Otaku Translation: The Amber Sword V2C162

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Chapter 162: The Planeswalker's War, Part 6

“Sir Tiamas,” Grudin stammered, his face draining of color. At this moment, the undead commander was his only lifeline—if even he couldn’t protect him, then surely the ruthless young viscount would strike him down without hesitation.

But White paid him no mind, continuing calmly, “Half an hour is all I need to hold my ground.”

“Half an hour?” Brandon seized on the words like a seasoned opponent. “What significance does half an hour hold? Or are you stalling for some purpose?”

“If you weren’t my enemy, I’d almost think you were one of my closest friends in life,” White sighed, his tone wistful. “Why do you always seem to understand me so well? Even Marissa never grasped me as deeply as you do.”

Brandon merely smiled.

He knew full well that Marissa was White’s personal maid—a jab meant to needle him—but he refused to show weakness, verbal or otherwise. That arrogance fit perfectly with what he knew of the man: too proud to admit defeat, even when outmaneuvered. Such pride had earned him enemies aplenty in Madara, which was likely why he’d been exiled to command Enstallone’s ragtag forces.

Still, while thoughts raced through his mind, Brandon kept his movements deliberate. He advanced steadily until he stood ten paces from White. Behind him, Chael prepared his spellwork.

“Lord Stingham,” White began, “have you considered why there has been no signal from the western gate?”

Brandon froze, his expression darkening as realization dawned.

“Ah, yes—a striking red-haired mercenary commander, wasn’t she?” White mused aloud. “Fear not, Lord Stingham. My forces there are few and unlikely to cause much trouble. However…” His voice grew colder. “…they should suffice to delay your allies considerably.”

Brandon said nothing.

White pressed on. “By now, my counterparts at the western gate will have breached the city walls. Granted, they’re nothing but lowly bone constructs—poorly led by skeletal wizards whose competence I question—but Lord Stingham, if you don’t act soon…” His tone turned mocking. “…not only will the life of that charming lady be forfeit, but the entire battle may spiral beyond your control.”

Brandon listened silently, every muscle tense. Though fury burned within him, threatening to boil over, he forced himself to remain composed. As much as he wanted to crush the insolent mouth beneath his fist, logic prevailed: White had no reason to lie.

In truth, Brandon had been concerned about the western front since the start. Yuta, the female mercenary leader, hadn’t sent her magical beacon—a troubling sign. If White spoke the truth, the situation wasn’t merely dire—it was catastrophic. The undead horde flooding into Cold Fir City would devastate both its defenses and their chances of retreat. With the inner wall too weak to withstand such numbers, the consequences were unthinkable.

As these thoughts weighed heavily on him, Brandon felt a sinking dread. How could White afford to split his forces here? Did he truly care about Grudin’s survival—or was this mere posturing? Yet, neither option seemed entirely plausible. Unless… unless White intended to take Grudin alive.

But why go to such lengths? Grudin was merely one of Earl Jandel’s sons—hardly irreplaceable.

Drawing a deep breath, Brandon finally understood the true intent behind White’s earlier delays. Fortunately, his vigilance had spared them falling fully into the trap—for now, at least, they retained some agency.

“Damn it, As expected the Scale of War” Brandon muttered under his breath. This was still the first Black Rose War era, yet this man had already displayed wisdom and foresight that rivaled those of the future. Brandon couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that perhaps the knight had already deduced his plan.

Brandon tightened his grip on his sword. If given the chance, he’d end this accursed knight where he stood. More than Grudin, White posed the greater threat. But alas, realism tempered his ambition; victory against such odds remained elusive.

White offered a faint smile. “We have thirty minutes left. Shall we negotiate?”

Behind him, Grudin visibly relaxed. A sardonic grin twisted the baron’s face as he regarded Brandon, who appeared momentarily cornered. A malicious glee flickered in Grudin’s eyes. To him, the impending disaster facing Cold Fir City mattered little. After all, cities could be rebuilt, and peasants were expendable. No, what truly amused him was watching Brandon squirm.

“Young man,” Grudin sneered, “recklessness comes at a cost.”

Yet memories of past provocations tempered his bravado. “That said, I acknowledge your strength. Power demands respect. If you agree to cease hostilities, I can assure you, on behalf of my father, that our grievances end here.”

He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Surely you understand—nobles avoid mutually destructive wars whenever possible. Besides…” His gaze hardened. “…my ward remains in your possession.”

Before he could elaborate further, White turned sharply, fixing him with an icy glare through his metallic mask. Grudin shuddered, realizing his misstep, and fell silent.

White pivoted back, awaiting Brandon’s response.

Chael and Cinnabar watched their lord intently.

Brandon’s reply was frosty. “Compromise after compromise, Tiamas. Do you take me for a fool?”

“Or perhaps you wish to surrender?” White countered smoothly. “I doubt these bones can stop you, but what of your subordinates? For me, either outcome suffices. That is where we differ.”

Grudin chuckled darkly, recognizing White’s gambit for what it was—an attempt to corner Brandon. He relished the irony. Just days prior, a similar ploy had forced Brandon’s hand. Watching his adversary stumble into the same snare twice filled him with grim satisfaction.

But Brandon exhaled slowly.

“Tiamas, in my homeland, there is an ancient saying.” His fingers loosened slightly around the hilt of his sword. “One cannot step into the same river twice.”

White blinked, startled. But before he could react, Brandon moved. In a flash, his blade arced toward Grudin. White reacted instantly, raising his massive scythe to intercept. Metal clashed, sending sparks flying. The sword grazed past Grudin’s arm, embedding itself quivering in a portrait hanging nearby.

White glanced back.

Grudin, meanwhile, had already clutched his wounded right arm, his face pale as he glared at Brandon with seething hatred. This was the second time now. He couldn’t fathom what deep grudge this young man held against him—why he insisted on leaving a lesson etched into his flesh every chance he got.

White turned back, sighing. “Must it come to this, Lord Stingham? Feuds need not be eternal. Still, I am curious—what did you mean by that proverb?”

“It admits many interpretations,” Brandon replied coolly. “But I favor one in particular: one should not repeat the same mistake endlessly. Doing so tests the limits of one’s intellect.”

“So you seek battle,” White observed, studying him.

“Indeed.”

White’s gloved hand clenched tightly around his scythe. “Very well. Let us see if you can bypass me faster this time.”

Soulfire surged, expanding into a dense silver barrier before him.

But Brandon shook his head. “You misunderstand, Tiamas.”

“What do you mean?” White asked, perplexed.

“In truth, I’ve already passed you.”

Brandon’s voice was calm, his gaze fixed beyond White’s shoulder. There, embedded in the portrait, quivered his sword. Its tip pinned something invisible to all but him—a card depicting a unicorn-riding elven knight.

“The banners of the elves flutter proudly, hearts shine bright, swords gleam fiercely—”

“Come forth, Metissa.”

A piercing scream tore through the air.

White whipped around, stunned, as a silver spear impaled Grudin through the chest. The baron staggered, disbelief etched across his features. Summoning his last ounce of strength, he turned his head—but the spear withdrew with a soft tug, unleashing a crimson spray. Grudin collapsed like a marionette with severed strings, lifeless.

White spun back, rage simmering in his voice. “That elf? Impossible—I dealt her grievous wounds!”

Brandon smirked, his gaze condescending. “Did you forget? I am a summoner.”

Chael shivered beside him, muttering under his breath, What kind of summoner calls himself that?

But White frowned deeply. “Impossible. Even summoners cannot breach my soulfire barrier to summon so precisely.”

Brandon grinned wider. “Then consider me the exception.”

…

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