156. Tyrant's Blade (2)
Tula was staying in the priciest inn room in the city, courtesy of Sermes's thoughtfulness. For her—who'd endured a hellish ordeal crammed in a rattling carriage, shackled like a criminal—this setup was pure bliss. She'd scraped through by the skin of her teeth, but worry clouded her face. Unlike her, safe thanks to these kind humans, her daughter was still locked in that cramped cart, being hauled off somewhere.
“Any... news yet?”
“I'm sorry. But they're definitely passing through this city. The knights have every checkpoint locked down tight. We'll get her for sure.”
Sermes gave Tula's anxious question an upbeat reply, only to freeze for a second, captivated by the elf woman's troubled beauty. Damn, elves really are the epitome of grace. Even steeped in sorrow, she looked stunning. He cleared his throat, inwardly kicking himself for getting suckered by her looks. That's exactly why those slave hunters nabbed her. Falling for it makes me no better.
“Um...”
“Yes, go ahead.”
“Why are you helping me? No, forget it—sorry. I shouldn't question my rescuers like that...”
“Not at all, madam. Distrusting humans after what you've been through? Perfectly understandable.”
Sermes responded evenly, then continued. “There's a law banning the enslavement of any non-humans, elves included. As a knight of Valua Kingdom, it's my duty to uphold it. That's why I freed you.”
Enforcing the law to deliver justice. He wanted Tula to know—and himself too—that no personal desires muddied his motives. A self-check to keep emotions from tainting his duty, his ironclad sense of righteousness untarnished.
“Sorry I doubted you before.”
“No harm done.”
“Then... could I ask one more thing?”
“Of course.”
Sensing Sermes was solid, Tula explained her tribe's signaling methods: spirits, mana pulses, even scents from their bodies. Sermes nodded. Smart play—instead of twiddling thumbs waiting for the rear convoy, this could turn the tide. He pledged full cooperation.
“Thank you, sir knight.”
Tula extended her hand, summoning her spirits. Dozens swirled around her like living jewels. Sermes gawked at the gray-haired elf, awestruck by her race's ancient magic.
Maning a checkpoint with the house knights, Berban griped, picturing his brother schmoozing with some sultry, classy elf stunner. Elf milf with a kid? Jackpot. Married wasn't a downside—it was a massive bonus.
“Argh, this ain't right... Big bro Sermes is such a stiff. He'd go toe-to-toe with Dad in a stubbornness showdown and make it a dead heat.”
Even with that ripe elf charm dangling in front of him, bro'd play it like a stone statue. Berban knew it without peeking—eldest was boredom incarnate, marrow-deep.
“Hm?”
Mid-rant on his zero-fun brother, Berban's instincts screamed. He snapped his head up, face hardening. Something incoming—fast, unreal fast. Danger pinged hard; he yanked his sword and unleashed a blistering draw-cut at the blur charging him.
Rocksfield Sword Form: Black Trajectory. Inky sword qi lashed out, like night sky ink splattered across the void.
“You blocked my hello? Impressive.”
The man materialized in a whirlwind, grinning wolfishly at Berban. Just a casual opener. Berban played off the throbbing in his hands.
“Not big on spousal chit-chat.”
“Ditto.”
Both easygoing types, they traded quips even with steel kissing air. The intruder oozed real calm; Berban faked it, choking down the terror locking his limbs.
“Business? 'Cause rude drive-bys without cause? Gonna make me bawl.”
Berban shot back. The man slashed wide, flicking eyes to the elf woman he'd chucked aside. Berban followed—and spotted her spitting image, the elf they'd busted from the hunters. Sisters, not mother-daughter. Her timeless face hit him: elves didn't age like mortals.
“...Slave hunter? Nah, you're way too good. Elf-slaving? Just storm Liberia Elf Kingdom—you got the chops.”
Misreading him as hunter muscle, Berban figured. Druin chuckled, sheathing his twin blades to talk it out, suss the scene.
“Real hunters wouldn't cut an elf loose like that.”
“Huh...”
Not hunters. Berban backpedaled.
“We pulled an elf from those scum in town. She's holed up close by.”
“You rescued my mother?!”
Norien exploded. Mom's alive! She'd clocked her mother's spirit overhead and bolted here. Mom was in this city, no doubt. Trembling with joy at the news.
“Mom or sis, whatever—she was her clone.”
“Definitely Mom!”
Berban blinked at the bouncing elf's glee. Brain-melter. He ping-ponged stares between her and Druin to piece it together.
“We were gearing up to ambush those hunters, actually...”
Berban mumbled. No need for the hassle if he'd known the rear-carriage elf was golden. Looked like a clean wrap. Relief whooshed out. Best part: no direct beef with Princess Katrin.
“Trail me. Reunion time.”
He told Norien. Berban pegged Druin as a 'shadow powerhouse aiding the elf.' Mom had warned: world's full of hidden badasses. Don't strut just 'cause you're hot stuff.
“Never figured the kingdom still had knights true to their oaths.”
Druin sneered. Berban fired back: “We've got one so straight-edge he shocks everyone.”
Tula and Norien—torn apart by those bastard hunters—reunited after a wild ride. Tearjerker central. Mother and daughter clung tight, sobbing joy, enough to misty anyone's eyes.
“Thank God, Nor... You're safe.”
“M-Mom... Mother... Mom!”
Berban, escorting the checkpoint duo, grinned at the heartwarmer. But Sermes? The one who'd cheer loudest? Face like stone, eyes thorny with suspicion. Hostility crackled. He ripped his sword free and lunged at Druin behind Berban—zero warning.
“Tyrant's Blade.”
“Didn't peg anyone for spotting me.”
Sudden opener? Druin parried casual with twins drawn. Flash-blur clash. Blades rebounded; they squared for round two.
“Tyrant's dog—death-marked by the Holy Alliance's sixty-six principalities and every joined nation—daring to slink into Valua...!”
Filth. Pure loathing dripped from Sermes's mutter. God-touched outsider selling out to Demon Kings for kicks. Trash. To a justice-chivalry zealot like Sermes, Druin was antithesis incarnate. Water and oil—no mix.
“Trash-talking? I did a solid for once. Don't harsh my vibe?”
“Holy power or not, Demon King lapdog? You're scum, too vile to name.”
“Hah! Real headcase.”
Tried the nice route. Druin tsked: This prig's the stiff. Shame. Play dumb, grab his payout, bounce. But nah—continent-wide infamy kept snagging him.
“Was gonna snag my reward and split.”
Druin blinked. Eyes reopened: stigmata blazed in his irises. Another One mark, crystal. Berban yelped, shocked—the guy he brought?
“Justice-spewing, oath-mongering self-righteous hack.”
“Shut it, psycho.”
“Ha!”
Norien—saved by one, mom by the other—jumped in to broker peace. Berban snagged her arm. Else? She'd eat steel from one blade or the other.
“By House Rocksfield's honor, I purge the Alliance's foe—Another One disgrace.”
Sermes's blade belched black qi; his body shifted. Like Druin's eyes, wrist tattoos flickered to life—faint, real. Druin grinned, hooked.
“Local-born wielding Another One juice... Bloodline's got one, huh? Figures—everyone's frantic sans breeding rights.”
Another One divinity passes genetic. Fact. Rulers wedded them or kin to hook heirs up divine. Druin clocked it: this guy's inherited power. No shock—seen it before.
But originals smoke copies. Mass-print Another Ones? Six Kings'd be museum pieces ages ago.
Muttering, Druin smacked Sermes's swing and dove into the real knife party.