Chapter 26: In the Midst of Battle

A familiar voice rang out. Turning to the side, Brandon saw one of his own knights beheaded, the head soaring high into the air. His remaining subordinates were gradually losing ground; a single enemy knight was overwhelming several of his men at once. Only now did he realize that all the intelligence he thought he had gathered was false—deliberate misinformation released by the enemy to deceive the nobles of the Province of Cardero.

At that moment, Verin seized the opportunity, mustering the last reserves of his battle aura, channeling it into his knight’s longsword, and surged toward Brandon with sudden speed. Several soldiers, seeing this, threw themselves in front of their dazed lord in a desperate attempt to protect him, only to be cut down at the waist. The piercing wails of agony snapped Brandon back to his senses, and he raised his sword, frantically attempting to defend himself.

His longsword was knocked from his grip, his helmet tumbled to the ground, and half-kneeling, Brandon stared blankly at the bloodstained blade pressed to his throat. He slumped down in defeat, his voice bitter: “You have won.”

Verin lowered his visor, gazing calmly at the middle-aged, high-ranking Bronze Knight before him. “Yes, I have won,” he replied.

Seeing their lord vanquished and captured, the surrounding soldiers and knights dropped their weapons and began to surrender.

Wiping the sticky blood from his face, Baird bellowed, “Collect their weapons and bind them all!”

With the situation under control, Verin sheathed his knight’s sword and ordered Brandon to be tightly bound and taken back under strict guard.

The battle had come and gone swiftly, lasting barely an hour.

That night, in a tent, Verin sat at the head of the table in plain clothes, gazing at the seven knights who had fought by his side. They were all wounded to varying degrees.

“My lord, we lost thirty-seven men, twelve are gravely wounded, and forty-one lightly injured. Our casualties are severe,” Baird said with a grim smile—he had lost nearly a third of his men.

“And what of the enemy’s losses?” Verin’s expression remained impassive as he inquired.

Another knight stood and reported, “My lord, preliminary counts put enemy casualties at over four hundred, with five hundred and thirty-one taken prisoner, including Sir Brandon, nine Bronze Knights, eighty-seven elite soldiers, and the rest are serfs.”

“Take the serfs back. Assign some to the half-elf Eunice for the construction of the castle, and the rest to Mike for work in the fields and tending the crops.” Verin paused, then continued, “Release one soldier to return to the current steward of the Barony of Cleveland. Inform them that I will permit them to ransom their lord for a price.”

“Yes, my lord.” The knight struck his chest in salute and replied loudly.

When the meeting ended, Verin stepped out of the tent and made his way to the camp of the severely wounded.

He looked upon the pale, near-lifeless faces of his injured soldiers, and for a moment, the coldness in his heart was pricked with pain. Unlike those nobles who regarded human life as expendable, he still retained some basic conscience, though he did not know how long it would last before he too was changed. For now, though, something had to be done.

“Bring a basin of clean water,” he ordered.

The nearby sentry bowed and hurried off.

Before long, a basin of water was brought. Verin drew a crystal bottle filled with pale red liquid from his chest, squatted beside the basin, uncorked it, and poured the contents into the water.

“Give this water to the gravely wounded,” he instructed.

“Yes, my lord,” the soldier replied, voice trembling with excitement.

Verin watched the busy scene in the tent for a while, then quietly left. By chance, Baird, on his way to visit the wounded, witnessed the scene but said nothing, simply observing in silence.

“Perhaps choosing Young Master Verin was the wisest decision I have ever made,” he thought.

“My lord, the men are improving—their breathing has steadied!” a medic, knowledgeable in healing, hurried over to report excitedly to Baird.

“I understand. If there is still any of the life potion remaining, give it to the lightly wounded as well.”

“Yes, my lord.”

…

The next day, in the castle of the Barony of Cleveland, a young man listened to a soldier’s report with an expression of disbelief.

“How is this possible? Father took over a thousand men. How could they be defeated by a hundred?”

“Master, serfs have been returning in dribs and drabs; I fear this is the truth,” the old butler at his side advised gently.

Sitting at the head of the hall, a middle-aged noblewoman struggled to maintain her composure, her hands trembling uncontrollably as she spoke in a low, steady voice, “Old Bull, issue my orders: the castle is to be locked down, and summon the remaining four knights at once.”

“Yes, madam.”

Once the butler had departed, she turned to the soldier and continued her questioning. “What demands did the enemy make for the return of the lord and the other knights?”

“My lady, the enemy gave no specifics, only instructing me to tell you to meet at the border for negotiations on the morning of July 19th.”

“You may go.”

“Yes, madam.”

Two guards helped the injured soldier from the hall, leaving the noblewoman and the young man alone. The oil lamps flickered in the hall. Brandon’s eldest son, Raybur, was growing anxious. He looked at the noblewoman and could not help but ask, “Mother, what should we do next?”

“For now, we must first ransom your father and the other knights. Without them, we cannot hold this vast barony alone,” she replied.

Raybur was still doubtful. “Mother, even if the neighboring lords covet our lands, according to the kingdom’s laws, they…”

“Fool. The danger comes from within the family,” the noblewoman snapped, glaring at her son, wondering how she could have borne such a simpleton.

She then began preparations for the negotiation two days hence, intent on ransoming back the barony’s main fighting force.

Meanwhile, the secret silver mining operation in the camp had to be paused due to the influx of prisoners. Thanks to the life potion provided by Verin, the twelve gravely wounded soldiers escaped death and even saw great improvements in their strength—a blessing in disguise. The lightly wounded, too, recovered swiftly after receiving diluted life potion.

In another tent, Verin sat across from Brandon, playing a game of chess.

“You are powerful. Why come here to serve as a frontier knight?” Brandon asked, placing his piece and regarding Verin curiously.

“Perhaps for a dream—or perhaps because I refuse to live an ordinary life,” Verin replied simply, making his move.

“How much ransom do you plan to demand?” Brandon asked. Bereft of his battlefield presence, he was now just a weary, aging man.

Looking at the man before him—well past fifty—Verin answered straightforwardly, “That depends on the positions you and your men hold in your domain. I have all the time in the world to wait.”

Brandon laughed, as if seeing through Verin’s thoughts. “I’m not so sure about that.”

Verin gave a soft chuckle. “Who can say?”

He made the final move and won the match, then rose to adjust his clothing and left the tent.

Watching the young man’s departing figure, and thinking of his own disappointing eldest son, Brandon could only smile wryly. Perhaps this was why the Eks family had risen from baron to count in just seven centuries.

Imprisoned here with nothing to do, Brandon began to reflect on his deeds over the years. It had been a long time since he had sat so quietly, contemplating the course of his life.