"Why don't you run? Go on—why not flee?"
With a single stroke, the brigand leader cleaved through one of the Windsor guards who had been shielding the old steward with his life. He stepped before the elder, sneering with mocking delight.
"Who sent you here?" Pound demanded, his heart sinking as he beheld the carnage. More than half of the Windsor men lay slain or dying; fewer than ten yet fought, and they did so in desperate straits.
The greatsword-wielding man smirked. "Not entirely witless, are you? But did you truly think I would tell you?"
His eyes gleamed with cruel pleasure. He raised his blade high, savoring the moment. He relished nothing so much as the look in a victim's eyes when the end came—their rage, their unwillingness to die. The closer they clung to life, the sweeter the ecstasy he felt when he cut it away.
"Steward Pound!"
The remaining Windsor guards cried out in anguish as they struggled, bloodied and pressed by numbers. They wished to rush to their master's aid, but the brigands pinned them fast; they could not break free.
The old steward's eyes followed the descending blade. His body, aged and slow, could not move swiftly enough. In his heart, he felt a flicker of resignation. So—it would end here.
Death itself he did not fear; he had lived many years, and life and death had long since lost their sting. But regret gnawed at him—that he would perish without uncovering whether the Adams Trading House had struck against Young Master Henry. That bitterness, more than the thought of death, weighed heavy upon him.
A sharp whistle split the air.
A slender, dark object hurtled through the sky like a thunderbolt.
The brigand leader's eyes widened. Instinct screamed, and he leapt aside just in time. The missile passed where he had stood a heartbeat before, slamming instead into a marauder about to butcher another Windsor guard.
Thud!
The man coughed blood, sent sprawling several paces away. The missile clattered to the ground. It was no blade at all, but a simple, deep-brown wooden scabbard.
The leader's expression tightened. A mere scabbard—yet hurled with such force that it felled a grown fighter outright? Whoever threw it is no common foe.
"Steward Pound!"
In the next breath, Henry appeared, striding swiftly to stand before the old man. He drew his sword, shielding Pound with his own body. His eyes scanned the battlefield—and his face grew grim.
More than a dozen Windsor guards lay on the ground, unmoving, their blood staining the earth. The survivors, fewer than ten, were pale and staggering, their defense faltering.
"Young Master Henry?" Pound's eyes lit with sudden joy, but dread soon followed. His face blanched as he cried urgently:
"Young Master Henry, why have you come? Leave at once! These men are murderers without mercy!"
He had nearly met his own death moments earlier, yet his first thought was to protect Henry. The youth felt warmth rise in his heart at the old man's loyalty, but his gaze upon the brigands grew all the colder.
"And who might you be?" the brigand leader asked warily. He had expected a man of years to have hurled such a weapon. But no—before him stood only a boy, his face still youthful.
"You strike at the Windsor Company, yet you claim not to know who I am?" Henry's voice was icy, his eyes like frozen steel.
He thought of the fallen guards—men who likely had mothers, wives, and children waiting at home. Families once whole, torn apart in an instant by these brigands. The thought stoked his fury.
"You… you're from a knightly academy, aren't you?" the leader asked, unease pricking him. For such skill to rest in one so young—there could be little doubt.
"Who sent you?" Henry demanded coldly. His gaze did not waver. If he had come even moments later, Pound would already lie dead. This man—this butcher—could not be allowed to walk away.
The brigand scoffed. "You think I would tell you?"
In truth, Henry's sudden arrival had unsettled him. Yet he comforted himself with memory: he too had trained in knightly swordsmanship. Years ago, he had studied at the Proll Knight Academy. Though he had never advanced beyond an apprentice, his strength far surpassed that of ordinary men. It was enough to lead this band of cutthroats.
This boy, despite his skill, was young. How much could he truly know of real battle?
The brigand's eyes narrowed. He lunged without warning.
His sword darted forward like a viper, aimed straight at Henry's heart—a killing thrust, merciless and precise. Catch him unprepared, and the boy dies.
Clang!
Steel rang out. Henry's blade had already intercepted the strike.
Another youth might have been felled by such treachery. But Henry was not another youth. He carried a mind tempered by another lifetime, rich with battles seen and struggles imagined. He would not fall to so crude a ruse.
The brigand's eyes flickered with surprise—but he pressed on, his sword flowing into a vicious slash at Henry's side.
Clang. Clang. Clang!
Blow after blow rained upon Henry, each met and turned aside. With every parry, the brigand's brow furrowed deeper. The boy was not only skilled—he had experience.
Henry, for his part, grew impatient. In other circumstances, he might have drawn this out, testing the man's technique. But now, with Windsor men dying around him, he had no time to waste.
He gathered his strength and struck.
Crash!
The impact rang sharper, harsher than before. The brigand leader staggered back, his stance broken by the sheer force. Henry pressed forward, his blade flashing once more.
Slash!
The silver arc cut across the man's shoulder. Blood gushed forth, staining half his tunic crimson.
The brigand gasped, gritting his teeth against the pain. Henry's next blow descended before he could even think.
He barely managed to raise his sword in defense. The impact rattled his bones, forcing him back step after step. His eyes widened, shock overtaking him.
This boy's strength was far beyond what he had imagined. His own knightly training had been shallow, bought with coin at a lesser academy, where swordsmanship was ordinary and mediocrity the norm. He had believed it sufficient. Against this youth, it was nothing.
"You… you're from Neo Knight Academy?" he spat in disbelief.
Within the royal capital, there were two knight academies: Neo and Ziyun. At first he had thought the boy might hail from Ziyun, the lesser of the two. But no—this level of power could only have been forged at Neo, the finest academy in the entire kingdom of Carlo.