Otaku Translation: The Amber Sword V3C30

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Chapter 30: Expansion (Part 11)

The morning light brought a slight clarity to the air, though remnants of the night’s chill lingered. The breaths of men and horses condensed into frost around their mouths and noses—a harbinger of winter’s approach in .

The procession of riders moved through a valley flanked by two mountains. Surrounding them was an icy black forest, like something out of an ink-wash painting, while farther away, the mist-shrouded peaks revealed lush greenery.

The group consisted of over thirty heavily armored individuals, all armed and professional mercenaries. These were not ’s standing army but hired soldiers. In Tonygel, only near could one find professional troops; were stationed at the fortress on ’s northern extension.

After traversing the valley, the riders entered a clearing surrounded by dense woods. There, another group awaited, guarding several young men seated on the ground with dejected expressions.

Hearing the approaching sounds, the young men looked up. Most paled at the sight of the stern-faced nobleman leading the new arrivals. However, the youth at their center remained composed, though his frustration was evident.

The nobleman sat astride his prized steed, —a towering horse with sleek black fur akin to polished silk. A purebred northern breed, it had been his companion since youth, braving countless battles alongside him. Though now aged and no longer as spry, Sir Minty still held deep affection for the old warhorse.

He gazed down at the young men, silent.

This was Sir Minty, and these were his men. Days earlier, he had received news of unrest in . But being a cautious noble, he refrained from acting immediately. In Eruin, moving troops into another lord’s territory without explicit orders constituted rebellion. Only after confirming the reliability of the reports did he order his knights to mobilize.

Minty’s domain bordered Cold Fir, so his forces reached the area swiftly—departing at dawn and arriving by evening. He assembled his troops overnight, leaving Minty’s hilly region by morning and entering the flat river valleys along the Gers River. The Gers Ford was close, and scouts reported the crossing unoccupied. The nearby town seemed oblivious to the chaos in Cold Fir City. Cavalry patrols extending ten miles along the river found no trace of rebel activity.

Sir Minty wasn’t surprised. From what he’d heard, the uprising involved just a few bands of mercenaries—lawless brigands prone to looting before dispersing. Unless they aimed to seize Cold Fir outright, there was little reason to occupy the ford. He doubted such opportunistic mercenaries would linger, awaiting annihilation.

Initially, he feared ’s involvement, given the undead armies still haunting the southern borders. But with no sign of them, the situation became clear—it was merely a localized revolt.

This realization eased Sir Minty’s concerns.

But his relief didn’t last long. An irritating report reached him via a trusted confidant, explaining why he now led thirty men into this remote woodland.

The youth seated at the center wore a light brown coat, a longsword at his side, and sat cross-legged, meeting Minty’s gaze calmly. His features bore a resemblance to the older knight—this was Minty’s youngest son.

Of his three children, this one was his favorite: quick-witted and gifted from a young age. Minty had invested heavily in him, yet the boy showed little gratitude. Once idle and unwilling to work, he was sent to study under in hopes of tempering his character. Instead, he returned with grandiose ideas and even less discipline.

The messenger had already recounted the full story. When caught, this young master intended to run away with his servants, though the reason remained unclear. Seeing these youths sitting defeated on the ground infuriated Sir Minty.

“Explain,” he demanded, looming atop his horse.

The seated youth paid no heed to his authority, lifting his chin defiantly. “Too boring, Father.”

“Hmm,” Sir Minty growled. “You wanted to experience war? Very well, I’ll show you. But explain this mess first.”

“War?” The youth sneered. “A bunch of rabble hardly counts as war.” Then, more earnestly, he added, “Father, have you heard? has returned to her lands and is rallying her knights.”

Sir Minty paused. Though a minor noble himself, he’d heard rumors of events unfolding in the north. Yet those affairs concerned the great lords—far above someone like him, who barely qualified as a pawn on the chessboard.

“What concern is that of yours?” he asked.

“It matters greatly,” the youth replied eagerly. “This will be the battle that decides the nation’s fate. I’ve resolved to join this grand historical moment and follow Princess Grifine.”

Sir Minty hadn’t anticipated such ambition from his youngest. After a brief pause, he said, “Fanciful dreams. You’ve never ventured beyond Tonygel. Do you even know where the princess is or what the current state of affairs is?”

“I’ll find my way,” the youth declared confidently.

Minty sighed, knowing his son’s intelligence might indeed lead him somewhere. Still, he shook off the thought. “Whether you succeed or fail is irrelevant. Convince me first.”

“Father,” the youth stood quickly, pleading, “you can’t stop me. Let me carve my own path. Guarding Tonygel’s legacy is your generation’s burden, but a true knight earns glory on the battlefield.”

“Battle? Have you ever seen real war?” Minty mocked. As a former knight of Grudin, he retained a soldier’s instincts despite years away from combat. To him, the romanticized notion of war espoused by the young was laughable.

But he suddenly fell silent, recalling that during his studies with Ascetic Scholar Marohlu, this youngest son had apprenticed under Sir Palas to learn the art of war. Though Sir Palas was not renowned across all of Eruin, within Tonygel, he was considered a top-tier veteran.

At the fortress on the northern edge of Graharl Mountain, Sir Palas commanded Grudin’s most elite knights. They defended against attacks from rival nobles while constantly clashing with the native tribesmen in the southern reaches of Jandel. Compared to these hardened foes, Tonygel’s bandits were as docile as lambs. Thus, when Palas’ name was mentioned in the region, everyone immediately pictured a stern and disciplined soldier.

Sir Minty also remembered that his own son had participated in battles against those same tribesmen. In terms of combat experience, the boy likely possessed more than Minty had initially credited him for.

Sighing again, he said, “Fine. I’ll give you a chance to prove yourself.”

“What kind of chance?” the youth asked, intrigued.

“Serve as my assistant. Show me your worth. If you can handle responsibility independently, I’ll let you go.”

Minty’s thoughts, however, were far from sincere. This was merely a delaying tactic. He lacked time to deal with the boy now but resolved to address the matter after the campaign.

Since the kid fancied warfare, why not send him to Palas? Despite rumors of strained relations between Grudin’s top knights, Minty’s personal rapport with Palas remained intact.

But the youth saw through his father’s plan. His light blue eyes sparkled mischievously. “Father, they’re just rabble. Isn’t this overkill?”

“Hmm, didn’t you train under Jomart for warcraft?” Minty countered, realizing this could serve as a perfect distraction. Recalling recent unreliable intel, he pressed further. “I hear the rebels are led by a young commander—your age—who commands an entire army. Meanwhile, you boast endlessly yet achieve nothing. Here’s your chance. Don’t you want to test yourself against him?”

Minty’s information about the rebels’ leader was vague at best. The youth’s age and abilities were pure fabrication. Minty cared little who led the rabble—they were disorganized riffraff. His words were merely designed to manipulate his son.

“A knight isn’t swayed by provocation, Father,” the youth said, though his intrigued expression betrayed him. Finally, nodding, he agreed. “Very well. I’ll accept. Let’s see who this person really is.”

Outwardly stoic, Minty inwardly smirked. Old tricks still worked—he’d played the boy perfectly. With a mental chuckle, he mused: Youthful impulsiveness always falls prey to experience.

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