Le Mans in early winter looked peaceful.
That was the lie.
Smoke rose slowly from chimneys. Old trees swayed under thin wind, shedding yellow leaves that drifted like something already finished. The mountain folk had entered their winter rhythm—less work, more rest, small hunts to stretch what little they had. Life did not improve. It simply slowed enough to feel bearable.
From a distance, it was calm.
Up close—
It was fragile.
Peace was never something they owned.
It was something that existed only when no one pressed hard enough to break it.
And pressure—
Was coming.
---
The square filled early.
Men. Women. Children.
No one was forced to come.
That made it worse.
They chose to stand there.
Together.
Waiting.
---
At the center stood Ian.
Old. Straight-backed.
Wrapped in a mage's robe he had not worn in decades.
Once, he had been something more than a mayor.
Once, he had fought.
Now—
He spoke.
"My people!"
His voice, carried by a simple amplification spell, reached the edges of the square without strain.
"For twenty years, I have stood with you!"
Murmurs spread. Recognition. Familiarity.
Not loyalty.
Something deeper.
Habit.
"We built this town ourselves!" Ian continued. "With our hands! With our blood! Floods, droughts, beasts—we endured them all! Every scar we carry is proof that we did not run!"
The crowd responded.
Not loud.
But real.
Men nodded. Women lowered their heads.
Because it was true.
Because it mattered.
Because it was all they had.
"And now—"
His voice changed.
Harder.
"—they want to take it from us."
Silence fell.
"They call themselves nobles."
The word landed badly.
Not fear.
Not yet.
Disgust.
"They claim this land belongs to them. That we are nothing but subjects to be taxed, controlled, used!"
Anger rose.
Fast.
"They demand five gold coins from every household!"
This time—
The reaction exploded.
Shock.
Fear.
Then rage.
"Five gold?!"
"They want us dead!"
"That's everything we have!"
A child shouted something obscene about nobles. Laughter followed—sharp, brief, unstable.
Ian raised his hand again.
"And that is not all."
The square quieted.
"They beat our people."
Barm was pushed forward.
Huge once.
Now broken.
Bandaged.
Reduced.
"They dishonored our daughters."
Sobbing began.
Soft at first.
Then spreading.
"They took my son—"
A pause.
Then—
"They turned him into a labor slave."
---
Guta was brought forward.
And everything stopped.
---
His face was no longer a face.
Burned. Rotting.
Marked.
---
The brand was still fresh.
Still visible.
Still real.
---
Something shifted in the crowd.
Not anger.
Not yet.
Something deeper.
---
Recognition.
---
This could be them.
---
Fila ran forward, collapsing beside him.
"Guta—what did they do to you—"
No one stopped her.
No one could.
---
Because this was no longer a speech.
---
It was proof.
---
Ian raised both hands.
"This is no longer about land!"
His voice rose.
"This is about survival!"
"This is about dignity!"
"This is about whether we live as men—or die as animals!"
---
The square ignited.
---
"Kill them!"
"Drive them out!"
"We won't kneel!"
---
For one moment—
It was real.
---
Unity.
---
Hope.
---
Defiance.
---
Then—
The sound came.
---
Hooves.
---
Fast.
Heavy.
Unstoppable.
---
The crowd turned.
And saw them.
---
The **Dragon and Beauty**.
---
One hundred and fifty riders.
Armored.
Ordered.
Cold.
---
They did not rush.
They did not shout.
---
They entered like something inevitable.
---
The crowd broke before they reached them.
Not because they were weak.
Because steel—
Was louder than anger.
---
The formation split.
And through it—
Ruger rode forward.
---
Black armor.
War axe resting casually.
Relaxed.
---
Not tense.
Not angry.
---
Certain.
---
Guta screamed.
"That one! That's him!"
His voice cracked into hysteria.
Because he remembered.
Because fear does not fade.
It settles.
---
A young man stepped forward.
Too brave.
Or not brave enough to understand.
"What crime did he commit?" he shouted. "You think nobles can turn people into slaves? You think we accept five gold taxes?!"
The crowd roared again.
---
Ruger watched him.
Calm.
Measured.
---
Then asked—
"What tax did you say?"
---
The man hesitated.
"…Five gold."
---
Ruger didn't answer him.
---
Instead—
"Towfler."
---
A man collapsed out of the crowd.
Kneeling.
Shaking.
Broken before anything began.
---
"What tax did I order?" Ruger asked.
---
Silence.
---
Towfler trembled.
---
Ruger lifted his hand.
---
Three Magic Missiles struck the ground around Towfler's head.
Perfect triangle.
Precise.
Controlled.
---
Ian's face changed.
He understood.
---
Too late.
---
"Answer," Ruger said.
---
"…one… silver coin…"
---
The square—
fractured.
---
Not exploded.
---
Cracked.
---
"What?!"
"Only one?"
"Then—what is this—?"
---
Ruger stepped forward slightly.
Voice calm.
"Then what did you tell him?"
---
Towfler broke.
"Three silver! I just wanted the extra—I swear—!"
---
The crowd shifted again.
---
Not anger.
---
Doubt.
---
It spread faster than rage.
Quieter.
More dangerous.
---
Ian staggered.
---
Because he understood what had just happened.
---
Not the lie.
---
The direction.
---
A woman screamed—
"They're lying! He's working with them!"
---
But it no longer mattered.
---
Because once doubt appears—
truth becomes optional.
---
The search followed.
---
Not as justice.
---
As inevitability.
---
The house.
The rooms.
Nothing.
---
Hope—
for a moment.
---
Then—
click.
---
Lens found the hidden door.
---
Inside—
gold.
---
Too much.
---
Jewels.
Equipment.
Wealth beyond reason.
---
The crowd stared.
---
Because they could not imagine it.
---
Because they could not explain it.
---
And because of that—
they accepted it.
---
Truth did not die there.
---
It became irrelevant.
---
Ian didn't argue.
Didn't shout.
Didn't deny.
---
Because he knew—
it was over.
---
He turned to Fila.
---
Soft.
---
"Live."
---
Not justice.
Not revenge.
---
Survive.
---
---
The duel was inevitable.
---
Ian cast.
Fast.
Precise.
---
Oil spread across the ground.
Shield formed.
Skeletal warriors rose.
---
The crowd screamed.
---
Ruger didn't hesitate.
---
Floya appeared.
Black.
Silent.
Deadly.
---
Haste.
Movement.
Impact.
---
The battlefield narrowed.
---
Then—
green light.
---
Disintegration.
---
"Run!" someone screamed.
---
Ruger moved instantly.
---
The spell followed.
---
He grabbed a dog—
threw it.
---
The magic touched it.
---
Gone.
---
Not burned.
Not destroyed.
---
Erased.
---
Dust.
---
Ruger felt it.
---
Death—
close enough to touch.
---
Then—
he adapted.
---
Magic missiles.
Nine.
Different angles.
---
Flame.
Pressure.
Break.
---
The shield shattered.
---
Floya moved behind Ian.
---
One strike.
---
Silence.
---
The mayor fell.
---
Not defeated.
---
Finished.
---
---
Ruger stood there.
Breathing.
Alive.
---
Around him—
the crowd was silent.
---
Not angry.
---
Not united.
---
Broken.
---
Because they understood.
---
Not what was true.
---
But what mattered.
---
Ruger looked over them.
---
And thought—
---
Rebellions don't die in battle.
---
They die in doubt.
---
He turned.
---
Because there was nothing left to prove.
---
Power—
had already done its work.
---
END OF CHAPTER 17