A dozen or so robust soldiers worked together to turn a massive winch, gradually lowering the heavy iron oak drawbridge.
When the drawbridge touched the ground, a cavalry squad crossed the ten-meter-wide moat from above and came to the outskirts of the city, forming a line.
Their armor was bright and sparkling, the long spears in their hands gleamed, and they held their heads high and their chests out. They walked in a neat and orderly manner, clearly a well-trained ceremonial team.
Then, several nobles dressed in their finery came out of the city and stood before the ceremonial team.
The leader was a young man with blonde hair and blue eyes. He was handsome and always had a gentle smile on his face. The style of the noble ceremonial dress he wore indicated that he was the lord of Floral City—
Count Morrison.
The young count gazed at the distant cavalry army in the distance and asked his father, who was sitting in a wheelchair beside him:
