Chapter 55: Old Smooth Face

On the distant city wall.

Herald Bazel saw this scene from afar, his thin and withered body trembled violently. He felt darkness before his eyes and saw stars, his mouth hung wide open, revealing a row of dark yellow teeth, and his gray hair ruffled in the wind. He murmured blankly: This is impossible… this is absolutely impossible… he is actually alive… why is this happening… is he a monster? How could he survive being pierced by so many arrows? Damn it! Damn! Damn! Damn! Aaaah!

The old man felt like he was going crazy.

Gerger, who had been gloating beside him, stumbled and sat down heavily. Alexander surprisingly wasn’t dead, and this fat pig’s sharp instincts told him in an instant: It’s over, his good luck was about to vanish, and big trouble was coming back soon.

Under the watchtower of the city gate.

Angela let out a soft moan and slowly woke up, sad like a lily that wilted suddenly before it could bloom. Her eyes lost their shine, looking dull and lifeless. Hearing the cheers from outside the bridge, she peeked through tear-blurred vision, but in that instant, her sight froze. Her heart raced wildly without control, because through her misty tears, she saw that familiar and towering figure standing far away at the end of the bridge—the sad girl couldn’t believe her eyes and quickly rubbed them… God of War be praised, it’s him!

Life and brightness instantly returned to the young girl’s delicate body.

“Alexander…”

Angela whispered, her tears flowing freely like a burst flood. Unlike the earlier grief, this was pure happiness making her weep with joy. She suddenly stood up, eagerly wiped her tears, then ignored the protests from the returned Lampard, Brook, and others. She lifted the hem of her skirt and dashed down from the city wall, joyful as a little bird singing merrily.

“I need to see him!”

The beautiful young girl said to herself in her heart.

She had walked the path from the top of Shampoo City to the stone bridge countless times. Standing on the city wall or the bridge to watch the sunset and sunrise, praying for poor Alexander, were things she used to do often. But Angela never felt this road drag so slowly.

She wished she could teleport instantly into the arms of that person on the bridge.

“Hey, watch your step… Angela… slow down… slow down, wait for me!”

The blonde little Lori Gemma laughed and shouted behind her, hopping and skipping to catch up, her golden ponytail bouncing happily at the back of her head. Her bright and cheerful mood filled Frank Lampard’s eyes with warmth—Shampoo City’s strongest fighter, normally with an expressionless “international dead face,” now showed joy. Not long ago, Lampard saw Sun Fei turned into a fat, arrow-covered white hedgehog on the bridge. Shocked, he recklessly jumped down from the city wall and charged wildly toward the other side… but suddenly, he remembered Alexander’s earlier order to protect Angela. After a brief hesitation, he quickly turned back and stayed guard beside Angela.

Luckily, Angela was fine.

At the critical moment, Brook dashed over and shielded her tightly.

Now, everything was perfect: Alexander was alive and back, the enemy was routed and fleeing madly, reinforcements from the Zenit Empire had arrived, and all dangers to Shampoo City instantly vanished—it was the happiest ending possible.

Thinking this, Lampard’s usually blank “international dead face” finally showed a bright smile; it was his first truly happy laugh in years. He chuckled and smirked provocatively at Herald Bazel not far away, whose face looked stormy and dark as if drenched in rain.

Bazel could only grumpily sneer in response.

…

On the south bank of Zuli River.

The distant group of hundreds of knights finished charging and cutting down over a thousand fleeing Black Armored Army troops. They roared and circled, stopping at the riverbank. A huge scarlet carriage pulled by eight horses cut through the crowd and slowly rolled forward. The carriage was shockingly big, at least three meters long, resting on four large, intricate wooden wheels. The entire body seemed carved from a whole block of natural timber, decorated with thorn flower patterns and vivid little birds. On each side, two small ventilation windows appeared. Surprisingly, the driver wasn’t your average coachman but a Knight in full, gleaming armor who looked far from weak.

Seeing the carriage approach, the commander in fancy armor—who had been knocked flying earlier by Sun Fei—scrambled over and clung to the wheel axle. In tears, he twisted the story of what just happened, adding juicy lies and exaggerations, unwilling to back down: “Elder sister Tanasha, that cursed guy flaunted madness to insult the Zenit Empire’s dignity—he even cursed you… please don’t let him get away with this easily.”

Silence answered from the carriage for several seconds.

Then, a soft and frail voice drifted out: “Dimi, aren’t you the one who provoked him first? This time, you met a master who doesn’t care for your status as the little Prince of Zenit—a painful lesson learned. Do not stir up trouble willingly again… I have told you many times: To become a true Knight, mere Might and battlefield achievements are not enough. Humility, honesty, mercy, bravery, justice, sacrifice, honor, spirit… always remember these eight rules tightly before you can hope to earn such honors as a true Knight.”

Her soft, recovering voice lacked any toughness but pierced hearts powerfully, easily exposing little Prince Dimi Torbinsky’s lies. Alongside that, she spoke criticism again over her unworthy younger brother.

Dimi Torbinsky had hoped his elder sister would discipline that Barbarian who dared insult him properly. This lecture made him slump his head down helplessly. Making excuses through a touch of fluster, he argued: “But Elder sister, this time it really wasn’t my faul—”

“Enough. Let’s put this matter aside finally; if you plan something more, I will order soldiers to escort you home instead…” The frail voice in the carriage cut Dimi off coldly. After a pause, she added: “Go summon Steward Best please.”

Dimi could only huff and rise sulkily, turning and waving a hand to a nearby soldier. He whispered: “Call that damn coachman here.”

“Right, Your Highness,” the soldier replied, hurrying off.

Soon after, the soldier returned with a middle-aged man around forty, dressed in a coarse linen-colored robe. The man stood about 1.8 meters tall, with neatly groomed short black hair, clean-sharp brows and bright starry eyes, a bold nose hinting courage, and a balanced body frame—handsomely striking overall. Though wrapped in rough clothing, he carried himself calmly as if draped in the world’s most luxurious gown, exuding a refined elegance that almost floated toward you. Clearly, this guy had been the type of super-handsome heartthrob capable of twisting naive teenage girls’ heads back in his youth. Even now, past forty, his inviting gestures could spark bright, lovestruck eyes from pure girls.

“Hey you cheap ‘coachman’ Best, hurry tell your idiot King son-in-law: The Zenit Empire’s conferring envoy has arrived grandly—make him crawl out and kneel humbly to welcome me…” Perhaps fueled by some jealousy between guys of similar charms, tiny Prince Torbinsky barked orders at this carefree old handsome bloke acting only as coachman throughout the trip. He stressed “coachman” nastily.

“As you command, Prince!”

Middle-aged Best showed zero offense. With a graceful bend at his hip, he delivered an elegant and spot-on Noble bow. Then, without haste, he headed for Shampoo City. His calm, respectful manner made Dimi feel his own rude rant made him look like a bumpkinly clown with no manners at all—the Prince felt so upset he nearly bled inside. But no one noticed how, after turning his back to leave, Best thrust an angry middle finger in the air near his chest.

Back to Shampoo City at last—all worries vanished along the journey.

Seeing the tall city walls still striking strong and nearly unharmed, Best breathed deeply in relief: “Luckily, the reinforcements arrived just on time—the worst didn’t happen; the Black Armored Army didn’t breach the castle…” He sighed deeply. With Lampard, the top fighter around, Bazel couldn’t cause much chaos; surely Angela and that silly King were doing fine.

Ground everywhere painted scenes of messy bodies cut down fiercely, remnants of brutal fights sending chills through Best—he didn’t comprehend how Shampoo City could cling freely so long. It seemed a pure miracle: Facing over three thousand well-trained attackers from the Black Armored Army, how did just four hundred Royal Guard soldiers hold out for five whole days?

Near the bridge, the ever-cool Best stared forward… and suddenly froze shockingly.

“God of War above… How ruthless! Breaking the stone bridge—could anyone think of such a rotten idea? Hmm, Lampard and Brook aren’t brainy enough for that… Perhaps Bazel? Since when did that old dog behave kindly?”

Best bent to think hard.

Right then, cheers crossed the bridge abruptly—he noticed a massive happy crowd whooping wildly over something beyond. Rushing waters almost drowned bits of “Long Live the King!” and “Your Majesty!” that drifted faintly across. Best felt uneasy: Long Live the King? Uh… surely they didn’t mean that dimwit Alexander?

Best quickened his pace, hurrying onto the broken bridge.

But suddenly, another sight stunned him speechless—

His own pure-hearted, kind beautiful daughter Angela rushed crazily out from the castle—no trace of a dignified Lady stood—like a gorgeous butterfly fluttering happily through flowers, cheeks flushed with red hue. Panting, dividing scores of townspeople, she plunged weeping and laughing into the arms of a young man coated in tattered, bloody armor. Her arms locked him right tight.

Best couldn’t believe his own eyes.

Gods above! When did his innocent, unblemished sweet girl Angela gain such boldness? Hugging a strange young lad publicly without care—did she forget her future role as Queen? Or had crazy wonders occurred while Best stayed absent from Shampoo City?

The thought struck panic through Best’s fast-thudding heart.

He felt he had to warn darling Angela immediately—must keep her safe from those smooth-talking, rotten boys spinning tales to steal hearts. Best sprinted toward the break in the bridge, deliberately yelling at full lungs: “Hey, Angela my sweet baby, I’m back!”

…

Over on the break of the bridge.

Sun Fei blissfully treasured soft angles and sweet scent warmly pressed against him… when his engaged fiancée rushed out spiritedly to hang upon his chest. After a brief puzzle spreading into delight, the ruffian thrilled inwardly: Haha, like the tale of a hero matching perfectly with a fair beauty—grinning satisfied.

Just as Sun Fei grew so happy his teeth nearly crumbled without noticing, while work feverishly against drooling to savor the treat in his grasp… another man brazenly roared out deaf ears: Hey Angela my little baby, I’m back…

Instantly, Sun Fei raged furiously.

“Damn it! What clueless turtle-head dares openly flirt with my girl?”

Boiling anger surged uncontrollably within this jealous fellow. Glaring dangerously around him, he caught viewers’ eyes drifting towards the opposite side of the split bridge… where an “old smooth face” with merely okay-ish looks peeped greedy and lustful at sweet Angela tucked close into his chest—graphically wicked plan painted all over.

“Just who in hell is this old creep?”

Sun Fei felt fists beginning to itch painfully faintly.