"Ha! So he was a liar! A coward who betrayed his liege and abandoned his family's honor! To cover up his theft of some lord's sword, he fabricated such nonsense!"
"Dragonslayer? Want to become a Dragonslayer by fabricating a story? In my opinion, only two things in this story are true: that he betrayed his oath, and that he is a thief who stole the Royce Family heirloom sword."
He raised the sword, admiring its elegant lines and mysterious ripples in the firelight.
Jero Legge returned Lamentation to its scabbard with a decisive and forceful motion: "No wonder they hid this sword so deeply."
"This sword is not a symbol of family honor at all; it is evidence of their betrayal and theft."
"This sword in their hands is simply a disgrace."
"When I present it to Father, he will surely be proud of me."
His gaze swept over the tired and complex-looking knights around him, his voice filled with barely suppressed excitement: "The Legge Family will possess a Valyrian Steel sword of their own."
"It will become my family's ancestral sword!"
He never imagined that he could discover such a peerless treasure, enough to shock the Seven Kingdoms, in such a place.
Jero turned and ordered the surrounding knights: "Pack up immediately!"
"I don't want to stay in this accursed place for another moment."
"We'll set off tonight and return to Willow Wood City!"
Sir Adam did not move. He walked to Jero's side, shielding him from the sight of others, and spoke in a very low voice: "Young Master, this matter must not be leaked."
The wild joy on Jero's face froze. He frowned: "What do you mean?"
Sir Adam's gaze fell on the hilt of the Valyrian sword at Jero's waist: "This sword, Lamentation."
"If I am not mistaken, it is the ancestral sword of House Royce of Runestone, missing for nearly a hundred years."
Jero's breathing hitched. He understood what the old man meant.
The Old Knight's wrinkles bunched together as he continued: "If we do not return it, it could even lead to a war between the two families."
"They will never let it go."
Jero's voice became sharp as he looked at the old man: "Return it?"
"Why? I dug this out of a grave in Dreadfort. Its name is Legge now!"
Sir Adam's tone remained unchanged: "Therefore, the fewer people who know about this, the better."
A dead silence fell between them, broken only by the sound of burning flames. Their gazes simultaneously turned to a spot not far away.
The soldier who had dug up the sword was humming a tune, a shovel slung over his shoulder.
He seemed to sense the noble's gaze and even grinned, revealing two rows of molars, fawningly smiling at them.
The next morning, as the party prepared to depart, someone reported a missing soldier.
Sir Adam wiped his longsword and replied without looking up: "Perhaps he deserted."
There was a small stir in the party, but it quickly subsided. No one was willing to stay an extra minute in this foul-smelling, accursed place for an insignificant soldier.
Jero rode at the front of the party on a tall warhorse, his mood exceptionally cheerful, the gloom of the swamp completely dispelled.
He had entered Willow Wood City's direct territory. This was the Legge Family's domain, absolutely safe.
He imagined his father's shocked and ecstatic expression upon seeing this sword. The prosperity of the Legge Family would be pushed to its peak by him, Jero Legge.
Just as the party rounded a bend in the road, a dark mass of figures appeared ahead.
Jero immediately made a judgment. In this region, any army appearing could only be his family's army: "It's our army."
77
A smile appeared on his face, and he even smugly adjusted his cloak, spurred his horse away from the group, and rode forward to meet them, waving high.
The soldiers and knights behind him also breathed a sigh of relief and quickened their pace. The distance between the two sides rapidly closed.
One hundred paces.
Eighty paces.
Fifty paces.
Thirty paces.
The smile on Jero's face froze.
Greeting him were ten already-strung crank crossbows, their cold bolts aimed at him. On either side of the heavy crossbowmen were dozens more archers, their longbows drawn.
All the arrowheads pointed at one target.
"You!!!" Jero Legge's voice was distorted with shock.
No one answered him.
A dozen heavy crossbow bolts and dozens of feathered arrows whistled through the air, instantly tearing through the silence.
The immense impact pierced Jero and the warhorse beneath him. He was violently flung from the horse's back like a tattered rag doll, crashing heavily into the muddy ground, riddled with arrows, like a hedgehog.
Blood stained his magnificent cloak.
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