volume 3 - Chapter 220 (1/2)

– The sword that resists fate (1)

Murderous cries flooded the environment.

The black stream of arrows shot across the sky and covered the sun with countless undead marching over the scarlet earth. The noises that were transmitted behind Freya’s back could not be discerned clearly. Was it despair, pain, or furious roars?

The young girl wanted to look behind her, but she could not move at all.

An undead knight covered with burning white flames sitting on a skeletal horse rode up to her, and it stared down at her from above the mount with its flaming eyes. This was a dream that she had to experience every night.

But the dream was so realistic to her that she could not utter a sound because of her tension. She merely stared back with wide opened eyes.

“You should not have wakened up. The fate for Valhalla’s descendant is too heavy,” The knight spoke in a hoa.r.s.e tone, “do not sacrifice yourself for an unrealistic belief.”

The knight raised his longsword: “Back off, or there would not be any road left for you to retreat!” The voice was like a strict warning, and it thrust its hand forward, plunging the cold blade into her heart.

“Ahh—” Freya screamed in fright and sat up from her bed in cold perspiration. She panted lightly and could not help but clutch her chest. She did not know when this nightmare started happening, and whether it was some kind of omen or that it was the stress from her recent training that caused it.

She could hear her heart pounding, but the hasty footsteps from the outside corridor quickly drowned out this noise. The dim candlelight in her room gradually brought her back to reality. The footsteps probably belonged to the knights that brought back information—

Ever since the war broke out in the south, the number of people bringing back reports had increased several times. Factions of all sizes had been attracted by this sudden battle, even forgetting their own civil wars that were on the brink of happening.

The south of Ampere Seale was only accessible after the snow had melted, and Count Randner’s civil battle was something of an ‘appetizer’, as described by Oberbeck.

It was quite the insult to be described in that manner, but the other n.o.bles did not mind that description, and merely laughed merrily to see how many fangs the old tiger still had remaining. Of course, the majority was questioning how many fangs were remaining, and not the idea that he had no fangs left.

Only a few people in the Royal Knight Academy believed that Brendel could win, and Freya anxiously waited for news of the frontlines every day.

The messenger pa.s.sed through the long corridor and went into the dormitory’s back courtyard. All news regarding the civil war would be first delivered to Princess Gryphine.

The half-elven princess studied the few lines on the parchment coldly, then placed it down—

Lord Palas’s army had engaged the rebels.

There was no substantial progress in this summary.

[Things will be settled in a day or two.]

“Copy the contents of this letter and send it to the other lords.”

“Should I gather the lords to come here?”

“There’s no need to do so, but there will be a compet.i.tion this month and a hunting festival to celebrate the end of winter. Help me prepare for these two events as I want to oversee both of them.”

The messenger bowed and left the room.

‘The cunning fox’, Makarov, looked at the report and shook his head with a slight smile. He then started placing the report down on a bunch of doc.u.ments that were stacked high on the table, but he thought for a moment and stopped in the middle of his action, then took the report and left his room.

He went over to Count Barre’s quarters with the report in his hand, but he was intercepted by the latter’s servants and got informed that his good friend had gone to the tournament grounds. It was only then that he recalled there was such a compet.i.tion, and he hurriedly rented a horse cart to travel to the tournament grounds that was several miles away.

The Winter Games was a particular tournament that had a long history in southern Aouine. The tournament’s events included horsemans.h.i.+p, swordsmans.h.i.+p, and jousting. It was primarily a chance for the knights in various regions to gain glory, and it was a pa.s.sionate activity for the youths. The public could also satisfy their thirst for finding heroes.

This tournament hosted by the Royal Knights Academy had a stronger meaning, and the knights-in-training sought to prove they were the best knights of their batch, vying pa.s.sionately for the crown that was weaved with evergreen leaves.

Preparations for the Winter Games started before daybreak, and it was already crowded when dawn broke. However, Makarov was indeed Count Barre’s good friend and knew him well. He did not take long before he managed to find the latter in the crowd.

Count Barre paid great attention to his attire. He wore a purple robe lined with silver seams with three silver leaves emblazoned onto his cuffs to represent his ident.i.ty. He did not wear a hat, and his hand was holding onto a goblet, standing on the highest position of a hastily made wooden stage and receiving the cold wind there.

Barre raised his goblet when he spotted his good friend walking over to him with a smile: “Tordor’s wine with a vintage that’s five to seven years. I know you dislike it.”

“Actually, I dislike drinking wine, not the wine itself.” Makarov’s exasperated reply came.

“I know, alcohol affects one’s judgment, but I’m not making one anyways.”

“You received the news about Trentheim?” Makarov did not want to waste time on that frivolous matter.

“You’re talking about the joke to see how many fangs that old dog still have left?” Barre said in a pleasantly light tone.