Chapter 15: Can’t Be Killed

  Clovis’ hands were soaked with sweat. He began to worry he might not even be able to hold his sword steady.

  He had never been this tense before—he did not even know his palms could sweat so much when he was nervous.

  In most people’s eyes, Duke Mrak was a powerful, capable statesman, skilled in the ways of the world—a respected politician and minister, nothing more. But Clovis knew: even on the battlefield, leading soldiers from the front, the duke would be no less formidable than any general in the empire. When it came to combat skill, the duke was easily among the top five fighters in the entire empire.

  The duke had just given him and his men a strange order: ignore the man they had actually come to arrest. The moment the duke himself attacked, all of them were to focus their strikes on the very same target the duke attacked.

  Clovis had not asked who required such a massive show of force. He trusted the duke’s judgment implicitly—this must be an opponent beyond imagination.

  This was the first time in his life he had faced a danger so great, so unknown, and so likely to surpass all expectations. It was far beyond the smooth, brilliant life he had led since birth. So he tensed.

  Tap, tap, tap. Three rhythmic knocks. The duke called out warmly: “Mr. Sandro, I’ve returned.”

  Clovis tightened his grip on his sword hilt. The hilt, which usually fit his palm like a second skin, now felt like a slippery catfish covered in sweat. He feared it might slip from his hand the moment he struck.

  The duke turned to glance at him, his voice calm: “Relax.”

  Only then did Clovis realize his forehead was covered in cold sweat.

  Don’t be tense. Don’t be tense. Clovis repeated this to himself, demanding it of himself. In front of so many subordinates, who was he? He was the best, the strongest, the most promising, the most capable. How could he be tense? They were just here to arrest a soldier—there was nothing to be nervous about. He replayed the duke’s plan in his mind, mapping out every step he should take: when to move, what stance to use, how to speak calmly before striking suddenly, catching the enemy off guard…

  The large wooden door creaked open. Standing in the doorway was a young man of about twenty, his face pale from lack of sunlight.

  Looking at this face, Duke Mrak was slightly surprised. When the door opened fully and he saw the scene inside, his surprise turned to astonishment.

  As for Clovis—gazing at the face he had obsessed over for two months, a face that had haunted his sleep more than any lover—his eyes seemed ready to burst into flame.

  This was the man he had seen two months ago: the soldier who knew part of their plan, the man who mattered a hundred times more to his fiancée than he did, the lowly cur who had made him stumble and fail repeatedly. And now this cur dared to stand before him openly, looking at them as if they were expected uninvited guests.

  Consumed by rage, Clovis drew his sword. He would execute this criminal who dared to defy him on the spot. But halfway through drawing the blade, he noticed something strange: everyone else—including the duke—had lowered their weapons and dropped to one knee.

  Inside the house, a clearing had been made. A carriage stood there, flanked by two priests and an old man.

  The old man was gaunt, his cheeks tapering sharply to his chin, forming a narrow face that made his already small eyes seem proportionate. Dark bags hung under his eyes, as if he had not rested in days. He wore a pure white silk robe, embroidered with a cross in white gold thread across his chest. A crown adorned his head, set with jewels that formed another cross. The aura of this attire was so solemn that even the room full of corpses seemed to take on a dignified air.

  Clovis hurried to lower his sword, dropping to one knee and performing a flawless blessing gesture. “May the gods be with you, Bishop Ronis.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “May the gods be with all who believe in them,” Bishop Ronis replied, a small smile spreading across his gaunt face. He gestured for them to rise.

  “Duke, what is the meaning of this?” Bishop Ronis asked, glancing at the weapons scattered around.

  The duke’s expression remained unchanged. He looked at Ethan and said: “We merely suspected this young man might be a fugitive, so we came to take him back for questioning.” He had already seen through the young man’s identity. If a limp and a hunch could be faked, so could a face.

  “Oh?” Bishop Ronis turned to Ethan, his eyes like two candles in the dark. “Young man, swear by the gods and your own honor—are you truly a fugitive, as he claims?”

  Ethan shook his head. “No.”

  Bishop Ronis nodded and smiled, turning back to the duke. “He says he is not.”

  “Yes,” the duke replied. Cold sweat had begun to form on Clovis’ forehead.

  “I think there must be some misunderstanding—perhaps a mistake of some kind,” Bishop Ronis concluded for the duke.

  “Yes, it was our mistake,” the duke repeated. By now, cold sweat was streaming down Clovis’ temples.

  “Now that the misunderstanding has been cleared up, there will be no more trouble, will there?” Bishop Ronis asked.

  “No, there will be no more trouble,” the duke answered.

  “Duke, you know I have no interest in military affairs or politics—and I have no desire to develop any,” the bishop said, his tone casual, like chatting with an old friend. “So I would not want those around me dragged into such matters. You must understand: this place belongs to the Magic Academy, and the people here are under the Academy’s protection.”

  “Yes, please rest assured, Your Eminence. We will take our leave now,” the duke said, behaving like a gentleman who had merely walked into the wrong room—polite and dignified.

  After exiting the house and dismissing his men, Clovis said to the duke: “The bishop set a trap for us. He’s deliberately protecting that man.”

  The duke nodded. Bishop Ronis had gone out of his way to bring his carriage inside the house instead of leaving it outside—afraid they would see it, realize it was unwise to act, and retreat temporarily. Only when they were on the verge of attacking could the bishop force their hand, making his position final.

  Strictly speaking, the bishop held no real power. He could not adjust taxes, nor could he command a single soldier. Yet even the emperor himself would never dare to deceive him. Now that the bishop had said he did not want the soldier harassed, the soldier would truly be safe.

  Clovis felt they had reached a dead end.

  The duke asked him: “Do you think the soldier will tell the bishop everything?”

  Clovis shook his head. “I don’t know. What do you think, sir?”

  The duke also shook his head. “I don’t know either. It seems we’ll have to ask him ourselves.”

  “How?” Clovis frowned, confused.

  “Just ask,” the duke said calmly.

  Clovis still did not fully understand. But looking at the duke’s composed expression, he felt a glimmer of hope—that things might yet take a turn for the better.

  The duke said: “In a way, there are only three types of people in the world. The first are strangers—people you don’t need to care about or pay attention to. The second are your enemies—you shouldn’t have too many of these, and if you do, you must destroy them root and branch.” He turned to Clovis. “But what if you have an enemy you cannot defeat?”

  “I would use all my strength, all my methods, to overcome them,” Clovis declared, frowning heroically, his voice filled with resolve. He was already thinking about how to explain things to the bishop later.

  The duke shook his head, disappointed. “You should find a way to turn them into the third type—friends. The more of these you have, the better. Especially if they are someone you cannot defeat.”

  “Friends?” Clovis sounded as if he were hearing the word for the first time.

  That noon, not long after Bishop Ronis left, a servant from the duke’s mansion delivered a letter to Ethan.

  It was handwritten by the duke himself, his words sincere. The gist was: he was truly grateful to Ethan for saving both his daughters. But due to unavoidable circumstances, a misunderstanding had arisen. He was now deeply sorry for the trouble between them, though the detailed reasons were too complicated to explain in a letter. That evening, he would send a carriage to take Ethan to the mansion, where he would apologize in person.

  Ethan read the letter over and over, unable to decide whether to go. He feared that the moment he sat down, dozens of guards would rush out and hack him to pieces. Or that he might take a bite of food, drink a sip of water, and suddenly drop dead—his intestines torn, blood gushing from every orifice. So he asked Sandro: “Do you think it’s dangerous if I go?”

  “Dangerous,” Sandro replied, his head down as he tidied up a corpse. “He’ll hold a knife to your throat and force you to marry his daughter.” He held out his hand. “Pass me the saw.”

  “If that happens, I’ll definitely introduce you to him,” Ethan said, handing over the saw. But this was also a chance to get to the bottom of things. What misunderstanding? What had become of the information he had reported? How was Sophia now?

  “I’ll go,” Ethan finally decided. He hated the feeling of unresolved matters weighing on his mind. He had always liked a catchphrase used by an old dwarf who often visited his home in his hometown: Even if it’s a pile of shit, you have to eat it—don’t let it lie in front of you and annoy you.

  “Introduce me?” Sandro asked, bending over to saw through a corpse’s leg, the blade making a creaking sound.

  “Yes,” Ethan said, holding the letter up to the sunlight and flicking it, as if hoping a clue might fall from between the lines.