Chapter Thirty-Five: The Reversed Barrel (Part One)

Captain Kruby of the Consul’s Guards had just coordinated with Major General Antonio’s men to change the garrison on the city walls. The soldiers of the Second Battalion, who had been guarding the walls, rushed to the Consul’s residence, while the Old Regiment under Hendry’s command temporarily took over the defense of the walls and the city gates. Usually, these Old Regiments were only responsible for maintaining order within the city, and the Second Battalion left only an artillery company to man the cannons on the walls.

After the shift change, Captain Kruby felt somewhat fatigued. He ordered his deputy to make the rounds in his place, while he retired to a special chamber built on one of the towers for the defense commander’s rest. Today had truly been a harrowing day—who would have thought that Grant would dare take such a risk himself? Yet, if the notorious bandit chief who had disrupted Gaul for nearly a decade could be eliminated, it would be a tremendous achievement. If Lord Hendry were to be rewarded, Kruby’s own position would be all the more secure.

Though Kruby remained on the tower, his mind lingered in the underground prison. So distracted was he that he failed to notice the commotion outside until it was well underway. It wasn’t until he heard shouting, resistance, even a bloodcurdling scream, that he sensed something was amiss.

“What’s going on?” he called to the guard at the door, grabbing his hat from the table and heading out.

At that moment, a well-built man in a soldier’s uniform burst in. Kruby saw the man was caked with dirt, his face smeared white and black, as if he’d just crawled out of a mud pit. Irritated, he demanded, “What’s happened?”

“Report, the Revolutionary Group is attacking us!” the soldier announced, drawing near with the latest news.

“Damn it!” Kruby cursed, barely glancing at the man, fully absorbed by the news. The Revolutionary Group’s attack meant they had learned their leader’s attempt to rescue Hegel’s daughter had failed, and now sought to storm the city to save him.

A sneer curled Kruby’s lips. The idea of the Revolutionary Group’s assault was ludicrous—like ants imagining they could topple an elephant. Did they not realize? In strength and in arms, the city’s soldiers far outmatched them. They had been routed in open battle by the Second Battalion time and again; now they dared dream of breaching the walls? Grant must have done a superb job brainwashing this rabble of peasants, for them to charge so recklessly into a hopeless fight.

But what of it? The cannons would give them a resounding answer. Kruby donned his hat, drew his saber, and cursed the Old Regiments for their incompetence in his absence. They were no match for the Second Battalion, but their failings only made his own worth all the clearer. Lord Hendry could not do without him.

He moved toward the door, intent on organizing the defense and ordering the artillery to blast the Revolutionary Group back. He had no intention of leaving the city to fight; at this critical moment, stability was paramount. As long as nothing interfered with the prison below, and Grant was killed, success would be theirs.

Yet his plan was not to be. As he stepped forward, he felt a sudden danger, twisted to evade—but too late. A dagger, glinting black, plunged into his side. He felt a prickling numbness: the blade was poisoned, his strength rapidly ebbing away. But the true terror was not the poison, but the black light flaring from the dagger—a mark of advanced Obsidian dark energy. This potent, weakening force stood in direct opposition to the Church’s holy power, and was usually wielded only by the most skilled assassins.

Kruby tried to shout, but before he could, the attacker clamped a hand over his mouth and stabbed again—this time, brutally, through his heart. The energy surged into his vital point, snuffing out his resistance in an instant. The third strike drove the dagger into Kruby’s mouth, silencing the scream he had almost uttered, the blade shredding his tongue to pulp.

Kruby’s agony was that of a crayfish tossed into boiling water, but mercifully, it did not last long—the assassin relieved him of his pain with finality.

Chaos had erupted on the wall. The Old Regiment, newly assigned to replace the Second Battalion, had fallen into mutiny. For reasons unknown, some soldiers, clearly organized and prepared, had turned on their unsuspecting comrades, seeking to seize control. The sudden assault caught many off guard, but a few managed to resist, and confusion swept the battlements.

“Captain Kruby! Captain Kruby!” voices called for their commander. At that moment, a soldier-like figure leapt to the highest point of the wall, brandished a severed head, and asked, “Is this the one you’re all calling for?”

The head was hurled high, tracing a graceful arc before landing among the crowd. Its expression remained vivid—defiance, pain, despair, and a trace of bewilderment frozen in its final moment.

Many of the defenders threw down their spears on the spot; the mutineers’ morale soared, and they rapidly tightened their encirclement.

The soldier atop the wall jumped down, wiping off his disguise. He had never crawled out of a mud pit; that was but a ruse to conceal his identity. He was Leonardo the Dark Elf, an accomplished assassin and commander.

As the attackers pressed in, and with their highest officer dead, the remaining soldiers lost heart. With each tightening of the noose, more weapons fell to the ground, and resistance crumbled.

“Why do you still resist? Tell me—is it for the honor of a soldier, or for your families?” Leonardo demanded at the front of the encirclement.

“For both our honor, and for our loved ones,” one man answered bravely.

“If it is for honor, do you truly believe you have any? You should fight like warriors, but instead you’re herded like dogs within these walls, your greatest acts of valor nothing more than bullying unarmed civilians and stealing their possessions. And if it’s for your families, ask those across from you—once your comrades, now standing with us—why they turned against you,” Leonardo declared with authority.

This was the question burning in every mind. The surrounded soldiers longed for an answer.

And so they heard it. Someone called out, “Why? Isn’t it obvious? The Revolutionary Group gave land to the poor—my own family, my father, my brother, even I received a share. But the lords always took it back. Leonardo is right—unless we rise up and overthrow these corrupt, greedy rulers, nothing will ever change. Only then can we claim what is rightfully ours.”

“When I went home, my father urged me to join the Commune Revolutionary Group, so when they reached out, I agreed,” another said.

“My brother persuaded me,” another admitted.

“He convinced me,” said another, pointing to the man beside him. “He said we should believe in the Revolutionary Group.”

“Lay down your arms!” Leonardo exhorted. “All the wealth of Gaul has been plundered by the lords and officials. Now is the time for them to repay their debts. The leader will redistribute the property according to everyone’s contribution. Today’s uprising will earn you a share of something great.”

More weapons were cast aside; with the choice between death and reward, only the most stubborn chose the former.

Seeing the tide turn, Leonardo finally allowed himself a breath of relief. At this moment, an interim commander from the uprising ran up and reported, “Sir Leonardo, all six regiments in Gaul City have risen successfully. What are your orders?”

“Excellent! Open the city gates—let the Revolutionary Group in!” Leonardo ordered, glancing at the cannons atop the wall.

“None of us know how to operate them,” the man explained. Only the artillerymen of the Second Battalion could, and most of them had been killed resisting the uprising; the few that remained, judging by their expressions, would never cooperate unless utterly desperate.

“No matter. Some of our people have basic training—and more importantly, we have an artillery expert with us,” Leonardo replied unconcernedly.