minority tribe in the eastern kingdom—I’m a merchant, after all, always traveling. Please don’t mind their attire.”
Antietta and Roma exchanged skeptical looks. While Roma admired Brandon’s apparent connections with distant tribes, Antietta harbored deeper doubts. She knew Brandon commanded a mercenary force stationed near Anlek, far from Chablis. And though Brandon claimed Chael had returned to Karasu on urgent business, something about the explanation rang false.
Still, questioning the lord she was currently serving openly was unthinkable. Even Buga and Macaro, seasoned veterans, struggled to reconcile the sudden appearance of these twelve individuals. Due to Aiko's escape, the hidden sentries they had deployed were at least near silver-rank level. Yet these mercenaries, who appeared to possess only 'iron rank' strength, had somehow infiltrated their positions without them noticing.
“This is absurd,” Macaro muttered under his breath, revising his assessment of Brandon upward several notches. Whatever else the young man was, he was certainly enigmatic.
“So, Commander Macaro, shall we depart?” Brandon asked brightly.
“Of course,” Macaro replied, forcing a nod. Inwardly, he resolved to position Brandon’s group at the center of their formation—under close watch. Macaro had been confident at first, but now he felt a twinge of uncertainty. A young man with exceptional swordsmanship and strength nearing the silver-rank level, accompanied by twelve mercenaries who likely surpassed it—just thinking about it gave him a headache.
At this thought, he couldn’t help but glance back at Buga, his lips silently mouthing the words, "Is this the result of your investigation, old friend?" His expression carried a hint of reproach.
Buga merely shrugged in response.
Macaro had entrusted Buga with investigating the mercenaries Brandon claimed to have hired. But after two days of searching, not a single clue had surfaced. And now, out of nowhere, these twelve individuals had appeared as if conjured from thin air. Though they seemed to radiate only iron-tier strength, Macaro found it impossible to believe. He studied their strange attire and unconventional weapons, convinced that they must be masking their true abilities somehow.
What kind of sorcery was this? Was it some grand illusion, a trick of vanishing and reappearing? The future master swordsman couldn’t help but roll his eyes in disbelief.
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