Otaku Translation: The Amber Sword V3C8

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Chapter 8: The Territory Part 2

“More than you know.”

Brandon gently took the ring from Fleur’s hand as he spoke. His fingers traced the intricate design of crossed swords on the brass edge, a faint sense of nostalgia washing over him. The secondary , the , the , and now the —all three points of the magic energy triangle were complete. He remembered that in the game, it wasn’t until the Year of the Sacred White Gryphon (Year 378 of the First Era) that he had achieved this milestone. Magic energy accessories in were exceedingly rare; even legendary pay-to-win players might take months to gather a set like his.

But here he was, with an arsenal far beyond what most could dream of. Besides needing a better primary weapon, he already had a brass-grade and its accompanying as backups. In terms of magic energy accessories alone, he possessed ten items: three necklaces—the , , and —four rings, the , the , and three amulets. Not to mention the and his self-crafted . For this early era, just after the , his magical inventory was nothing short of extravagant—even by player standards.

Still, there was one thing missing—a core piece of equipment, something like the , capable of altering a character’s class composition entirely. But Brandon knew his luck had never been stellar. What he’d accomplished so far was remarkable enough. As he thought this, he glanced back at the elder sister of the .

“What is it?” Fleur asked, her voice steady.

Brandon shook his head without answering. He slid the ring onto the index finger of his left hand. Instantly, data began streaming across his vision. Three skills—, , and —each gained an additional +1 level. Soon, they stabilized: Strength Surge (10+1), White Crow Swordsmanship (5+1), and Frontal Breakthrough (5+1). With Strength Surge surpassing level ten, it earned the Master bonus, granting him 10% increased strength and an extra 15 units of power at the cost of triple stamina for the next action. Meanwhile, both White Crow Swordsmanship and Frontal Breakthrough received Expert bonuses.

Brandon swung his sword to the left. A sharp gust of wind pressure erupted from the blade with a whoosh. Unlike before, when the attack formed a clean crescent, this time the arc shattered into a massive net-like pattern. The web surged forward, slicing through the courtyard with fish-scale shards of wind that refracted light like a prism, tearing apart air currents as it passed. Both Brandon and Fleur watched in silence as the once-majestic tree stood bare, its trunk riddled with holes.

Shredded leaves fluttered to the ground.

“Damn, wide-area attacks,” Brandon muttered inwardly. “How did I not realize such an absurd technique existed? Does the really have this kind of legacy?”

“My lord,” Fleur said, her notebook held close, her eyes flickering. “Is this royal swordsmanship?”

“A lucky coincidence,” Brandon replied tersely.

He sheathed his sword just as two figures—one red-haired, the other pale-skinned—rushed over. and had been resting in the adjacent room when they heard the explosion of wind pressure. Seeing Brandon and Fleur standing in the corridor, they exchanged a glance before asking in unison, “What happened?”

“Nothing, just practicing,” Brandon answered casually.

The red-haired girl frowned at the now-bare tree in the courtyard. She had always liked that tree; it brought her a strange sense of tranquility, much like the leaf she pinned to her head. But despite her irritation, she couldn’t bring herself to scold Brandon and settled for shooting him a mildly reproachful look.

Unaware of her displeasure, Brandon turned to her and said, “Perfect timing, Cinnabar. Come with me.”

“Where to?” Cinnabar loosened her grip on her halberd, startled.

“First, we’ll go into , then out.”

“Just us?”

“We’ll probably bring and the others,” Brandon clarified.

“And me?” Metissa placed a hand on her chest, her tone earnest. “Shall I come too?”

“No, Metissa. You stay in the city,” Brandon replied, shaking his head. “The undead haven’t retreated far. I need someone here to guard against them taking advantage of our absence. Though I don’t expect a fight, battlefields are unpredictable. You and Chael will remain here—you’re more than capable of handling any threats.”

The princess of the didn’t seem surprised. She simply nodded quietly and stepped back. Cinnabar glanced at her, hesitating for a moment before deciding against saying anything. Lowering her halberd, she moved to Brandon’s side. “So where are we going, my lord?”

“The dungeons.”

“The dungeons?”

---

’s dungeon matched every stereotype of such places: pitch-black, damp, and reeking of decay. Uneven stone floors hosted the occasional rat, often larger than a cat. Built during the , roughly two hundred and forty years ago, the dungeon was originally designed to imprison forest tribes captured during border skirmishes. Over time, however, it became a holding pen for debtors, poachers, and minor nobles who had offended . Most were thrown in without trial, their sentences stretching for years. The harshness of Eruin’s penal code, drafted during the kingdom’s darkest days, remained largely unchanged, disproportionately punishing the lower classes.

Many prisoners succumbed to illness within these walls.

But after last night’s battle, Brandon had ordered Antietta to release most of the peasants imprisoned for unpaid taxes. Consequently, the usually overcrowded dungeon now felt eerily quiet. Footsteps echoed through the darkness, occasionally clinking against chains hanging from the ceiling.

Beru, an old man sitting in his cell, perked up at the sound. “Someone’s coming.” He steadied his breathing. The footsteps were steady and deliberate—not the scattered gait of a jailer. Since last night, the dungeon guards had been replaced. These new arrivals moved with military precision, though subtly different. Beru’s brow furrowed slightly.

The footsteps grew closer.

Having spent half his life among soldiers, Beru had an almost instinctive sensitivity to those carrying the aura of violence. He heard the steps pause nearby, followed by the rattling of chains as a door opened. This section of the dungeon housed only one prisoner: himself. Could they be looking for him?

His heart pounded wildly.

The chains clattered to the floor. Moments later, the first ray of light spilled around the corner, illuminating his cell. Beru stared hungrily at the beam, tears streaming down his face as the brightness stung his eyes. He hadn’t seen sunlight since being thrown into this pit.

Had the lordship changed hands?

But the Jandel family rarely produced decent individuals, he mused bitterly.

The flickering torchlight finally reached him. Beru remained motionless, letting his unkempt hair obscure his face. After a moment, he heard a calm, youthful voice that jolted him upright. “Beru Hust, Lord of Goldenfort, loyalist to the Crown—I thought you died in Everton’s rebellion.”

The old man froze, staring at the unfamiliar young man holding the torch. Its light made him squint, but he managed to croak, “Who… are you?” His mind raced. Brandon was right—this was indeed Beru Hust, former Baron of Goldenfort and a member of the Crown Loyalists. During the previous political purge, even Duke Everton, the Earth Knight and leader of the loyalists, had been imprisoned. Beru, a minor figure, had narrowly escaped by fleeing the capital and faking his death. He’d lived incognito ever since, waiting for the loyalists’ resurgence.

But fate had intervened. A minor offense against Grudin landed him in this dungeon, where he expected to rot away unnoticed. Yet here he was, confronted by someone who knew his true identity—even details unknown to Grudin.

Fleur and Cinnabar exchanged astonished glances. Their young lord seemed to know people everywhere, a fact that bordered on uncanny. At barely twenty, Brandon’s extensive knowledge and connections hinted at something extraordinary. Perhaps Antietta was right—perhaps he hailed from an unimaginably vast and powerful lineage.

But Brandon merely smiled. “Who I am doesn’t matter. I’m neither a loyalist nor aligned with Duke Anlek. Nor do I have ties to the Jandel family.”

The ragged old man blinked in confusion. “Then who are you?”

“You can think of me as my own faction, Lord Beru,” Brandon said, handing over a waterskin from one of the mercenaries behind him. “But our goals align.”

Grateful for the gesture, Beru accepted the waterskin and sipped cautiously. “What do you mean?”

“To restore Eruin.”

“Restore Eruin?” Beru eyed the youth skeptically, setting the waterskin aside. “If that’s your aim, why not join the loyalists and aid House Colcova? Or…” He paused, scrutinizing Brandon closely. “Are you siding with the Sifah family?”

Brandon shook his head. “I have my own principles and methods. That’s not important. What matters is that I’ve come to ask for your help.”

“What use am I, an old man?” Beru’s sharp gaze probed.

“You’re Beru Hust, a master craftsman renowned for armoring and forging. Am I wrong?”

Beru’s expression darkened. “You plan to raise private troops?”

“Something like that.”

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