Chapter 84: Not a Miracle

“Our journey began when Viking pirates invaded our village one night a month ago,” Lucas said. “They burned our homes and slaughtered half our people. That night, we barely managed to drive the pirates away through sheer luck. Fearing their return, we gathered what we could carry and fled toward Alvado Town. At that time, we didn’t yet know the Icelanders had started a war.”

A scribe whispered something in Viscount Quentin’s ear, and the viscount nodded. Someone was sent to retrieve a sword from outside.

The longsword engraved with divine runes was placed upon the long table.

“The demon-slaying sword Radiance – this is indeed the holy sword lost three years ago,” Viscount Quentin said. “So the pirates who attacked your village were led by that notorious Sven Freud? The villain reputed to fight a thousand alone, whose fists could dent plate armor and pulp internal organs. Tell me, Mr. Porter – did you slay Sven and reclaim this sword from him?”

“Not so,” Lucas shook his head. “That night, I was defeated by Sven and powerless to continue fighting. It was a hero from distant lands who defeated Sven and secretly eliminated most pirates. Without that hero’s intervention, we would have been slaughtered to the last that very night.”

“Where is this hero now?” the viscount asked.

Lucas fell silent for a moment, and the viscount suddenly understood. If the hero still lived, why wouldn’t he have accompanied them to Purple Thorn Castle?

A rare sense of shame rose in the viscount. It was rude to casually mention the deceased before survivors, especially a respected one.

“That lord has departed. Before leaving, he entrusted this sword to me,” Lucas said. “I merely safeguard it on his behalf.”

“My condolences, Mr. Porter,” the viscount said.

“I do not grieve, for I have embraced that lord’s path,” Lucas replied calmly.

“He must have been a man of noble character.”

“His soul was both lofty and warm.”

“So after encountering the pirates, you attempted to reach Alvado. But why avoid the main road to take the Klavi mountain path, detour around Bronte Village, and enter Creek Forest?” The viscount changed the subject.

“When we reached Bronte Village, it had become a land of death,” Lucas said. “The entire village was exterminated, leaving only necromancers’ minions – sewn beasts crafted from winter wolves and magical creatures, along with some death hounds. Nothing remained but cold corpses.”

“Necromancers…” The viscount inhaled sharply. “Not just demons, but the Icelanders ally with necromancers too? They’ve gone mad!”

Lucas continued: “At that time, we didn’t realize war had begun. We thought Bronte’s tragedy was solely the necromancers’ doing. Fearing detection by the mages’ servants, we sought cover in the forest.”

“How many days ago was this?”

“The sixteenth day of Winter Veil.”

“A wise choice. I’d received battle reports by then,” the viscount said. “Had you taken the main road, even avoiding the mages’ servants, you’d have encountered the Icelanders’ army. By the sixteenth, they’d advanced their frontline to Alvado.”

“Yet I remain puzzled. Choosing to traverse the forest was a desperate gamble. Creek Forest’s terrain is treacherous, your group comprised mostly elderly, women and children. Without proper paths, livestock became burdens. You couldn’t carry much food. Alvado was occupied by Icelanders’ forces – at least a thousand warriors garrisoned there, blocking all routes. How could you possibly continue forward unimpeded?”

The viscount tapped the table.

“According to your drawn route, when crossing the Prague River, you merely skirted Alvado, passing via the adjacent glacier. Icelanders on watchtowers could easily spot you. Necromancers’ flying servants surely patrolled the frontlines constantly. This was certain death. How did you pass through?”

“Lord Viscount, we didn’t proceed immediately,” Lucas said. “In truth, we rested nearly two days in a cave before continuing.”

“Where did you rest?” the viscount asked.

“In York’s storage,” the gnome suddenly spoke up. “Milord, York had a secret mountain warehouse for storing valuable materials. When the Icelanders invaded, York happened to be retrieving items there to brew potions, thus surviving by chance. Later, York encountered Porter’s group and led them to hide in York’s warehouse.”

The viscount looked at Lucas and Bardel: “Is this true?”

“Exactly as York said, Lord Viscount,” Lucas and Bardel answered simultaneously.

“Yet you coincidentally met in that vast forest?” The viscount narrowed his eyes.

“Actually, York was captured by Icelanders while trying to escape,” York said. “Porter’s group rescued York from a squad of soldiers. That’s how we met.”

“I see…” The viscount stroked his chin. “Continue. What then?”

“Then York asked Porter’s group to help retrieve the Mist Stone,” York said. “Lord Viscount, have you heard of Mist Stones? Marvels from York’s grandfather’s homeland of Opal.”

“Opal, south of the Nidran Kingdom… Land of Gnomes. Those stones that summon great mists? I’ve heard such tales – whenever gnomes face unstoppable foes like dragons, they use magical stones to create mists. When the mist clears, no gnome remains. So these stones truly exist?”

“York possesses one Mist Stone,” York said, stretching his neck back. “But your guards confiscated it earlier…”

“Filippo, have our guests’ belongings returned.”

“As you command, milord.” The scribe sent someone to retrieve their items, placing them on the table.

The gnome hurried forward, stuffing the Mist Stone and other trinkets back into his pockets unhindered. He patted his chest and exhaled in relief.

“You used the Mist Stone to create fog, evaded Icelandic scouts, crossed the Prague River, and through sheer willpower completed this long journey, finally reaching Purple Thorn Castle today?”

The viscount stood, eyes fixed on the map.

“An incredible path. This borders on miraculous… I’d thought such things only happened in fictional knightly tales.”

“This is no miracle,” Lucas said. “We paid a heavy price to reclaim the Mist Stone. Each subsequent day, we advanced step by step on our own feet.”

The viscount studied Lucas. Reports indicated no major external injuries – both eyes intact, all limbs functional. Yet now he noticed numerous burn scars on exposed skin, Lucas’s left eye completely blinded. What brutal battles had he endured?

Moreover, Lucas had broken through to Silver-rank after over a decade at Iron-rank. Most professionals stagnating so long never advance further, deemed “those who’ve reached the alley’s end” – their path leading only to death.

Cases like Lucas’s were vanishingly rare, requiring unimaginable trials to shatter that “dead end” stone wall.

The viscount couldn’t help marveling: “Unthinkable hardships. Every step along a cliff’s edge – one misstep from utter destruction. I cannot fathom what will sustained you.”

“Because we remember the sacrifices made.”

“I, Colton Quentin, offer respect and sorrow to those who reached Purple Thorn Castle, and those who did not.”

The viscount placed a hand over his heart in memorial. Others present followed suit, including the Holy Maiden.

“Yet regretfully, war flames rise. Purple Thorn Castle too shall be engulfed,” the viscount said. “Though you’ve arrived, you must still serve our land, defending our home.”

“Viscount Quentin,” the Holy Maiden suddenly interjected, “I came also to inform you – the king and church have jointly decreed. We’ve detected terrifying evil – two of the seventeen recorded Demon Archdukes’ presences have emerged in the north and Iceland. Crusaders and nations’ armies are being summoned by the Pope. This is no longer war between nations, but between Order and Shadow.”

“I shall now assume command of Purple Thorn Castle. Civilians and non-combatants will withdraw to uncontaminated lands.”

A White Wing Knight presented the king and pope’s joint decree.

The viscount’s expression darkened. He hadn’t realized matters had grown so dire.

Would House Quentin’s legacy perish with him? Reluctance to relinquish authority warred within him, resisting the Holy Maiden’s takeover.

Yet facing that flaxen-haired girl, he could only bow his head.

“Thy holy will be done.”

The Holy Maiden smiled warmly at the three, like a neighbor’s daughter one watched grow up: “Fear not. You may retreat with the civilians. War shall not reach you again.”

The scribe announced: “This is Her Highness Serefina, inheritor of the Saint’s name.”

The gnome immediately knelt in awe. Confused, Bardel followed suit. Lucas bowed respectfully: “Your Highness, I petition to remain at the frontlines. Though my strength is meager, I would stake my life protecting those weaker, defending homeland and native soil.”

The Holy Maiden nodded, returning Radiance to Lucas.

“Then as you wish. You possess the will and conviction to wield this blade. Remember today’s oath.”

“Until death and beyond.”