The Yellow-Haired Youth

It required extraordinary eyesight, precise anticipation, a calm state of mind, and exquisite control over the release of one's power.

With these conditions combined, this person's strength was likely at the Silver Rank.

“Where did this caravan come from... to have such a capable person?”

However, his surprise was only momentary.

Nathan's lips curled into a cold, hard arc, and a wolf-like ferocity flashed in his eyes.

He raised his hand and waved, his voice decisive:

“Pursue!”

Although the surrounding horse bandits did not know how the eagle had been shot down, nor did they know what kind of expert was hiding in the distant caravan, none of them hesitated since their leader had given the order.

They shouted and spurred their horses, kicking up a cloud of dust as they galloped in the direction the caravan had retreated.

Amidst the commotion, only the yellow-haired youth on Nathan's right remained standing in place. His brow was furrowed, and his gaze was fixed on the end of the dirt road where dust was rising in the distance; he made no move to leave.

It was unclear what he was thinking.

Nathan glanced at him, a rare, slow gravity in his voice that sounded almost like an explanation:

“The opponent this time is not simple. I will make a move myself.”

He paused, lowering his voice even further, yet every word was clear:

“Don't worry. Since we've already come this far... those who must be taken down will definitely not escape.”

Upon hearing this, the yellow-haired youth's furrowed brow did not ease. He merely gave a very slight nod, then silently mounted his horse and followed the group.

Seeing this, Nathan stared at the youth's back with a complex expression. His lips parted slightly as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, he only withdrew his gaze in silence.

Silently tightening his grip on the reins, he whipped his horse and quickly caught up with the galloping team ahead.

...

Matthew and Porter galloped back, spotting the caravan from afar. It had already huddled into a tight cluster, looking exceptionally isolated on the open grassland.

The Fiery Lion flag on Regg's carriage was still fluttering noisily in the wind, but at this moment, it seemed more like a beacon attracting danger.

The moment they rushed into the defensive perimeter of the carriages, Porter pulled his reins, dismounted, and spoke in a hurried yet steady voice:

“Everyone, on alert! The West Wasteland Horse Bandits are catching up. Their leader, Nathan, is leading them personally. They're only a few minutes away!”

As his words fell, the already tense atmosphere instantly froze.

Several adventurers turned pale, their hands unconsciously tightening around their weapons as their panicked eyes swept across the open horizon.

There, dust and smoke were already faintly visible.

Porter did not have time to reassure the uneasy adventurers. He walked quickly to Regg's carriage and reported a few words in a low, rapid voice.

Hearing this, Regg's expression changed slightly, and his lips twitched as if he wanted to say something.

But Porter's mind was entirely on the imminent crisis, and he did not notice his young master's subtle anomaly.

Without hesitation, Porter reached out, pulled down the fluttering Fiery Lion family flag from the top of the carriage, quickly rolled it up, and stuffed it back inside.

Matthew took in this entire scene, and the tight string in his heart loosened slightly—

Porter's quick decision at least removed the most direct provocation for the caravan.

However, Regg's reaction surprised him slightly.

When hearing the news that Nathan was pursuing them personally and was close at hand, this young noble's face had indeed changed and his lips had moved, but Matthew did not catch the expected, soul-shattering terror in his eyes.

What flashed by was more like a brief panic from having a secret exposed, which was then immediately and forcibly suppressed into a complex expression.

‘As expected...’

Matthew understood.

‘How could the heir of a great family, who has a Silver Rank expert as a personal bodyguard, truly be completely defenseless? And how could he not have a trump card or two that others don't know about?’

This realization deepened his assessment of Regg, but it did not put him completely at ease—

A trump card was a trump card, but whether it could be played timely and correctly in the midst of flashing blades and blood was another matter entirely.

“Brother Matthew!”

Just then, Aidan's urgent voice interrupted his thoughts.

The boy ran over quickly, his face written with tension. Sierra followed closely behind. Although the female adventurer did not speak, her tightly pursed lips and tightly gripped weapon also betrayed her inner anxiety.

“What happened? What did Lord Porter say to Young Master Regg just now? I saw him take the flag down...”

Aidan fired off questions in rapid succession, his gaze shifting back and forth between Matthew and Porter's distant back.

Matthew snapped out of it. He did not directly answer Aidan's question about the flag—it involved the blood feud between Nathan and the Fiery Lion family, and pointing it out now would only fuel the panic.

He quickly made a judgment and gave clear, calm instructions, both to direct Aidan and Sierra, and to lay the groundwork for his own next move:

“Aidan, Sierra, go to the carriages immediately. Take as much dry food and water as you can, wrap them in cloth, and tie them next to your saddles.”

Hearing this, although the doubt in Aidan and Sierra's eyes was not entirely resolved, Matthew's calm tone and clear instructions gave them a sense of direction. They agreed and split up to act.

Almost at the same time, Porter's steady, powerful voice echoed from the front of the caravan, quickly organizing a defensive formation:

“Everyone, form a circular formation with the three carriages at the center! Point the shafts outward, and push the wooden cargo crates down to reinforce the perimeter!”

...

The entire caravan was like a tightly wound spring.

Under the threat of death and clear instructions, it began to operate at high speed and in an orderly fashion.

Wooden crates were quickly pushed off the carriages and piled around the perimeter, forming a low barrier that was better than nothing.

The wheels were hastily tied together with ropes to prevent a direct charge from the enemy's horses.

Everyone gripped their weapons tightly, backs against the defensive circle, their eyes locked onto the direction where the dust was sweeping in.

The sound of hooves grew from a distant, thunderous rumble into distinct, chaotic, and powerful pounding, making the ground beneath their feet tremble slightly.

Matthew quietly retreated behind the crowd.

He drew his White Fang Bow and placed his quiver within arm's reach. His gaze, sharp as an eagle's, pierced through the thinning spring sunlight to lock onto the very front of the dust cloud.

The dust dispersed, revealing the menacing silhouette of the horse bandits.

About a dozen riders formed a loose arc across the grassland, slowing down and stopping about a hundred paces away from the defensive circle.

The leader was none other than Nathan.

He rode on his conspicuous black-maned horse, his physique imposing, with his scimitar resting casually on his shoulder.

His gaze, like a physical blade, slowly swept over the hastily formed circle, his face devoid of expression.

Yet his indifferent, murderous aura—forged through countless battles where human lives were treated like grass—permeated the air from afar, choking the breath out of several adventurers in the circle.