Chapter 93: Character Decides Everything

  In the Duke's mansion, the Duke was listening to a report from his spy planted in the Magic Academy.

  His eldest daughter had just been promoted to Assistant Finance Minister, and his younger daughter was soon to become the Imperial Consort. Now, whether in terms of influence or power, he was unparalleled in the Empire. Yet the Duke wore a grave expression as he listened to the spy's report. In stark contrast to his recent meteoric rise, his current mood was one of walking on thin ice. This was because he had received a letter a few days ago.

  Strictly speaking, he hadn’t received it—he’d found it. The sender was Bishop Ronis, and the addressee was Sedros, Lord of Oufu City. Through a stroke of coincidence, the Duke’s spy at the Magic Academy had been tasked with delivering the letter and naturally brought it to the Duke first. When the Duke opened it, even his self-control and composure couldn’t prevent him from turning pale with shock.

  In the letter, Bishop Ronis stated that the Duke had achieved victory in the Empire’s political struggles, but the man’s ambition was too great, and seizing the throne was only a matter of time. If such a person truly ascended to the throne, he would pose a threat to every neighboring nation. Therefore, it was best to deal with him now while he was just beginning his rise. The bishop requested that Sedros bring all past correspondence between him and the Duke, along with any evidence of their collaboration, to the capital.

  The Duke’s friendship with Sedros had begun only six or seven years ago. He knew little about the great scholar’s past and never imagined he was an old acquaintance of Bishop Ronis. Judging by the letter, Ronis had likely known all along about the Duke’s secret assistance in establishing Oufu, yet had shown no reaction. The depth of the bishop’s scheming left the Duke in awe. Now, Ronis was striking first with a nearly fatal blow.

  Though Sedros was his friend, the Duke knew that as men of great ambition, no friendship could withstand the test of conflicting interests. Sedros understood the Duke’s nature too well, and he knew the words in the letter were no exaggeration.

  If this letter reached its destination, the consequences would be unthinkable. He now had to focus all his energy on countering this threat.

  But Bishop Ronis held a high position and immense authority. Crucially, his reputation and status rendered ordinary methods useless. In this situation, even the usually prudent Duke had to take a desperate gamble. He deployed a network of spies around the Magic Academy, closely monitoring Bishop Ronis and anyone associated with him, waiting for an opportunity.

  Emerging from the capital’s teleportation array, Ethan didn’t pause for a moment. After learning that Clovis’s unit hadn’t yet returned, he immediately left the city.

  After three or four days of travel toward Aery, Ethan finally spotted Rodhart and Clovis’s prisoner convoy at a relay station one evening. He didn’t reveal himself rashly but instead sought out Rodhart discreetly.

  Rodhart, reading by lamplight, was overjoyed to see him. "You couldn’t have come at a better time. Have you resolved the situation in Aery? I’ve received no news of pursuit forces and was growing anxious. I never expected you to catch up alone."

  "How are things here? Has your senior made any more moves against your villagers?"

  Rodhart shook his head. "He already has us under his thumb, so there’s no need for further coercion. Along the way, I’ve done nothing unusual except subtly slow the convoy’s pace. I want him to think I’m utterly at his mercy, so he’s let his guard down considerably."

  Ethan asked, "Have you discussed this with your villagers?"

  Rodhart paused, then shook his head. "Impossible. No matter how relaxed he is, he’d never give me that chance. Besides, how could I let other soldiers see me talking to prisoners who framed me?"

  "Then why did you ask me to catch up? What’s your plan?"

  Rodhart lowered his already quiet voice further. "Neither the officials in Aery nor the soldiers here know the full details. They only know we’re taking prisoners back to the capital for trial. So if I—not Clovis—lead the convoy back to the capital, I have a way to resolve this perfectly." He patted Ethan’s hand. "Whatever reason or method you use, just lure my senior away from the convoy and detain him for a while—at least half a day, longer if possible. That will give me time to lead the convoy away."

  "It’s that simple?" Ethan frowned.

  "By no means. Luring Clovis away is the critical challenge. He’s meticulous and sharp-minded. Since he’s guarding against us, he won’t fall for our trap easily. I still haven’t found an opening."

  Ethan frowned thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded with a smile. "Fine. Tomorrow morning, I’ll make him leave the convoy."

  Rodhart looked startled. "You have a way?"

  "Rest assured. What you find difficult may not be impossible for me."

  "Then it’s best to lure him away around noon, after the convoy has left the relay station. That way, I’ll have a reason to keep the convoy moving."

  "Agreed." Ethan suddenly remembered something and said to Rodhart, "Since Clovis is only guarding against you, go distract him now. I’ll check on the prisoners."

  After a moment’s hesitation, Rodhart nodded. "Alright."

  Soon, with Rodhart’s help, Ethan slipped into the stable where the prisoners were held. He easily knocked out the guards, unconcerned they’d report to Clovis the next day. As long as the prisoners didn’t escape, no one would voluntarily report a strange incident to a cruel and volatile officer.

  Rodhart’s villagers were thrilled to see Ethan. To Ethan’s surprise, though they hadn’t spoken with Rodhart, they seemed to have pieced together the truth. The hunter Levin was still alive and had recounted the events to the others. Through discussions and conversations with the guards, they’d pieced together a general picture. Now, with Ethan’s confirmation, they understood everything.

  "We’ve already agreed—once we reach the capital, we’ll never betray either of you," said Levin, the hunter. His eyes were gone, and his body was immobile, but he could still speak and hear. He remained their leader. "You two saved our lives. How could we betray you? We’re glad Little Rod has achieved such status. If we fall into the hands of those corrupt officials, we’ll die anyway. We’d rather take our own lives than implicate him. Only the children… pity the children…"

  Ethan glanced at the group of children nearby—some under ten, others barely able to speak.

  "They’re young and don’t understand. They might reveal things. If necessary, we’ll…" Levin’s voice choked. His eyes were now empty sockets, but beside him, a mother’s tears streamed down her face.

  "No," Ethan said firmly. "I came to tell you we will rescue you. At noon tomorrow, Rodhart will lead the convoy forward. Once we reach the capital, he’ll find a way to save you."

  Ethan didn’t know Rodhart’s plan, but if he’d said it, he’d see it through. He smiled at the children, patted their heads, and whispered, "Just wait. Trust us."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The next day at noon, Ethan appeared before the convoy as planned.

  Clovis was surprised to see Ethan alone. Rodhart, of course, feigned astonishment.

  "You move quickly, Your Grace," Clovis said, eyeing Ethan slowly. "To trouble yourself with concern for us, chasing after us like this. But tell me—have the heretics in Aery been dealt with? That was a task entrusted to you by His Majesty the Emperor and His Grace the Bishop…"

  "Settled long ago," Ethan retorted, meeting his gaze. His smile was laced with mockery and confidence. "I even spent a few days enjoying the capital. Want to know what I did there?"

  "Your Grace is certainly in high spirits," Clovis said, narrowing his eyes as he scanned Ethan. He was certain he held the upper hand. He couldn’t fathom why this piece of trash wore such an expression—one that ought to be hacked to pieces. "Pray tell, what did Your Grace do in the capital?"

  "I was with your wife," Ethan replied. "You know we’ve always been close. We had a wonderful time together."

  Clovis’s expression froze.

  The words were loud enough for most in the convoy to hear clearly. Murmurs rippled through the ranks. Several of Clovis’s attendants from the capital were present.

  Ethan felt a inexplicable pang in his chest. Though his intent was to provoke Clovis and humiliate him, the words "your wife" leaving his lips felt like a knife twisting in his heart.

  "You know?" Ethan’s voice rose. "She despises you. If not for your family’s damned name, do you think you’d deserve her? In her eyes, you’re not even fit to lick my boots."

  "If you feel insulted, if you refuse to accept this—I’ve chosen a place for us to settle this privately." Ethan pointed at Clovis. "Do you dare?"

  Rodhart stared, dumbfounded. He’d never imagined Ethan would resort to this. This was no longer strategy—it was a fight to the death.

  Veins throbbed violently on Clovis’s forehead, nearly bursting through his skin. His golden hair stirred without wind. The soldiers who’d been watching him now averted their eyes, none daring to meet his gaze. But just as his fury seemed about to shatter his face, he suddenly threw his head back and laughed—a wild, unhinged sound.

  Then the laughter ceased as abruptly as it began. He nodded. "Very well. I accept your challenge. I’ll go with you."

  Clovis turned to Rodhart. "Lord Rodhart, as you wish, the convoy is yours. Lead them onward." A savage smile spread across his face. "You’d best hurry. Don’t waste His Grace’s kind intentions."

  Rodhart met his gaze coldly, nodded, glanced at Ethan, and sighed. "Very well."

  Clovis followed Ethan away from the convoy. Under Rodhart’s lead, the convoy continued forward, soon vanishing from sight.

  Now alone, the two walked in silence in the opposite direction.

  After some time, they reached the edge of a meadow bordering a small wood. Clovis stopped. "Here will do. No need to go farther. You’ve achieved your purpose."

  Ethan turned and saw Clovis smiling—a rare expression for him, one he’d worn since leaving the convoy. Ethan frowned. "You seem pleased."

  "Of course," Clovis said, still smiling like a ravenous beast howling for blood. His eyes were sharp as poisoned needles. "I can finally kill you legitimately. I couldn’t care less about Rodhart. Let him do as he pleases. The Duke wants those prisoners to force you two into compliance and restrain Bishop Ronis. That may be the greatest political gain, but for me, nothing compares to the thrill of killing you. I’ve had chances before, but fate let you slip away. Now you’ve delivered yourself to me. Killing you is justified."

  "I won’t forget how happy I am today," Clovis said, his hand resting on his sword hilt. "I know you’re buying time for that boy. Rest assured—as a reward for delivering yourself, I’ll grant your wish. I’ll spend the entire day here, killing you slowly. It will be exquisite. You won’t forget it, even in hell."

  "Haha…" Ethan laughed too. "You talk as if you actually have a chance."

  But his laughter died the instant Clovis drew his sword.

  Though Rodhart had always spoken highly of Clovis, Ethan had been dismissive. He believed a person’s abilities were reflected in their character. Broad-mindedness and magnanimity were often signs of exceptional skill—like General Gru or Sandro. But Clovis? A petty, scheming villain—how skilled could he be?

  Perhaps there was some truth to his judgment, but he’d forgotten something crucial: Clovis was the disciple of Roland, First Swordsman of the Empire and commander of the Paladin Order—a position Clovis himself was set to inherit. That role wasn’t won through family status or scheming.

  So when Clovis’s hand moved, Ethan realized his mistake—a grave one.

  What Clovis drew wasn’t a sword, but a river. A river of blinding light, as if descending from the heavens, channeling a century of majestic power into an unstoppable torrent that would drown, engulf, and shred everything before it into nothingness.

  He’d seen swordplay like this once before—a night in the capital, thrust from behind. He’d thought it was Duke Mrak.

  But he’d been wrong. The Duke, with his depth and cunning, would never dirty his own hands. If Ethan had realized that then, he wouldn’t have provoked Clovis so rashly. At least he’d have brought a weapon. Now, he was empty-handed.

  Back then, Clovis had wielded a crude, makeshift sword. Now, he held a blade perfectly suited to unleash this strike’s full power.

  But that wasn’t the most critical factor. The deadliest element was Ethan’s own complacency—more fatal than being unarmed or caught off-guard. His lack of vigilance and fighting spirit had placed him at an absolute disadvantage. Retreat was his only option.

  The swordlight before him was no longer a river but a roaring tsunami. He had no time to turn, only to retreat—again and again.

  Some people are mediocre in all but one field, where they possess unparalleled genius. Clovis was such a man. He was petty, scheming, hardly exceptional, perhaps not even a good person—but he was a genius swordsman. The moment a sword was in his hand, the talents, vitality, and soul he couldn’t express elsewhere blazed forth brilliantly.

  As a master swordsman, once the moment was struck, the first blow had to be fatal. Trading blows, wounding but not killing—those were the tactics of second-rate swordsmen. Clovis’s first strike was a killing blow, one that decided victory or death.

  Ethan retreated further. The swordplay that could destroy all before it was now a mere foot from him. The moment his steps stopped, it would devour and shred him.

  He backed into the woods. The tsunami of sword energy followed. Trees around and behind him shattered and splintered. His body seemed enveloped in an invisible, terrifying reaper, yet the trees were as fragile as foam, breaking, scattering, and flying as he carved a path through the forest. But the tsunami of swordlight showed no sign of hindrance, drawing closer—half a foot away now. His hair began to snap, his skin tingling with the pain of imminent tearing.

  He couldn’t retreat further. To do so meant death. Ethan stopped abruptly, gathering all his spirit and strength. With intense focus, the tsunami of sword energy resolved into a single blade in his eyes. He summoned every ounce of fighting spirit he could muster and grabbed the radiant, world-shattering sword with both hands.

  Ethan’s fingers and palms felt the sword’s speed, power, vibration, and killing intent. The blade and its energy were one. Anyone who could perceive this strike would feel one thing: nothing in this world could withstand it.

  But he didn’t hesitate. Without certainty, he still reached out. To catch it was to pit his fighting spirit against the blade’s killing energy—a raw contest of strength, a desperate struggle.

  The air between palm and blade was compressed to its limit. On contact, life or death, victory or defeat would be decided in an instant.

  The sword was a tsunami. Could a pair of bare hands grasp a tsunami?

  Unknown—for the sword-energy tsunami vanished. It was gone. He grasped empty air. The blade had inexplicably veered off its path, and its ferocious energy dissipated. Like a masterpiece painting where every stroke was perfect until the final, childish scribble ruined it all.

  Though the heaven-shaking strike had aborted midway, the shift was even deadlier for Ethan. The blade, off its original trajectory, grazed his outstretched hands and shot toward his throat, its tip two inches from his skin.

  Ethan was stunned. The change was too bizarre, too unbelievable. But even his shock was fatal. The blade had lost its energy but retained speed and force. No longer overwhelming, it was still a lethal weapon.

  In that instant of horror, the tip pierced his throat’s skin, about to sever his windpipe and pierce his spine. There was no room for tactics or skill—only instinct. Ethan’s hand slapped the blade aside while his body twisted violently. Whoosh—a spray of blood erupted from his neck.

  But Ethan knew he’d won. The tip had only grazed his carotid artery, and his fingers had forced it away, tearing only superficial flesh. Only now could he divert his attention and see Clovis’s face before him.

  It was the face of a defeated man—angry, resentful, and fearful. His sword had been deflected, its momentum spent. In those few blinks of an eye, he’d lost all combat power as a swordsman. Utterly defeated.

  Ethan would never give him a chance to regroup. His other hand clamped onto Clovis’s sword-wrist and pushed.

  The sound of bone breaking had never sounded so sweet.

  The hand that had deflected the blade now clenched into a fist, slamming into Clovis’s chest. Amid a chorus of cracking bones, Clovis flew backward like a severed kite, landing heavily some distance away.

  Ethan gasped for breath, clutching his neck as he cast a healing spell to staunch the bleeding, feeling his heart pound in his chest.

  Had the blade veered a fraction higher, he’d be the one lying there. But he’d deflected it just in time because the tip had struck the newly acquired ring on his finger. Without that buffer, the blade might have sliced through his defenseless fingers and severed his artery.

  Ethan walked over. Clovis lay motionless, blood trickling from his mouth and nose. Ethan panted, shaking his head. "It wasn’t me who won. You defeated yourself."

  In a direct clash, Clovis’s chances of victory would have been far greater. Even if he’d lost, it wouldn’t have been so total, and Ethan wouldn’t have emerged unscathed.

  Perhaps Clovis had wanted an easy, skillful victory. Perhaps he’d seen Ethan catch blades bare-handed and grown cautious. By his judgment, Ethan shouldn’t have fully deflected the strike—but the final deflection had hit the ring. That was luck, but the luck stemmed from his choice.

  Too accustomed to avoiding direct confrontation, too obsessed with scheming, he’d abandoned a head-on clash—one where he held the advantage but risked injury—in favor of a trick at the critical moment.

  Those who seek easy, elegant victories often end up suffering the most crushing defeats.

  Clovis still lay motionless—unconscious, dead, or dying from grievous wounds. For a man like him, death might be no loss. But Ethan couldn’t bring himself to deliver the final blows.

  Ethan recalled a line he’d once heard and said to the figure on the ground, "Character decides everything."

  The horses had bolted, so Ethan walked for five days to return to the capital, heading straight for the Paladin Order headquarters to find Rodhart.

  Passing through the plaza, he saw a crowd gathered—apparently an execution was underway. The fall of the scythe and the thud of the blade on the block drew a collective gasp from the crowd, a mix of pity and cruel delight. Ethan paid it no mind.

  The crowd dispersed as onlookers began to leave. Snippets of conversation drifted over.

  "Quite a few executed this time—children too. Tragic."

  "But those rebels deserved it. How dare they kidnap and murder an Imperial Envoy? Lord Rodhart is remarkable—solving a case this old in one go. Truly impressive."

  "Of course. He’s a hero," someone added admiringly. "But the rebels didn’t look so fierce. If the evidence weren’t so ironclad—they even found the former envoy’s seal—it’d be hard to believe. Rumor has it the rebels even framed Lord Rodhart and another church official. Shameless lies."

  Ethan shoved through the crowd, rushing to the execution ground.

  The execution was over. The executioner and his assistant were gathering a dozen severed heads into sacks. Nearby, soldiers were loading a dozen headless corpses onto a cart like cargo—likely bound for Sandro.

  The first head Ethan saw was Levin’s, the hunter’s face already mutilated, his eyes gone, leaving empty sockets that couldn’t close, seemingly staring right at him. Beside it lay the heads of children—every one familiar.