Chapter 31
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 31
Chapter Title: Silverlake (1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
‘What should I do……?’
Lindelmann agonized over it.
Now that he had won the duel, there was hardly any danger left.
All he had to do was stay a few more days with the White Family and then set off for the capital.
‘But…….’
Recalling the venomous glare the Lancaster Baron had thrown at him as he departed some time ago, his face grew even more uneasy.
‘That was the look of someone who would never give up. He’s definitely going to come after me. So, rather than going alone…….’
“Sir Zaroph, why the long face?”
“Eek!”
Lindelmann jumped in surprise at Christine’s voice.
“Well……”
He stealthily turned his head and stole a glance at Christine’s pretty face, like a stray cat.
Even with her face flushed red from crying, she was adorable and beautiful.
But…….
His life was more important.
“Oh my! Sir Zaroph, really! Staring like that makes me so embarrassed. Hee hee!”
Mistaking Lindelmann’s desperate, life-clinging gaze for affection toward her, Christine covered her cheeks with both hands, flustered.
But…….
“S-Sorry, Christine!”
“Pardon?”
At the sudden shout, Christine tilted her head and turned her gaze.
Her eyes widened in an instant.
Lindelmann had leaped onto his horse and was frantically galloping away.
“S-Sir Zaroph, where are you going? Sir Zaroph!”
“Sorry, Christine! My feelings for you were true! But I have a greater dream! No matter what, I must…… Anyway, I have to become an imperial knight! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Christine!”
Omitting “survive safely,” Lindelmann whipped his horse into a frenzy and fled.
“Sir Zaroph! Sir Zaro-o-oph! Lindelma-a-an……! You jerk!”
The maiden’s voice, betrayed in her pure heart(?), echoed endlessly.
Screeech!
The tall, massive stone gate swung open.
A knight entered the vast audience chamber, supported by enormous pillars intricately carved with dynamic figures of ancient warriors standing in rows.
He strode past dozens of guards armed with halberds gleaming sharply, until he reached the dais and dropped to one knee.
Thud thud thud!
“Report from Captain Rockfield, Your Excellency!”
The knight lightly struck the floor three times with his fist and slightly raised his head toward the dais.
At the very top of the dais sat a pedestal of imposingly simple form, and someone occupied it.
“Speak.”
A curt reply flowed from the pedestal’s owner.
“Yes. The Lancaster Baron received Your Excellency’s intent and has returned to his estate.”
“Tell Captain Rockfield to handle the aftermath himself. Anything else?”
The pedestal owner’s tone was remarkably courteous and dignified for addressing a subordinate.
“In the honor duel with Lancaster, the White Family emerged victorious. Their hired proxy knight recorded the win, and he is believed to be an envoy from Northernrocks Fortress.”
“……”
No response came from the dais.
Moments later, a rustling sound of robes dragging briefly echoed, and a long shadow fell over the knight.
“Raise your head and tell me more about this envoy.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
The knight slowly lifted his head.
Before him stood a man in his early forties, wearing a golden crown embedded with a large red ruby, his ornate purple robe embroidered with gold thread draped down the steps.
He was the North’s lord, John Francis Iron Earl, head of the Iron Earl family.
“The envoy is a common soldier from Northernrocks Fortress, carrying a personal letter from Prince Henrik. His destination is uncertain but presumed to be the capital Alteria. Given that he’s heading toward Silverlake, we anticipate entry via White Node Gate.”
“Hmm.”
Iron Earl stroked his neatly trimmed brown beard, slightly bowing his head in thought.
After a brief pause, he looked up.
“Do the Blue Hawk knights who came here know of this?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“I see. Then where are they now? Still with Lancaster, perhaps?”
“No. Despite their wounded, they did not stay at the Lancaster Baron’s estate, suggesting a falling out.”
“Wounded? What happened there?”
“In a duel with the presumed envoy of Prince Henrik, Craig Cadwell—Lordric Swent’s cousin’s younger brother—was defeated. No life-threatening injuries, but he’s bedridden for two or three months and receiving treatment at a monastery near Nolford.”
“Oh?”
A glint flickered in Iron Earl’s eyes, and he soon gazed fixedly at the ceiling.
The ceiling bore dynamic carvings of the Iron family’s past heads, crafted with all the skill of a master artisan, seeming ready to leap out at any moment.
Staring blankly at his ancestors, he slowly lowered his gaze.
“Track the envoy’s route and keep reporting. Also, spread word of the honor duel far and wide, ahead of his pace.”
“Yes!”
“Even if Lancaster puts a bounty on him, ignore it. Don’t interfere with whatever he does while passing through the North. Handle any troublesome aftermath discreetly on our side. But! Exaggerate his actions as much as possible. Make sure it spreads all the way to the central regions without fail.”
“Should we include that he’s an envoy carrying Prince Henrik’s personal letter?”
“Yes, that’s the most crucial part.”
“Understood, Your Excellency.”
“Good. Carry on.”
Thud thud thud!
“In the name of the White Steel!”
The knight struck the floor three times again, rose sharply, and turned with crisp precision.
“Ah, one more thing.”
As if something had just occurred to him, Iron Earl called out to the knight.
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
The knight, about to exit the chamber, turned back.
“What’s the envoy’s name?”
“Yes. Blake, they say.”
“Blake? Got it. You’re dismissed.”
“Yes!”
Thud!
As the knight departed, the stone gate closed again. Iron Earl returned to the dais, sat, and sank into quiet thought.
“Blake, is it? A useful hunting dog, or……”
His murmur dispersed into the audience chamber’s air, still bitterly cold despite early spring.
Screech!
Riding the fierce gale slicing across the spire, a hawk circled once in a dive and landed on someone’s forearm.
Luther extracted a small note from the tube tied to the hawk’s leg and politely handed it to the man beside him.
“……”
The middle-aged man—Northernrocks Fortress Commander and second in line to the Villand Empire throne, Prince Henrik—read the note in silence, a satisfied smile curling his lips.
“That Blake rascal is stirring up a storm. Word’s spread across all of Northway.”
“It needs to reach the central regions before he leaves the North. That way, by the time he enters the Balt Strait, it’ll reach Darlington’s ears too, right?”
Luther asked calmly, and Henrik grinned again, offering the note.
“Didn’t you hear? He didn’t just stir—it’s a frenzy. A duel broke out in Dunfries, and he thrashed one of the Blue Hawks. At this rate, the story’ll hit Darlington before he even reaches Alteria.”
“Ah!”
Luther flinched.
Watching the reaction with amusement, Henrik continued.
“Seems he’s surpassed the pawn’s role, eh? Knight toppled on the first move. So……”
“Yes.”
“We should send the next ones out sooner.”
“I agree.”
As Luther grinned, Henrik’s smile deepened.
“Making more noise than expected means drawing more eyes than expected. Add one more horse to the mix, and it’ll sow even greater chaos for them.”
Truly a knight of stratagems.
Luther bowed respectfully.
“Just as you say.”
“Good. Send those two out within days. By the time they reach Northway, Blake will have fully left the North. Perfect timing.”
“Yes!”
At Luther’s reply, Henrik turned back, eyes fixed on the gray plains’ distant edge.
Gazing at the plains tinged faintly blue, he spoke.
“Your next move might be the one that kills you, Blake. There’s only one path to survival: race to the end of the line and escape the pawn’s fate.”
His mutter about someone’s destiny rode the North’s gray winds down to the plains below.
“Scout Unit 1 Team Leader Rickbear and Team 2 Leader Damian Gino are hereby honorably discharged as imperial freemen, effective immediately.”
Finishing the order, Luther looked down at the two men kneeling before him, heads bowed.
‘Finally……!’
Overwhelming joy made their bodies tremble.
“However!”
They flinched at Luther’s word.
“Fail to deliver this letter to the designated recipient within 60 days, and the discharge is void, with appropriate punishment to follow.”
“What does ‘punishment’ mean?”
“Wanted as a Class 1 criminal. Death upon capture.”
“Gah!”
As their jaws dropped, Luther narrowed his eyes.
“What? Something wrong?”
“N-No, sir.”
They hastily bowed their heads.
“We’re letting you out nearly four months early. You know the whole scout unit heads into Black Spider Forest right after summer starts to build the advance base, right? This is the tradeoff. Perfectly fair.”
“……”
Rickbear and Damian fell silent at the ruthlessly cold words.
Black Spider Forest was the most perilous area inside the Gray Mountains.
Even for elite scouts, survival rates barely topped fifty percent—a place they, in their final term, desperately wanted to avoid.
Especially this year, without their captain who had always been key to their returns.
‘Go in there, and we’re screwed?’
‘You call that speaking, idiot!’
Exchanging glances with heads bowed, sweat poured down their backs.
Luther continued.
“You’ll each get a hundred silver coins on departure. Deliver the letter safely, and the recipient adds another hundred. Plus a certificate as imperial freemen. Any questions?”
“……”
They swallowed dryly, saying nothing.
‘Stupid bastard! Ditch it midway—what’re you gonna do? Heh heh! Fake IDs are easy with cash. Ha ha ha!’
‘Don’t show it, idiot! You know what Luther’s like!’
They conversed with subtle glances.
Then Luther’s calm voice struck their ears.
“Oh, right. That wine you drank when you came in? I added Berlman’s Tears.”
“Gasp!”
Unlike the oblivious Rickbear, Damian—who knew Berlman’s Tears well—jerked his head up, gasping.
Staring into his saucer-wide eyes, Luther gave a cold smile.
“Ho, you know it, so no need to explain. The antidote comes from the recipient upon delivery. They brewed it, after all.”
“Ugh!”
Damian bit his lip until it bled, then bowed his head again.
Berlman’s Tears.
A horrific poison: without antidote within the time limit, the gut heated until the organs rotted.
Few knew the recipe, but the issue was that both poison and antidote required human blood—usually the brewer’s own.
Thus, even if you got an antidote, it was useless unless from the original brewer.
“No symptoms for 60 days. But they start after three, and without antidote in ten, you die for sure. Questions now?”
Luther asked flatly, expression unchanged.
‘What’s he saying?’
‘Fuck!’
Rickbear still clueless, shooting glances, but Damian just ground his teeth silently.
“Assuming none, we’re done. Depart when ready.”
Luther turned sharply.
“Ah, Sir Isaac!”
Damian urgently called out.
Luther turned back with a icy face as Damian forced a smile.
“You haven’t said the destination or recipient.”
“Right. The letter I gave you……”
With a nonchalant look, Luther repeated verbatim what he’d told Blake days before.
“……is for Soria in the south, His Excellency the Commander’s territory. Deliver it directly to his daughter, Duchess Milena Alexandria Jin Villand. It bears His Excellency Henrik’s seal, so explain, and she’ll guide you.”
“……!”
Their eyes widened like saucers.
(To be continued next time)