The Third Battalion

Unlike the scene with Klein, the atmosphere in the Patrol Division Third Battalion camp was extremely oppressive.

Morris had sent the letter out just as the sun dipped below the horizon.

The messenger rode the fastest horse, traveling through the night.

The sound of galloping hooves rang out urgently in the darkness, and the mud splashed into arcs under the moonlight.

The horse's breathing was heavy and ragged, white mist puffing from its nostrils and quickly dissipating in the night wind.

That same night, the letter reached the Patrol Division Third Battalion.

At the camp entrance, two patrolling soldiers stopped the messenger.

"Halt." One of the soldiers rested his hand on his hilt, his gaze unfriendly, while the other held up a torch. The orange light illuminated the messenger's mud-stained face. "It's so late. What are you doing here?"

The messenger dismounted, gasping for air and nearly unable to stand.

His legs were trembling from the long hours of riding, and his boots were caked in mud.

"I was sent by the Stonebridge Town magistrate. I have an urgent letter for Lord Karl."

The two soldiers exchanged a glance, a meaningful look flickering in their eyes.

"An urgent letter?" The other soldier’s lips curled into a playful smile as the torchlight danced across his face. "That won't do. Lord Karl is already resting and cannot be disturbed."

He paused and reached out, rubbing his fingers together. "However, if you're willing to pay a little fee for our trouble, we might be able to make an exception for you..."

"This letter is for Lord Karl," the messenger interrupted, his voice laced with urgency and annoyance. He pulled the letter from his coat, the wax seal glinting with a dark red luster in the firelight. "It's about his brother."

The smiles on the two soldiers' faces froze instantly.

The air seemed to solidify for a moment.

"What... what did you say?" The voice of one of the soldiers shifted in pitch.

"Lord Karl's brother," the messenger repeated, his eyes fixed on the two men, his tone carrying a hint of impatience. "Something happened."

The soldiers' faces turned deathly pale.

They had been in the camp for so long; who didn't know that Lord Karl's brother was his most precious possession?

Even though everyone knew the man was a bandit leader, no one dared to say it aloud.

"I... I'll go call Lord Karl right away!"

One of the soldiers dropped his torch and turned to run into the camp, his footsteps so frantic he nearly tripped.

The other soldier remained where he was, his gaze toward the messenger turning complex.

He swallowed hard, wanting to say something, but in the end, nothing came out.

Deep within the camp, inside a private tent, candlelight was still flickering.

When Karl was woken up, he still had some lingering irritation from being disturbed.

He sat on the bed wearing a dark robe, his gaze gloomy and his voice thick with impatience.

"What is it?" His voice was low and dangerous, like a volcano ready to erupt at any moment.

The soldier stood outside the tent, his voice trembling behind the curtain.

"My lord, the Stonebridge Town magistrate sent someone with an urgent letter. It's about... about your brother."

Karl's expression changed instantly.

His eyes, which were still heavy with sleep, snapped wide open. His pupils contracted, and his entire aura became sharp and dangerous in an instant.

He threw back the covers and stepped onto the ground barefoot, walking outside the tent in a few strides.

The cold ground sent a piercing chill through the soles of his feet, but he didn't care.

"Where is the letter?" His voice was pressed very low, but every word felt like a blade scraping against stone.

The soldier handed the letter over with both hands, his fingers trembling slightly.

Karl snatched the letter and tore open the wax seal.

The parchment unfurled in his hands, and the candlelight hit the paper, making the handwriting clearly visible.

His eyes quickly scanned the contents.

One line.

Two lines.

Three lines.

His fingers began to shake.

The paper made a faint rustling sound in his hands, the edges curling as he gripped them, even forming small creases.

"...Raiding a caravan..."

"...Killed on the spot..."

"...The leader was killed on the spot by a passing knight."

Karl's breathing stopped for a moment.

His chest rose and fell violently, and a low growl escaped his throat like that of a wounded beast.

Then, he suddenly looked up, a manic light gleaming in his eyes.

"Prepare a horse." His voice was very low, but every word seemed squeezed through his teeth, carrying a bone-chilling cold. "Now. Immediately."

The soldier froze for a moment, instinctively glancing at the sky. "My lord, it is the middle of the night, and..."

"I told you to prepare a horse!" Karl's voice rose several octaves, almost a roar. He grabbed the soldier by the collar, a flicker of madness in his eyes. "Do you not understand human speech?!"

The soldier shuddered, his face turning pale as he nodded repeatedly. "Yes! Yes! I'll go right away!"

He broke free from Karl's grip and turned to run, his footsteps so frantic he nearly fell.

In less than fifteen minutes, the camp was filled with the sound of urgent hoofbeats and the hurried footsteps of soldiers.

"Quick! Move faster!"

"Lord Karl is leaving the camp!"

"Bring out the best horses!"

Karl had changed into a suit of dark battle armor, with his signature longsword hanging at his waist.

A dark red gemstone was embedded in the hilt, gleaming with an ominous luster in the firelight like congealed blood.

He strode out of the tent and vaulted onto his horse.

"Follow me!" At his command, twenty elite soldiers quickly assembled and mounted their horses.

These soldiers were Karl's confidants, each a veteran of many battles, but at this moment, their faces all carried a trace of unease.

"Where is my lord going?" a young soldier asked in a small voice.

"Shut up," an old veteran beside him whispered a sharp rebuke. "Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong. Just follow."

But his own eyes also flickered with a hint of doubt and unease.

Karl ignored the whispering behind him. He squeezed his horse's flanks, and the warhorse let out a whinny before charging through the camp gates.

In the night, the hoofbeats sounded like thunder, and the mud splashed into arcs under the moonlight.

Twenty cavalrymen followed closely behind, the column stretching into a long line in the darkness. The torchlight flickered in the night like a fire snake winding its way forward.

Inside the Stonebridge Town magistrate's office, Morris sat in a chair, quietly reading recent dossiers.

He hadn't slept.

In fact, it was impossible for him to sleep; he was waiting for Karl.

A cup of tea that had long since gone cold sat on the table, a few tea leaves floating on the surface, swaying slightly in the candlelight.

Urgent hoofbeats came from outside the window, moving from far to near like some ill omen.

Morris stood up and walked to the window. He pulled back a corner of the curtain and looked out.

In the night, a troop of cavalry charged into the town.

The man in the lead was tall, sitting upright on his horse. His armor glinted coldly in the moonlight, and a longsword hung at his waist.

A dark red gemstone was embedded in the hilt, glowing with a dim luster under the moon.

It was Karl.

Morris took a deep breath and let the curtain fall. His fingers trembled slightly, but he quickly steadied them.

He turned and walked to the door, adjusting his collar.

The door was kicked open with a bang.

Karl stood outside, his gaze dark and terrifying.

His hand was pressed against his hilt, his knuckles white from the force, and veins were faintly visible on the back of his hand.

"What exactly happened?" His voice was very low, but every word was infused with suppressed rage, like a volcano on the verge of erupting.

Morris stood his ground, not retreating.

He looked up, meeting Karl's gaze directly. Though he was nervous inside, his voice remained calm.

"Everything is as written in the letter." His tone was steady, even carrying a hint of business-like coldness. "Your brother led a group to raid a caravan and was killed by a passing knight."

Karl's eyes narrowed, a dangerous light flickering within them.

"What were you doing?!" His voice rose, nearly a roar.

"And where is that knight now?!"

Morris paused.

"They are still in town, at the inn." His tone remained calm, but his fingers clenched slightly at his side. "I can lead you there."

Karl stared at Morris, his gaze searching.

He was judging whether Morris was lying or hiding something.

But Morris's expression was too calm—so calm that one couldn't find a single flaw.

It was suspicious.

However, blinded by fury, Karl took a deep breath and then turned to walk back out.

"Lead the way."

His voice echoed in the night, cold and hard like a tolling bell.

Morris followed behind him and mounted his horse.

The troop set off again, hoofbeats echoing through the night.

On the way, Morris suddenly spoke.

"My lord."

Karl did not respond. He rode with a straight back, his eyes fixed on the darkness ahead.

Morris swallowed and gripped the reins even tighter.

"That knight... left a name."

Karl's fingers paused on the reins.

"A name?"

He turned his head, his gaze cold as if he were looking at a dead man.

"Is this a provocation?"

Morris said nothing. He kept his head down, fingers clutched around the reins. Hoofbeats echoed in the night, and the splashing mud hit his boots with faint wet thuds.

Karl's lips curled into a cold arc.

"Speak."

His voice was low but carried an indisputable authority.

"What is it?"

Morris's Adam's apple bobbed. He looked up at Karl. The moonlight hit his face, revealing fine beads of sweat on his forehead that glistened in the cold night wind.

"Ophelia."

Karl's smile froze.

He yanked on the reins. The horse whinnied, its forelegs rearing up and slicing through the air. Its hooves flailed, nearly kicking the nearby cavalrymen.

The riders behind him all came to a halt, the sound of hoofbeats stopping abruptly.

In the night, only the heavy breathing of the horses and the rustling of wind through the leaves remained.

Karl sat motionless on his horse. His fingers gripped the reins so hard that his knuckles were white, and the leather could be heard creaking under the strain.

"What did you say?"

His voice was very low, each word squeezed from the depths of his throat, carrying a hint of disbelief and fear.

Morris gritted his teeth.

"Ophelia."

He repeated it, his voice carrying a slight tremor.

"She said her name is Ophelia."

Karl's pupils contracted.

He stared at Morris, his eyes flashing with shock, terror, and a touch of disbelief.

The soldiers behind him also broke into a commotion.

"Ophelia? That Ophelia?"

"The Sword of the Empire?"

"It can't be... why would that lord be in a place like this?"

"Shut up!" an old veteran hissed, though his own voice was trembling.

Karl snapped his head around, his sharp gaze sweeping over the soldiers.

The soldiers fell silent immediately, but the unease and fear in their eyes could not be hidden.

Karl turned back to look at Morris.

"Are you sure?" There was a hint of hope in his voice—hope that Morris would say he wasn't sure.

Morris nodded.

"I am sure." His voice was firm. "She said it herself. And..."

He paused, looking into Karl's eyes.

"And I feel that her strength is indeed worthy of that title."

Morris was naturally lying; he had never seen Ophelia fight.

But Karl, having suddenly heard this shocking news while already in a rage, had almost lost his capacity for rational thought.

Karl's breathing hitched for a moment.

He turned his head and looked into the night ahead. The silhouette of the town loomed in the moonlight, scattered lights shining from windows like eyes in the dark, quietly watching them.

His fingers tapped lightly on the reins with a faint sound.

Ophelia.

That name echoed in his mind like a curse.

The Sword of the Empire.

The Butcher of the West Coast.

The bane of sea monsters.

The female knight who had carved a path of blood through the battlefield.

The legendary figure who, with a single sword, had driven back the sea monsters of the west coast.

Karl's throat felt tight, as if something were blocked there, making it difficult to breathe.

If it were really her...

He raised his hand and made a gesture.

The cavalry slowed their pace. The previously urgent hoofbeats became slow and heavy, like a dull drumbeat or a funeral procession.

Morris looked at Karl, a flash of doubt in his eyes.

"My lord?"

Karl did not answer. He stared ahead, his eyes shifting with uncertainty, and his expression looked exceptionally complex under the moonlight.

Better safe than sorry.

If that person really was Ophelia, wouldn't he be seeking his own death by charging in?

His twenty men wouldn't even be enough to fill the gaps between her teeth.

But it could also be a bluff.

Karl's lip twitched, and a flicker of hope crossed his eyes.

Right.

It was most likely a bluff.

Why would that Sword of the Empire have the inclination to notice the petty affairs of a frontier town like this?

She should be in the capital, in the palace, surrounded by important figures.

She should be attending banquets, receiving medals, and enjoying glory.

She couldn't possibly appear here.

Not in a godforsaken place like this.

It was impossible.

Karl took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down.

But his fingers were still trembling.

He looked down at his hands.

The moonlight shone on the backs of his hands, revealing the faint veins and the fine beads of sweat from his tension.

If it were really her...

He clenched his teeth so hard his nails nearly dug into his palms.

Karl's gaze darkened, and a flash of humiliation and resentment crossed his face.

But if it wasn't—

He looked up, a spark of madness and ruthlessness in his eyes.

Hmph.

Then don't blame him for being heartless.

How dare they impersonate the name of the Sword of the Empire?

How dare they kill his brother?

How dare they play such tricks in front of him?

He would make that person learn the meaning of regret.

He would make them understand the price of impersonating the Sword of the Empire.

He would personally tear away their disguise and then cut off their flesh, piece by piece.