Chapter 82: Whose Hope?

Chapter 82: Whose Hope?

“Scoundrels! …Seize them! Seize every last one of them!” The unfortunate officer bellowed resentfully, any trace of his earlier smugness utterly gone. The threat gained an absurdly pitiable edge from his thick nasal tone.

This order wasn’t carried out well. Constantine’s fine hunting attire and emblem played a part, but more significantly, that earlier Mage Hand cast enough intimidation. Everyone knew what it meant to offend or belittle a Mage. These beings, wielding extraordinary power, operated beyond worldly laws, effectively God of Death figures to ordinary folk. Tales were rife with spine-chilling, horrific fates awaiting those who crossed a Mage. And crucially, provoking any Spellcaster, even an Apprentice, was unwise, especially near the capital, the most Mage-concentrated place. Who knew if that unassuming Apprentice had an Archmage for a teacher?

“His Majesty the King never granted you the right to arrest a Noble! Threatening one is already a serious crime! You’d better ponder the severity of this carefully!” The mercenary team’s Leader, a Lady, leapt down from the carriage, shouting back louder. She grasped the situation clearly. Though three arrows were nocked on her bow, she remained poised for defense. The Rogue and Cleric also rallied close, evidently realizing Constantine’s barely-fourteen-year-old status was their best escape route.

Though the sun dipped behind the mountains, there were always many passersby near Hayton’s city gates. Curiosity drew a crowd clustering around in small groups. Her shout caused distant murmurs to rise.

“Bullshit Noble! Couldn’t even forge a decent fake! Listen, punk! I’m a Baron myself! I know noble rules!” Wiping a stream of blood from his nose, the wretched enforcer — no, City Guard Captain, snarled savagely, “Ever seen a snot-nosed brat with a trefoil-bordered emblem? That’s reserved for a Viscount at least! You lot scared off by some fancy stitching? Can’t you think?”

“But the Mage…” One particularly thoughtful Knight near him started to object, but a loud CLANG reverberating from his helmet instantly silenced him!

“You idiot! Which Mage Apprentice in Hayton casually strolls around outside? Seize these spies and liars!” Roared the Captain, jerking back the spear shaft he’d just whacked against the subordinate’s head.

Of course, we know his statement was only generally accurate and didn’t apply universally. After all, noble ranks were bestowed by His Majesty the Emperor, and spellcasting abilities didn’t necessarily denote an Apprentice. But this claim instantly won over the surrounding, equally inexperienced City Guards. Wheeling their horses, they raised their long spears, ready to subdue these “spies and liars.”

Constantine rubbed his temples. He disliked such chaos. He’d thought revealing his emblem would make these pests at least back down, if not grovel. Instead, they concocted this righteous spy narrative… and it sounded almost plausible… Regret gnawed at him. Why had he sent the Old Steward back with those small finds from the mine? Now he might end up in a City Guard cell.

Screw it. Let this blow up. I can handle these morons, the boy resolved silently.

Then, commotion erupted beyond the crowd. Over a dozen men in Law Enforcement Office uniforms charged from the gate direction. Constantine narrowed his eyes. Though their running was disorderly, clearly low in quality, each carried compact shortbows and full quivers!

A backup plan. Beyond the mounted team, he’d readied shortbowmen. Low-tier City Guards didn’t have Mages, but ranged power was essential for deterrence. Shortbows were cheap, simple to learn. Their range and precision were poor, but their rapid fire and portability made them deadly en masse. Few now… but against fewer targets, they’d serve.

“These bastards might be spies from the southern bumpkins! Seize them, and I’ll get you promotions!” Yelled the Captain opportunistically. A few guards exchanged glances before spurring their mounts. Six or seven spear tips stabbed chaotically at the small group!

“Standard trash!” Mocked the Lich, its eye on the Soul Stone contracting.

These weren’t proper knightly lances but crude spear-tipped wooden poles for infantry. Still over seven feet long. Striking empty was punishable by slower recovery. Worse, mounted men stood still fighting grounded opponents? Ridiculous.

But Constantine’s three companions were mere Mercenaries, unable to openly resist the City Guard. They dodged or parried spear thrusts — except Nirwen (and Constantine). Knowing their real trump card, she held no mercy. Darting forward, two guards yelped, clutching their shoulders. Her slender throwing knives couldn’t pierce the guards’ thin plate armor but found gaps effortlessly.

The chaos hit a crescendo. One cavalryman’s wide spear swing tore a long gash in the carriage canopy. A child inside screamed.

“Drop your weapons! Or this brat dies!”

Constantine’s pupils constricted. Glancing sideways, he saw the little girl (once rescued by the Cleric Mercenary) pinned to the carriage corner by a spear-point. The wielder gloated, pushing the tip, forcing a shriller scream. His practiced movements suggested familiarity with such brutality.

“You scum!” the mercenaries cursed in unison. But the response was triumphant laughter:

“Carlyle, you bastard! Always soft on little chicks, huh? Good job! I’ll tell the Captain to bump you to Patrol Guard First Class!” Blonde Captain yelled, inviting a wave of crude chuckles. “Hold her tight! After interrogation… I’ll let you “interrogate” her proper! Might uncover a big conspiracy! Hahahaha…”

The situation was textbook. Exchanging a glance, the Cleric dropped his Warhammer. The Archer and Rogue followed suit. Nirwen didn’t move, but didn’t attack either.

Constantine had no intention of surrendering.

Focusing inward, he triggered his newly honed ability — not for swordplay this time, but spellcraft.

An outsider saw only his hand rise. Then, the next second, his fingers flickered like ghostly shadows, emitting a sound as sharp and continuous as an insect’s hum. Almost instantaneously, violet light erupted from his hand!

Globs of jet-black sludge surged across the ground. A rider forcing his Horse back was the first victim. Mid-grunt, mount and rider toppled sideways with a heavy crash. A chorus of pained cries followed — a six-foot fall while squeezed beneath a several-hundred-pound Horse and dozens of pounds of Armor was brutal.

This triggered a domino effect. Instinctively rearing horses slipped and tumbled. Meanwhile, purple rays continued erupting from the boy’s hands. Mere breaths later, the dozen boastful City Guards writhed in an oil-slicked heap!

The Blond Captain’s jaw dropped. He shook his head like a fool. Positioned farther back, he managed to steer his mount clear of the greasy zone.

But it didn’t clarify his scrambled thoughts. As a Baron, he vaguely knew Mages who could cast instantly existed… but were all high-level masters. No way this clearly underage brat was one!

In his dismayed view, the boy approached unhurriedly, a dark Scimitar now inexplicably in hand. Casually, he stepped towards a trapped Knight and slashed! The agonized scream choked half-out as the boy stomped on the man’s neck, twisting it into garbled gurgles!

The strange noise chilled every listener. Utter silence fell as all eyes locked onto the undersized figure in hunting gear.

“I think you should drop your weapons! Because next time… I might lose control!” Constantine stated coolly. Following his lead, the mercenaries grabbed three prone thugs, eliciting fresh, ear-splitting shrieks skyward!

They say killing breeds a killer’s aura — inaccurate, but facing death often brings indifference… and indifference breeds fear. Constantine hadn’t witnessed grand carnage, but his cold performance projected utter fearless detachment.

“…You have your methods,” Constantine internally sighed to the Lich, rewarded with its scratchy, silent laughter.

This unheard exchange made Constantine’s resolve unquestionable. Fundamentally, a Noble could execute a Commoner at will, even a mere Baron — official law and common practice.

And the boy could kill. Currently a Chiliarch, a Viscount — he could execute a Law Enforcement soldier freely. Even a Knight from the Royal or Imperial Guard — unless Noble — was fair game.

“Now… we both have hostages. Dilemma?” Constantine stared at Blondie, twisting a corner of his lip.

“Scum! We are loyal soldiers of Phoenix! We won’t yield to spies! Kill him if you dare! Priests of the Temple of the Three Gods will resurrect him! And I’ll carve strips from each of you for vengeance! Aim! My order, turn them into pin cushions!”

Blondie gritted out heroic words, but his pinned men weren’t eager to be martyrs. Howls of pain, craven pleas for mercy, and hatred-filled curses against comrades filled the air. Topping it off was the crowd’s mocking titters — usually silent, but the City Guards were deeply unpopular.

“Counter-offer… Single combat. Beat me, I return them. Lose…” Constantine’s gaze flickered; the dense Knight was gone. He offered a tantalizing deal to Blondie. “…I’ll go with you. Deal?”

“Nice trick! You’re a Mage! Whatever spell you fling, I lose!” Blondie sniffed, refusing — too crafty.

Things looked bleak. The foe was definitely a Mage, identity perhaps noble. Blondie’s only hope? Insisting the Mage wasn’t Phoenix-born. Otherwise, they were doomed. He contemplated ordering the barrage.

Then came the bait: “I’ll use just the Scimitar. Melee duel?”

A Mage vs warrior? Blond eyed the approaching kid. That smug twist on his lips was hateful. Mocking? Provoking? Insulting! “Come die then!” He dismounted, drawing his sword with practiced sweeps. Fighting now was good. Win? Solved. Lose? Archers waited. He could cheat. More important? Stalling. City Guard reaction wasn’t lightning-fast, but gate incidents drew backup fast.

“Oh, right! Under Phoenix law… warriors can’t easily challenge Mages.” Blondie sneered at the boy’s measured steps. He guessed this brat planned magical treachery. Still confident — he’d clawed up to Captain not just by bootlicking, mastering a few tricks, including anti-arcane tactics. Whatever the kid plotted… he’d overacted! This distance? One lunge, sword through flesh!

“I am not a Mage.” Constantine shook his head, locking eyes with Blondie’s twisted face.

“I already showed my emblem. Perhaps your heraldry knowledge is weak? No matter. I explain.” The boy moved inexorably, releasing astonishing pronouncements: “It signifies my station. Second-class Viscount of the Empire. Chiliarch of the Special Knights Sky Knight Reserve of the First Imperial Army… Constantine Di…”

“The First… Army? Spreading fear now? That’s the Imperial Guard! Never heard of a Special Knights unit, or Sky Knights!” Blondie forced a loud, incredulous sneer, breaking the boy’s momentum, desperately exposing the ‘lie’. Elaborate titles chilled the surrounding guards. Weapons slackened. Only Blondie’s furious roar held their gaze: “Clearly insane! Mad!”

“…Deaf ears,” Constantine sighed.

His hand jerked sideways. Sshh-sshh-thunk! Three arrows struck the spear-man tormenting the girl — waist, upper arm, shoulder! Agony from the barbed broadheads wrenched a bestial howl from him. The spear clattered uselessly against the carriage.

Distraction secured. Constantine became a blur of grey!

“Scoundrel! I am Captain of Phoenix’s City Guard! A Baron of the Empire! Harm a hair…” Cold Adamantine Scimitar met warm flesh. Blood welled along the fine edge. His sword hung uselessly mid-swing.

Blond sweat streamed down his temples. Victory was impossible… but hope flickered. At the gate… a knight on a white Horse emerged, surrounded by ranks of gleaming armored cavalry. Behind them rolled an imposing black carriage, lavishly adorned…