Otaku Translation: The Amber Sword V2C136

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Chapter 136: The Gift

A mere detachment of noble cavalry had no authority to bring Brandon’s group before the local lord—Baron Grudin of Eruin.

Though Brandon introduced himself as Viscount Stingham, a traveling northern noble, the forged seals and documents provided by the cripple were impeccable. Even more convincing than those issued by the Kingdom’s Council Hall itself. Still, nobles upheld their decorum; some waiting was expected.

The streets of Cold Fir City sprawled like a web. In the south, roofs were often tiled with reddish clay, giving the city a sea of crimson when viewed from above. At its center stood the baron’s castle—a towering edifice of pale stone, visible even from a tavern called The Bold Fist. Since the days of King Anson, humans had built such castles to stand against beasts, monsters, and the wild tribes beyond civilization.

After dining at the inn, an official summons arrived from Baron Grudin. Led by a company of private guards, Brandon and his entourage entered the fortress grounds. But this was no friendly feast—the moment they passed through the gates, two lines of elite soldiers in full plate armor awaited them, standing rigid as statues, spears raised in perfect formation.

Brandon glanced around, unimpressed. Clearly meant as a show of force. Yet for a man who had once faced the ancient guard of the Silver Elves, this display was little more than pageantry.

As he strode forward, a scarred brute stepped into his path. With a rough hand, the man reached toward Brandon’s shoulder, intending to halt him. He never got close.

Cinnabar moved first.

Her red hair flared behind her like fire as she seized the man’s wrist. Amber eyes locked onto his face like a predator eyeing prey.

"Move aside," she said coldly.

With a sharp twist, she hurled him backward. He crashed into the ground with a pained grunt.

"Stop him!" roared one of the guardsmen.

The armored ranks surged forward, but it was futile. Brandon walked on, and every soldier who tried to intercept him was sent flying like leaves caught in a storm. It was as if they had tried to block not a young nobleman, but a charging dragon.

Seventy strength, and a mastery of body and spirit that placed him among the upper echelons of silver-ranked fighters. In the days of Anson, men like him had been chosen for the Royal Youth Knights—a single step away from the seat of power.

But this was a different age.

One where ambition alone could carry a man forward—or destroy him.

Brandon kept walking. Behind him, the courtyard echoed with the clang of falling armor and the groans of wounded pride. Yet he spared no glance for the fallen. He approached the second gate, only to find it shut tight—perhaps the servant who should have opened it was currently groaning somewhere on the ground.

No matter.

Without hesitation, he kicked the door open—just as he used to when entering guild halls back in his old life.

Crack!

The great hall lay empty, save for the echoes of his entrance.

---

"A rather uncivilized entrance."

From an arched window high above the courtyard, a robed man peered down with mild amusement. His eyes were dull gray, his lips curled slightly in what might have been a smile. In one hand, he held a goblet filled with deep red wine—almost too dark, almost bloodlike. He swirled it slowly, watching the liquid lap against the rim.

Brandon would have recognized him instantly—the hooked nose, the Jandel family trait, sharpened by years of scheming and spite. Hollow-eyed, pale-skinned, with a tangled beard and a look of perpetual disdain, the man was unmistakable.

"Silver-rank at least," the baron mused, rubbing the curling edge of his goatee. "Around twenty years old. What do you think?"

Behind him stood a tall, lean man in dark armor. He shook his head. "He held back. And that red-haired girl isn’t weak either. If we fought, fifty-fifty. But I wouldn’t recommend it."

Grudin chuckled. "Of course. A man bold enough to defy my name must have something behind him. But still—we need to remind him of his place. Let him pass, but make sure he knows who holds the leash."

He tapped the glass gently against the windowpane, making a soft clink like a toast.

"Did you send the men I asked for?" he added, turning away from the view.

The man bowed. "At dawn. They'll return by evening."

"Good." Without ceremony, Grudin tossed the goblet aside. It shattered beside the corpse of a woman on the floor, the wine spilling into the carpet, darkening the already bloody fabric.

"This is Father's request. It must be handled flawlessly."

His mind drifted to thoughts of succession—who would inherit the title when the old earl finally died? The longer he waited, the more cunning the old bastard became. It made things… inconvenient.

Too many loose ends.

Fools, he thought.

---

The great hall was lit by a massive chandelier of dark red crystal, etched with runes—clearly magical in origin. The domed ceiling bore the artistic motifs of the old Anson religious style: celestial bodies above, mythic legends below, and sacred scriptures in between. One hundred and eighty columns lined the perimeter, representing the constellations.

Brandon and Baron Grudin sat at opposite ends of a long rectangular table. The baron took the seat beneath the dagger—symbolizing judgment—while Brandon was seated directly beneath the Witch King constellation, the only southern-facing position.

Others joined the banquet: knights loyal to the baron, minor gentry, and landowners. Most were appointees granted positions after Colcova’s fall, though a few were true retainers. But Brandon knew the real players weren’t here. They’d be hidden in shadows or ruling distant fiefdoms.

Tonygel wasn't large, yet it contained over twenty minor holdings, each ruled by one of Grudin’s vassals. The system followed the traditional Vonder model—fealty layered upon fealty.

After exchanging pleasantries sharper than knives, the baron declared the feast begun. Officially, it was to welcome the Viscount of Stingham.

The food was rich, but to Brandon’s group, it tasted like ash.

Cinnabar and Tiger Finch barely touched their plates. Antietta managed a composed exterior, but inside, dread coiled tightly in her chest. She couldn’t understand how Brandon and Roma could eat so calmly while surrounded by potential enemies.

And then Grudin spoke.

"Not to your liking, my lady?" he asked, gesturing to Antietta.

The hall fell silent.

Antietta lifted her gaze. "My lord and lady cannot speak freely due to their station. But as a retainer, I may be blunt. These dishes... are quite ordinary."

Brandon nearly grinned. Antietta had picked up on his act perfectly. Her words were a slap to the baron’s face, delicately wrapped in courtesy. There was little Grudin could do—scolding a serving woman would only reflect poorly on him.

Still, the baron merely smiled. Others remained cautiously mute. Their gazes flickered between him and Brandon, who met the noble’s stare with the confidence of a duelist testing his blade.

Grudin shifted tone smoothly. "You come from the north, Viscount. Surely the southern climate is foreign to you?"

Brandon leaned back, playing his part with ease. "To a knight of the realm, climate is trivial. Only the weak complain about hardship—and I daresay such men have no right calling themselves nobility."

It was another insult, subtle but undeniable. The room tensed.

Yet Grudin simply laughed. "Ah, youth. You have spirit. But I digress—I have a gift for you. Something better than these humble dishes."

"A gift?" Brandon blinked.

He hadn’t expected this. He’d planned to intimidate the baron and leave quickly. His lands were near now—he could settle scores later.

But what kind of trap did this present hide?

Only one way to find out.

Project Update: Volume 2 is now fully translated! However, as I'm currently focusing on stacking chapters for Volume 3, the release of the remaining chapters in Volume 2 will slow down a bit.

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