Chapter 69: A Fatal Detour

  By noon, an enormous, luxurious tent—large enough to rival a small villa—had been set up.

  The tent was modeled after the dwellings of a nomadic tribe from a distant continent across the sea. It formed a huge sphere from top to bottom, with wooden stakes driven firmly into the ground around its edges to seal it off like a house. Several small windows were cut into the top and sides for light and ventilation. The Chancellor had specially prepared this tent for the emperor, who loved new gadgets; it allowed people to shelter comfortably from wind and rain while still feeling the novelty of the outdoors. Royal chefs cooked game outside the tent and brought the dishes in, letting His Majesty, the distinguished guests from other countries, and the nobles taste the prey they had hunted themselves.

  Grafenhardt XVII sat in the most prominent seat at the center of the upper area, smiling broadly as he looked at the guests and ministers from various countries. Freed from tedious state affairs and the imperial court—and without the military ministers, especially that rigid Roland—he was thoroughly enjoying himself today. But there was another reason for his joy: who was sitting beside him.

  The person next to the emperor was neither a minister nor a foreign guest, but Duke Mrak’s daughter, Chris.

  In contrast to the emperor’s elation, the Chancellor’s expression was grim. According to their original plan, his niece Anastasi was supposed to be in that seat. It was a highly sensitive position; the emperor might have seen it as just a romantic gesture, but to everyone else, it carried weighty significance.

  Yet the Chancellor was not overly anxious. Now that he had noticed this development, he could make more arrangements later to ensure the emperor spent more time with the “right” people. Young men’s passions were like wildfires—they flared up quickly and died down just as fast. And he knew exactly how to create the right conditions to shape his master’s mood; though the Chancellor was a capable politician, his greatest skill was serving as a lackey.

  “Though this meat is tough, it tastes so unique!” a young nobleman exclaimed, chewing on a piece of game. “As soon as I eat it, I’m reminded of the moment I shot that deer. This is the taste of one’s own labor!” He fell into a philosophical reverie. “From this, I can tell that farmers live very fulfilling lives. They get to eat the fruits of their labor every day—it’s enviable.”

  Chris, sitting next to the emperor, said, “But I heard that many farmers starved to death during the famines a few years ago.”

  “Starved to death?” the young, ignorant emperor asked. “Why would they starve? Didn’t they have bread to eat?”

  Chris shook her head. “I heard they didn’t even have porridge, let alone bread. Some even became bandits because they couldn’t pay their taxes. In the end, the local officials tricked them into surrendering and killed them all. It’s really pitiful.”

  A nobleman, pretending to be knowledgeable, shook his head. “Paying taxes is a citizen’s duty. How dare they become bandits and disrupt public order? These degenerate commoners are the root of social unrest—they deserve to be rounded up and executed. As for those who starved, they were just too stupid to survive. If they had no bread or porridge, they could have eaten meat and drunk milk!”

  This not-so-funny joke triggered a burst of laughter, though many younger nobles glanced around, confused about what was supposed to be amusing. Grafenhardt XVII was among them; it was only after Chris whispered an explanation in his ear that the empire’s ruler forced an awkward smile.

  Outside the main tent, several guards stood on duty. Listening to the laughter inside and smelling the aroma of food wafting out, they grew restless. One of them sighed to his companion, “It’s hard to believe—our job as soldiers is to protect a social order that lets idiots like them live better and safer lives than we do.”

  A figure suddenly appeared at the edge of the nearby woods, stumbling toward them. As he drew closer, they saw he was a young man in plain clothes. One guard quickly shouted to stop him: “Hey! Don’t you know His Majesty is hunting here? Get out of here!”

  The man seemed not to hear. He continued staggering forward. The midday sun was scorching, and when its rays hit the pale skin exposed by his clothes, a faint “sizzling” sound could be heard, and a wisp of smoke rose—like a fried egg in a hot pan. The young man’s face was contorted in pain, as if he really was being fried by the sun. He stumbled into the shadow of the tent, looking so weak he might collapse at any moment.

  He was a handsome, delicate young man with skin as fair and smooth as a peeled boiled egg. But now, that smooth skin seemed to be burned by the sun, and his thin, frail body and pained expression made him look truly pitiful.

  Even the most dutiful guards couldn’t bring themselves to drive away someone so pitiful. Several of them hurried over to help him, asking, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m so hungry,” the young man whispered, his pale lips trembling. “I have no energy… that’s why the sun hurts so much.”

  One guard asked kindly, “Do you want something to eat?”

  After catching his breath in the shade and resting for a moment, the young man seemed to recover a little. He smiled and said, “Thank you.” The smile revealed a pair of unusually sharp canine teeth. “Then I won’t be polite.”

  Amid the laughter and chatter inside the tent, the people barely noticed the strange noises coming from outside—and no one paid them any mind.

  Clang!

  A longsword was no match for a saber. Under Ethan’s wild, heavy swings, it snapped when it struck an enemy soldier’s shield.

  Without hesitation, Ethan hurled the broken blade at the soldier’s face. While the man screamed in pain, Ethan grabbed him and pulled him in front of himself as a shield.

  Boom!

  A mid-tier mage’s fireball exploded against the soldier’s chest, sending flesh and organs flying everywhere. The fireball was surprisingly powerful—but luckily, in the chaos of a siege, the mage dared not use large-scale, high-damage spells for fear of hitting his own men.

  Even so, a low-tier fireball would tear Ethan to shreds if it hit him directly. He knew he had to take out the mages first. Waving the corpse in his hand to block two swords and fend off three attackers, he jumped onto the head of a nearby soldier, used it as a springboard, and pounced at the closest mage.

  Mid-air, three spears and three halberds stabbed up at him from below, while three crossbow bolts whistled toward his back. Ethan’s sharp senses let him track every movement around him—he could even tell that the crossbow bolts would hit first, followed by the spears, and then the halberds. Their movements were crystal clear in his eyes; he could even anticipate their next moves. He already knew how to dodge, defend, and counterattack before they struck—a benefit of his advanced meditation.

  But suddenly, he felt his body sink, and a strange wave of weakness washed over him. It was the effect of Slow and Weakness curses. Mid-air, he made an easy target—and the other two mages had seized the chance to cast their curses. These mages were experienced and skilled; when fighting a single enemy in a group, curses were far more effective than direct attacks.

  Ethan curled his body tightly, narrowly avoiding the three crossbow bolts that whistled past his back. He grabbed the two spears thrusting up at him, used them to propel himself higher, and then, looking down from above, summoned a massive fireball with all his strength and hurled it at the mage.

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  The mage stared in stunned disbelief at the fireball—ten times larger than any he had ever seen. He almost mistook it for some new, unheard-of spell. Panicked, he raised his hands and sent a fireball of his own flying to meet it.

  Sizzle!

  The mage’s fireball shattered like an egg hitting a stone, while Ethan’s fireball continued unimpeded, roaring toward the mage.

  Two streaks of glistening white light—Thunder Frost, a water-element spell—flew from two other directions and struck the fireball. But even they couldn’t fully extinguish it; the remaining flames still hurtled toward the mage. A soldier assigned to protect the mage rushed forward, raising his steel shield to block. Boom! The shield bent and flew off, still attached to the soldier’s severed arm. The soldier screamed and was thrown backward—but the fireball was finally blocked. The mage and several nearby soldiers were thrown off balance by the blast.

  Ethan didn’t see the power of his fireball. As soon as he landed, he was forced to fend off four swords, three sabers, five spears, and a mace. It wasn’t until a blade sliced into his back that he grabbed an enemy’s arm, pulled him over, and used him as both weapon and shield. In just one circle of being tossed around in Ethan’s hands, the poor soldier was hit countless times. Ethan hurled the battered “weapon” at a group of men, knocking them down, and finally had a chance to dispel the curses on himself and cast a healing spell.

  Ethan admitted he had underestimated these men. From the three mages’ experience and skill, and the soldiers’ disciplined attacks, it was clear this was a well-trained, battle-hardened regular army—disguised in plain clothes as mercenaries.

  At first, he had thought this ambush would be like the others: a trivial sideshow he could wrap up in minutes. But he had been completely wrong. This was no minor detour—it was a fatal one.

  Whether it would cost his life remained to be seen, but it would definitely cost others theirs.

  It was already noon. Regardless of whether the “protagonist” arrived, the “play” there would start on time. The Marquis was sharp—his arrangements would be flawless.

  He had to break out of this siege. The emperor, the nobles, and the ministers from other countries were all waiting for him to save them. And there was someone else—someone who felt even more important—waiting too.

  Amid the “forest” of swords, spears, and halberds, Ethan finally found an opening. He stood his ground, channeled all his magic power into his hands, and sent a fireball flying at the soldiers in front of him. But at the same time, he froze for a split second—and a crossbow bolt buried itself in his shoulder.

  He couldn’t have dodged it better while casting a spell; the bolt would have pierced his right lung if he hadn’t moved. The crossbowmen mixed in with the soldiers were undoubtedly elite troops—they stayed back, didn’t fire randomly, and waited for the perfect moment to strike a fatal blow.

  Boom!

  The two front soldiers were blown to pieces, their bones and flesh flying everywhere. The next few were thrown backward, missing limbs, and even more fell in a heap behind them. The full-force fireball had finally blown a gap in the siege. Ethan leaped through it. Though his horse had long been hacked to pieces, he was confident he could outrun everyone once he broke free.

  He should still make it in time—these men wouldn’t dare chase him all the way to the hunting ground. But before he could finish the thought, a heavy, sluggish feeling and weakness hit him relentlessly.

  Three crossbow bolts whistled toward him from different directions. He rolled on the ground, his weakened, slowed body barely avoiding them. He stood up and dispelled the curses—but the soldiers had already swarmed forward, surrounding him again with their well-drilled formation.

  “Trying to run?” Modo seemed to sense victory and shouted triumphantly. “Want to go to the hunting ground to beg the emperor to save you? Stop dreaming! I told you I already know what you’re up to!”

  “Go to hell, you son of a bitch!” Ethan roared at Modo, almost furious. He wasn’t going to beg the emperor for help—he was going to save the emperor. But he couldn’t say that.

  “You… you…” The pampered Chancellor’s son had clearly never argued with anyone before. He had no idea how to respond to Ethan’s crude, vulgar insult. His face turned bright red. Finally, he screamed at the man who looked like a leader beside him: “Tell them to take him alive! I’ll pay a hundred gold coins for him alive! I’ll cut his flesh off piece by piece and feed it to the dogs!”

  The soldiers surrounding Ethan didn’t dare attack immediately—they just kept him trapped in the center. Fear was written all over their faces; the power of that last fireball had been terrifying. No one wanted to end up like those soldiers, blown to bits.

  “Commander,” Ethan was forced to adopt an official tone in his desperation. He called out to the man beside Modo—the one who must be the unit’s leader. “Do you know it’s a capital crime to use troops without authorization and attack a Church clergyman? Tell them to let me pass now, and I’ll let you off the hook.”

  The man was stunned—he hadn’t expected his identity to be exposed.

  “It’s no use,” Modo said, feeling dominant again. He patted the commander’s shoulder. “He’s one of ours. You’ve already attacked him—so you have to kill him. Out here in the wilderness, there’s no evidence. I’ve even prepared a place for your body—my dogs’ stomachs. Who’ll ever know we killed you?” The Chancellor’s son laughed triumphantly. “If you beg for mercy, kneel down. I’ll have a soldier shit for you to eat—and then I’ll let you die quickly.”

  Now that his identity was exposed, the commander made up his mind to silence Ethan. He waved his hand and ordered: “Kill him!”

  Ethan said no more. Words were useless now—and he didn’t want to say anything anyway. He threw himself into the fight with all his strength.

  He didn’t think about tactics or use more magic. He focused all his mind on the cold, 狂暴 feeling brought by meditation.

  He punched a soldier’s head and the mace he was swinging—both shattered. With his other hand, he grabbed a halberd and pulled its wielder out of the crowd, then kicked him in the chest, leaving a hole through his body. He swung the halberd backward, impaling three soldiers on it. At the same time, a greatsword almost sliced through his shoulder. He grabbed the steel two-handed sword, snapped it in half, pulled the piece still stuck in his body out, and drove it—still dripping with his blood—into the swordsman’s chest.

  A thin layer of light appeared around his hands. Under that seemingly insignificant glow, steel weapons turned to rotting wood, and human bodies to mud.

  The smooth, unobstructed feeling from meditation surged through his body. A mage tried to cast a Weakness curse again—but this time, the wild, torrential force in Ethan’s body washed away the foreign magic like a flood. The gravitational drag from the Slow spell was negligible. His strength and agility merged completely under his intense focus; every move he made delivered a devastating blow to his enemies, crushing bones and muscles, splattering blood.

  All his senses melted into a bloodthirsty desire to fight. He ignored everything else, becoming a wild beast that only knew how to charge at its target, tearing all obstacles in its path to shreds with teeth and claws.

  His only target now was the commander.

  He grabbed a living soldier and swung him horizontally. The sound of breaking bones popped like fried beans—three or four men were thrown flying. A crossbow bolt pierced his right arm. He jumped up and hurled the bloodied soldier in his hand at the crossbowman. After a strange, sickening crunch, the crossbowman and the corpse became indistinguishable.

  Two fireballs flew at him from the left and right. He kicked a soldier into the air—his body intercepted one fireball, exploding into a shower of flames and flesh. Ethan caught the other fireball with his hand and squeezed it until it burst—he still couldn’t hurl fireballs like General Gru, but luckily, this one wasn’t very powerful. A fierce slash tore through the muscles of his shoulder and hit his bone. He could hear a strange sound as the blade scraped against his bone—transmitted directly through his flesh, not the air. He grabbed a spear and threw it at a mage, impaling him and the two soldiers protecting him. He turned around and punched the soldier who had sliced his shoulder, caving in his skull like a rotten persimmon. At the same time, two maces struck him, tearing off chunks of flesh, and three of his ribs broke. He howled like a madman, rammed his head into the nearest soldier’s face, and instinctively bit down. Suddenly, the world turned red—filled with the stench of blood.

  He just kept charging forward. The soldiers in front of him were thrown aside, their blood splattering everywhere. He felt like a meat grinder—flesh and limbs were everywhere around him, and he couldn’t tell which were his and which belonged to others.

  Finally, fear overcame their orders. The soldiers began to step aside.

  Ethan leaped directly at the commander, who was on horseback. The panicked commander drew his sword and stabbed at Ethan. Ethan ignored it and reached out to grab him.

  The sword snapped into three or four pieces against his palm, as if striking iron. The shards flew into the commander’s face with Ethan’s fingers. A rare, sickening crack was heard—and the commander’s headless body, spouting blood, swayed and fell from the horse.

  “Who else?” Ethan held the head in his hand and stared at the soldiers. It felt like a howl—more beast than human—was coming from his throat. “Who else wants to die?”

  Modo had already turned his horse and fled when Ethan started charging. His cowardice set an example; without their commander, the soldiers screamed and ran away.

  The men disappeared even faster than they had appeared. In the blink of an eye, only the scattered limbs and corpses remained.

  Ethan stared at the gruesome scene, his breath coming in beast-like gasps. Slowly, his consciousness emerged from the meditative state. He suddenly knelt down, dropping to his knees in the pool of blood. He threw away the head—now crushed like a rotten watermelon—and began to vomit.

  But he forced himself to stand up immediately. Still vomiting, he staggered over to the commander’s horse, pulled it over, climbed on, and rode toward the hunting ground.

  There were still twenty or thirty miles to go. Ethan whipped the horse frantically, praying he would make it in time.

  “Ugh!” He finally vomited up several chunks of flesh, bones, and even a tooth—bits of someone he couldn’t name, swallowed unknowingly in the chaos.