Chapter 56
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 56
Chapter Title: Bran River (5)
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“The mountains shake, heiyat! The fields shake, heiyat! The maiden's skirt hem shakes, heiyat!”
Splash!
With the boatman's song ringing out, the Glorista surged forward, sails billowing taut as it cleaved through the blue river waters.
The parted currents had rejoined, widening the river once more to over a hundred meters.
Yet they moved so swiftly that even distant scenery whipped by in moments, the speed palpable in every passing vista.
“Wow! It's really fast. Feels even quicker today.”
Ruben exclaimed with delight, watching a mountain that had loomed ahead just moments ago now fading rapidly behind them.
“Sure is. Who would've thought it'd be this fast?”
Even Lindelmann, who had some experience on boats, couldn't hide his awe at the phenomenal pace.
“Any idea where we are now?”
With Captain Rodi busy urging and directing his crew, Blake turned to Lindelmann.
Lindelmann squinted like a flounder, scanning the surroundings.
“Let's see... We passed Loraine this morning, so probably around Hunt Castle...”
They'd maintained this clip since breakfast, barring mealtimes, so it seemed a safe bet.
“How far to the capital?”
“Er, well...”
“We passed Hunt Castle ages ago. You'll see the Great Statue of the Goddess before sunset.”
Captain Rodi climbed up to the deck as he spoke.
He was drenched in sweat from rowing alongside the oarsmen.
“Already? Ha! Seven days to the capital... Unreal.”
Lindelmann muttered in disbelief.
A journey that typically took over ten days, covered in just seven—it was astonishing.
“Might've been tougher with heavy cargo or horses, but three people? Easy. Plus, the mage guest gave us a huge boost.”
“Oh, it was nothing.”
Ruben tugged his hat brim bashfully.
“No, truly invaluable. Without shaking those water bandits, we'd have arrived at midnight. All thanks to you, mage guest.”
“You bet!”
“Of course! Glory to the radiant mage!”
The deckhands chorused in agreement, leaving Ruben's face flushed crimson.
The crew recalled the chaos at dawn the previous day on the Appel.
As they prepped to depart in the misty morning, three bandit boats had appeared, sparking pandemonium.
Water bandits rarely hit ordinary vessels like merchants; they took coin or valuables and let folks go.
But Glorista was different.
A woman was aboard.
A stunning beauty, no less.
These degenerates obsessed over women, and a noble lady? They'd never settle for mere ransom—they'd grab her first and haggle later.
Fight or flee: no wind at dawn, fog thick as pea soup, escape impossible. So they readied for battle.
Then, a searing beam lanced from Glorista's prow, changing everything.
Ruben's flash spell, as before—but this time fueled by five silver coins' worth of mana.
It lit the bow for ages, its heat scattering the fog entirely, potency unmatched.
They dodged reed-choked shallows at full speed.
Blake hurled three spare oars with monstrous strength, sinking one pursuer outright.
Enraged, the remaining two doggedly gave chase.
As battle loomed again, Ruben—recovering from the spell's backlash—rose and unleashed anew.
Not flash this time: wind.
A sharp gray whirlwind spawned astern, shoving the sails taut in reverse thrust.
Glorista outpaced them handily; within a tea-break's time, the bandits vanished from sight.
Rowing nonstop till noon, they escaped Appel's waters into safety—and pandemonium erupted.
Having witnessed Ruben levitate the drowned Annrose from the depths, the once-wary crew—overcome by awe—showered him with titles like “Radiant Sage” and “Gale Mage,” turning his cheeks beet red.
Captain Rodi was no different.
A veteran of Bran River's ups and downs, he'd seen it all—yet never light parting fog or whirlwinds propelling sails.
And escaping bandits unscathed? To him, Ruben and his magic were lifesavers.
“Bet rumors of the burly knight and mage are blanketing the midlands by now.”
“Huh? Why's that?”
“Word's out down south about mages popping up now and then, but seeing one cast? Rare as hen's teeth. Me included, no one on this boat ever had before.”
“Exactly!”
“Lifelong brag! And that burly knight flattening Grime swordsmen!”
“That too? Seeing those bandits dunked felt so good!”
The crew buzzed with excitement.
“Heh... Attention isn't always a blessing...”
“Y-Yes?”
Lindelmann muttered, eyeing Blake warily—Ruben's eyes widened round.
No mention of himself stung a bit, but Lindelmann knew Blake loathed the spotlight, thanks to past scrapes.
'Ruben Valahan, time you got chewed out by the man too.'
Not jealousy—just preemptive mercy.
“...”
But defying Lindelmann's hopes(?), Blake merely glanced at Ruben, saying nothing.
'What? He roasts me but spares him?!'
Feeling unjustly singled out, Lindelmann ventured carefully.
“Blake, Ruby here's making you infamous midlands-wide... You okay with that?”
“Doesn't matter anymore.”
“Huh? What do you mean? You reamed me for less...”
“Harbor commander got the letter and my story openly anyway. It'll spread. One mage tale more or less changes nothing.”
“Er... Fair point.”
Lindelmann looked awkward, embarrassed.
Makes sense: tales of Henrik's prince, the tactical knight? Unstoppable gossip.
“So going forward...”
Lindelmann trailed off; Blake didn't answer. But it was obvious.
Handling Grime or Red Wind types gunning for the letter.
“...”
Blake pondered Elberra Harbor.
Grime lot: pathetically weak.
Utterly lax before mortal combat, spouting pointless courtesies.
He'd exploited it to escape unscathed—but still baffled him.
Commander had warned: no Northern Great Mountains-style wars out there.
Evident traversing the north.
World at peace; northern knights and mercs decent enough, but clueless on real fights. Baffling how they ate.
Iron Knights under Rockfield seemed strong—that was it.
Assumed midlands similar.
Bluefin Knights with Rodric Swent warranted caution.
But midlands differed from north.
Only faced Grime Swordsmen and Red Wind Knights, but not skill issue.
Something fundamental...
'Attitude toward battle... and momentum...'
Chattering endlessly before foes? Incomprehensible.
Combat has clear purpose.
Efficiency demands swift strikes on openings—guerrilla basics.
Grime and Red Wind ignored it.
Announcing presence, spelling out intent? Idiocy.
They flaunted gaps; had to exploit.
Retreating after a few broken legs? Laughable.
Momentum crumbles armies; yield once, you're done.
Fleeing mid-battle, legs snapped, in plain view?
Admits defeat.
Blake had never seen such foes.
Not till leaving Northern Great Mountains.
“Zaroph, one question.”
“Shoot.”
Lindelmann, eyeing Blake worriedly, nodded briskly.
“Midlands-wise, Grime and Red Wind—mid-tier?”
“Above mid, yeah. Not elite houses or top squads, but top fingers in Elberra? No joke.”
“Upper-mid... Another: why the pointless pre-fight nonsense from Grime?”
“Eh? Pointless? What do you mean?”
Lindelmann tilted his head.
Blake replied coolly.
“Unneeded chit-chat, introductions, courtesies. Even warning of attack.”
“Uh, well...”
Lindelmann floundered, flustered.
He'd always seen it as normal.
“Ah, right! It's custom—respect, chivalry. True knights...”
“Respect? Courtesy? Would Grime senior show it capturing us? Invite to his manse, dine us, politely request the letter?”
“Th-That...”
Lindelmann faltered.
No chance.
Maybe kin like him spared; Blake? Not likely.
Even if admin demanded custody later: “Tried to flee custody, regrettable force used.” Done.
“Probably... not.”
Lindelmann admitted plainly.
Blake stared silently, then spoke coldly.
“Then chivalry's just hollow hypocrisy.”
“Ah!”
Lindelmann's eyes widened.
(To be continued)