Otaku Translation: The Amber Sword V3C112

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Chapter 112: Tonygel and the Young Lord Part 12

After finalizing his itinerary, Brandon began preparing intensively for his journey into the Black Forest. However, he did not set out immediately. Instead, he waited several more days, ensuring that Palas had indeed pulled back his forces into a defensive posture before proceeding with his plans.

On the day of departure, Brandon visited a secluded courtyard within his castle.

"Your swordsmanship has improved again."

Kulan bent down to pick up his sword, placing it casually on a nearby weapon rack. The old swordsman regarded Brandon with a mixture of envy, resignation, and anticipation. "I'm old now—no match for you."

Brandon did not feign modesty but instead offered a shy smile characteristic of youth.

Since their earlier discussion, the preparations for Brandon's journey had grown increasingly urgent. Everyone was busy readying for the trip, yet Brandon himself appeared remarkably relaxed. This sparring session had lasted ten minutes, ending predictably with Brandon victorious. He wasn’t particularly surprised; after his battles underground and daily tutelage from the female knight Otaris, his skills had advanced rapidly. Compared to his first duel with Kulan, he was now in an entirely different league.

Military swordsmanship had plateaued at Level 16+2, refusing further progression despite additional experience points. Brandon understood this meant he had reached its upper limit—at least for now. Beyond mastery, progress could only come through relentless practice or perhaps a sudden epiphany one day.

Today, Brandon wore a black Cruzean traveler’s outfit, derived from the warrior culture of the Tower People. Made of woolen fabric, the shirt-like top featured loose sleeves and trousers that tapered at the cuffs, paired with bracers and riding boots. Adventurers and nobles alike often added double-layered belts to hang scabbards, though Brandon’s custom-made scabbard for The Sword of the Earth Harangya was unusually wide, resembling that of a broadsword.

Holding his sword, Brandon sheathed it as he replied, "Times have changed, Sir Kulan." Kulan glanced at him briefly but said nothing.

Though Kulan remained silent, Brandon didn’t press further. Instead, he took a cloth to gently polish his beloved blade, his thoughts drifting back to recent events—

His meeting with the druids had gone relatively smoothly. Andrew had departed toward the Wind Circlet and had yet to return, but another elder named “Gray Crow” had arrived instead. The title symbolized spirits of storms, indicating expertise in wind-based druidic magic—a domain associated with the skies. Druids specializing in such fields held high esteem within their order.

Thus, Brandon surmised that Gray Crow might not be an ordinary outer-circle elder like Andrew but rather an inner-circle Great Druid.

Druids communicated through a secretive organization known as the Druid Conclave, structured in concentric rings. The innermost circle, called the Everwinds Council, consisted solely of Great Druids who exchanged messages across vast distances via seasonal winds. Only during spring—the season of Nyia—did they cease using these channels, allowing nature to flourish undisturbed.

True to expectation, the Great Druid brought news both anticipated and troubling: they may have located Valhalla, but complications arose. The Wind Circlet seemed to be undergoing unusual changes, disrupting the forest’s rules once more. Thick mists and fierce winds hindered the druids’ ability to navigate—a skill they prided themselves on.

"The trees seem to repel us," the Great Druid explained. "Had we approached with hostility, we might not have escaped unscathed."

Brandon quickly deduced what they might be facing. With the Magic Energy Moon waxing stronger as the great tide approached, chaos stirred restlessly in the dark, affecting even the ancient forests. It was a daunting challenge with no easy solutions. The only recourse was brute force, which required strength beyond the druids’ capabilities. Though the Great Druid possessed power akin to gold-rank warriors, their limited understanding of Valhalla necessitated Brandon’s personal intervention.

Fortunately, this suited him fine.

He allocated a month and a half for the journey, confident it would suffice. Yet just as he contemplated logistics, an argument interrupted his thoughts.

"Stop!"

"I demand to see your commander—I know he’s returned!"

"Enough nonsense! Captives should know their place and stop making demands!" came the soldier’s gruff reply.

Brandon looked toward the commotion—it originated from the dungeon. A faint smile crossed his face; this wasn’t the first time he’d heard such disputes.

"Hmph, you deceitful lot! That bastard promised me an audience when I defeated him last time. Bring him back if you dare—I’ll thrash him again!"

"Shut up!" the soldier snapped. "Clenxia broke his sword during the fight—you saw it yourself!"

"Then let him borrow a better one and try again!" the voice taunted mockingly.

"You little punk, do you want another lesson?" the soldier growled impatiently.

A series of yelps followed, and soon a young man clad in a white shirt emerged from behind some bushes. His tousled golden hair framed a slightly disheveled appearance, though his grip on a mercenary-style sword remained firm. Brandon noted the blade bore no bloodstains.

Spotting Brandon holding a sword, the young man mistook him for a guard and charged without hesitation.

Brandon blinked, momentarily surprised by the escape, but before he could react, the youth lunged forward with a single-handed thrust aimed at his right arm—not lethal, but executed with remarkable speed and precision.

"Interesting... Military swordsmanship, at least Level Eight," Brandon thought, recognizing why Yuta, Clenxia, Tiger Finch, and Frein might struggle against him.

Initially inclined to disarm the youth outright, Brandon reconsidered and decided to test his mettle instead. In quick succession, he altered his stance twice, deflecting the incoming strike upward with a clang before redirecting it outward, causing the youth to lose balance momentarily.

Though Karglis’s attack was thwarted, Brandon spared his weapon, leaving the young man bewildered. Was this seemingly ordinary guard actually a master swordsman?

Impossible—or so he thought.

Undeterred, Karglis pressed on, but Brandon countered effortlessly, softening The Sword of the Earth to deliver sharp strikes to the youth’s arms. Without invoking seismic techniques or full force, he sent Karglis stumbling backward until he collapsed onto the ground.

"Full of flaws, yet commendable nonetheless."

As Karglis rose once more, raising his sword instinctively, Brandon paused. But then the young man sighed, dropping his weapon cleanly and raising his hands in surrender.

"I yield," Karglis said, his pale gray eyes locking onto Brandon. By the second exchange, he realized this opponent was far beyond his reach.

Regret tinged his frustration—he shouldn’t have fled this way. Charging headlong at the apparent guard now seemed laughable. He glanced at the old man nearby, wondering if he should have charged in this direction from the start.

But then he saw Kulan smiling faintly at him. Taking in the old swordsman’s slender yet calloused fingers—hands that spoke of decades of relentless practice—Karglis felt a sudden chill. In that moment, he realized his defeat had been inevitable all along.

"Who are you?" Karglis asked curiously as soldiers bound his wrists behind his back with rough efficiency. The soldiers, irritated by his earlier resistance, had not been gentle, leaving him wincing in pain.

Fortunately, the young man hadn’t killed anyone—otherwise, even in front of their lord, they would have beaten him mercilessly.

Brandon didn’t respond immediately, instead watching the youth with keen interest. A new idea sparked in his mind.

"You’re not afraid I’ll kill you?" he asked.

"Why would you?" Karglis replied without fear. "What’s the point?"

"To make an example of you—to deter others."

"Then go ahead," the young man declared boldly, puffing out his chest. "If I so much as blink, I’m no son of the Haberto family."

"So being a man means disregarding your father?" Brandon probed.

"What does my being a man have to do with my father?" Karglis frowned, genuinely puzzled.

Brandon blinked, momentarily taken aback. He reminded himself that this world’s customs and values differed from those of his own.

Turning back to the soldiers, he asked, "Why didn’t you kill them earlier?"

The youth shook his head. "Why does everything revolve around killing with you? I’m far stronger than them—I didn’t need to kill anyone to break free. But if our strengths were evenly matched, then yes, it’d come down to life or death." He answered candidly.

"But they’re still your enemies."

"I can’t kill them all," Karglis shrugged dismissively. "Besides, if I killed someone and got caught, I’d be the one to suffer—just like now."

"Not without foresight," Brandon mused, finding the youth intriguing. "Alright, do you still want to know who I am?"

"Didn’t I just ask?"

"And what should you call me?" Brandon turned to the soldiers, who promptly stepped back, bowing deeply with a hand over their chests.

"My lord—"

"My lord."

Brandon turned back to see the young man staring at him in utter disbelief, mouth agape wide enough to swallow an egg. "Y-you’re..."

Brandon nodded, suppressing a smirk while maintaining a neutral expression.

"Yes, I’m the one you wanted to see."

...

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