Henselt, a towering figure with a thick beard and a belly that bulged from years of excessive drinking, struck his attendant hard across the face. The heavy smell of alcohol filled the room as he shouted irritably, his voice echoing with frustration:
"You worthless fools! You've betrayed my trust and shamed the Kingdom of Kaedwen!"
"It's been three months! Three whole months, and you still haven't found a single trace of that mercenary scum!"
"That man is a mercenary! He has to eat, sleep, and seek out women. He can't survive alone in the wilderness forever. He needs supplies, and he has to interact with people."
"Even if he were a pig, we should have found some trace of him by now. But you lot—you're worse than pigs! Stupider than those damned non-humans!"
The attendant, whose face still stung from the slap, bore his grievances in silence. After all, he wasn't even responsible for the mercenary hunt; he was just the messenger. Yet, every time he brought an update on Dante, he ended up being the king's punching bag. Others had been similarly punished, thrown into the dungeons on dubious charges, sentenced to years behind bars simply for angering Henselt. He knew better than to protest or defend himself.
Seeing no reaction from the attendant, Henselt, still seething, contemplated delivering a kick but stopped himself, finding no satisfaction in the lack of response. Instead, he stumbled back to the table, picked up a large goblet of strong wine, and downed it in one gulp. The burning sensation traveled from his stomach to his throat, then rushed to his head, dulling his anger and replacing it with a murky, alcohol-induced haze. His irritability ebbed, leaving behind a blank, almost contented emptiness.
Just as Henselt was about to pour himself another drink, the duck-like voice of the palace manager cut through the air, interrupting his brief respite.
"Your Majesty, the two sorcerers sent by the Brotherhood of Sorcerers have arrived at the palace and are awaiting your reception."
"They will accompany you on today's hunt. The other noble knights are already gathered at the hunting grounds, waiting for your arrival."
Henselt, his irritation momentarily forgotten, slapped his forehead as if in sudden recollection. Ah, yes, today was the day he had agreed to go hunting with some of the kingdom's most powerful nobles.
These nobles were his staunch supporters, men who shared his disdain for non-human races and who were aligned with his vision of cleansing the kingdom of these so-called impurities to establish a pure human realm. They were, in every sense, loyal royalists.
The importance of this hunting celebration was not lost on Henselt. It was a crucial opportunity to strengthen alliances and solidify his support base. Otherwise, on a typical day, he would have been lounging with a few beautiful women, drinking and indulging in the pleasures of the flesh.
But after the debacle at the last banquet, where the mercenary Dante had infiltrated and killed one of his own, Henselt was taking no chances. To ensure security at this hunting event, he had summoned 300 armored knights to serve as his personal guard. In addition, his royal advisor would be present, along with the two sorcerers sent by the Brotherhood to track down Dante. They would all be participating in this hunt.
If the mercenary dared to show his face, Henselt was confident they would capture or kill him on the spot.
Snorting with renewed determination, Henselt barked at the palace manager, "Have the servants prepare my hunting attire. It's been too long since I've stretched my muscles. Today, I'm going to bring down a winter bear and hang its head in my study."
This time of year, the bears had just emerged from hibernation, hungry and active—a perfect target for a royal hunt.
With that thought, Henselt, flanked by a large entourage of servants, sorcerers, and guards, made his way to the hunting camp outside the city.
The camp was a spectacle of color and grandeur. Brightly colored tents dotted the landscape, neatly arranged with the heraldic flags of various noble families fluttering in the breeze. The scene exuded an air of power and prestige.
Counting the elite knights under Henselt's command, along with the guards and servants brought by the attending nobles, the camp housed over a thousand combat-ready men. More than 800 of them were cavalry, most clad in heavy armor. It was a formidable force, capable of capturing a small city if need be.
In the king's opulent tent, Henselt took his place at the head of the table, surrounded by the leading nobles of the kingdom. Meanwhile, the three sorcerers had gathered in a smaller tent nearby, discussing their plans in hushed tones while using magical devices to eavesdrop on the conversation in the king's tent.
As the host, Sabrina was the first to speak, addressing one of the sorceresses. "Vanielle, you and Mr. Istredd have visited the sites where the soldiers were slaughtered. Have you uncovered anything about the mercenary, Dante?"
The sorceress, Vanielle, was a woman of striking brown hair and elegant demeanor, her appearance refined and scholarly. She was a member of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers but did not serve any particular kingdom as a royal advisor. Instead, she pursued her own research projects, enjoying a degree of freedom rare among her peers.
In response to Sabrina's question, Vanielle pulled out a note and unfolded it to reveal a color oil painting—an exact likeness of Wayne in his guise as Dante. Beneath the portrait was a detailed description, outlining every aspect of Dante's appearance: his height, weight, skin color, hair color, and the weapons he carried. The attention to detail was meticulous, leaving little room for error.
With a wave of her hand, Vanielle made copies of the portrait and the accompanying information, handing one to Sabrina. "We pieced this together from survivors' accounts and clues left at the scene. After extensive comparison, we're confident that this is an accurate depiction of the criminal."
"This portrait should prove far more useful in capturing him than the flawed wanted posters currently in circulation."
She continued, her tone clinical and precise. "Based on the wounds of the deceased, the manner of their deaths, and descriptions from the surviving witnesses…"
Vanielle continued with her analysis, her voice steady despite the grim implications. "We can reasonably confirm that this mercenary, Dante, is highly proficient in invisibility magic. He also commands a powerful lightning spell and possesses a unique ability to create phantom clones. Additionally, his physical combat skills are exceptional, far beyond the capabilities of an ordinary human. The equipment he carries is undoubtedly of magical quality, likely surpassing standard enchanted items."
"In terms of combat effectiveness, Dante alone could be compared to an elite force of several hundred men. He is a formidable opponent, combining the lethality of a seasoned warrior with the versatility of a spellcaster. Frankly, his power is on par with members of the Supreme Council."
She exchanged a glance with Istredd before addressing Sabrina with a note of resignation. "To be honest, Sabrina, this individual is incredibly dangerous and difficult to deal with. Warlocks like us, who aren't specialized in combat, aren't equipped to handle him. We're considering abandoning this mission and returning to the Brotherhood to request additional support or perhaps replacements more suited to this task."
Istredd nodded in agreement, adding, "If Dante possesses anti-magic equipment, as we suspect, ordinary warlocks would stand no chance against him."
He then elaborated on their findings. "According to our intelligence, Dante's actions thus far seem focused on rescuing non-human races. Over 600 soldiers have fallen to him. It's puzzling that someone of his caliber would be unknown, even among veteran mercenaries. We've consulted with several who have been active for decades, and none have heard of a man named Dante."
"This leads us to believe that Dante might not be his real name. He could be an outsider, possibly from another region, or perhaps not a mercenary at all but a spellcaster like ourselves, wielding unfamiliar magic."
Istredd paused before continuing, "There are too many uncertainties surrounding this individual. What's clear is that his actions are not random. The fact that he's targeting Kaedwen suggests a connection to the kingdom's recent purges of non-human races. It's possible he was hired by those seeking revenge against the crown."
Sabrina frowned, absorbing the warlocks' analysis. This Dante was proving to be more of a threat than she had anticipated. It wasn't just his abilities that were concerning; it was the motivations behind his actions, motivations that were likely to escalate the conflict between Kaedwen and the non-human races.
As she considered the implications, Sabrina couldn't help but reflect on King Henselt's stubbornness. Known as a wild boar for his obstinate nature, Henselt was unlikely to abandon his vendetta against the non-humans, no matter how dangerous his opponents might be. His refusal to heed the advice of his royal advisors had been a constant source of frustration, and this situation was no different. The king's deep-seated hatred for the non-human races had only grown stronger, making any resolution seem impossible.
Sabrina's fingers tapped rhythmically on the gold bracelet she wore, her thoughts racing. After several moments of contemplation, she finally spoke. "We need to seek support from the Brotherhood and inform the Supreme Council that this situation requires their intervention. I will also increase the bounty on Dante, hoping to attract more mercenaries willing to take him on."
"We'll need to coordinate closely. If we manage to track him down, I'll join you in confronting him. I'll also mobilize the Brown Cavalry Battalion, an elite light cavalry unit known for their speed and tenacity. They won't stop until they've run their prey to ground. If they can get on Dante's trail, he won't escape."
As the three warlocks discussed their strategy for dealing with Dante, King Henselt, oblivious to the gravity of the situation, was busy indulging in his pleasures. Holding a wine glass, he drank heartily, engaging the loyal nobles in conversation about how best to further exploit the non-human races. They plotted ways to pass new laws that would strip these marginalized groups of their wealth and properties, treating them as criminals who could be hanged or expelled at will.
None of them noticed the uninvited guest standing in the corner of the king's opulent tent, hidden beneath an invisibility cloak. Dante himself was there, listening with interest as these bloated, self-important men discussed their plans to drive out non-human residents and seize their lands. He watched with a wry smile, fully aware of the irony of the situation—these nobles, so concerned about him, had no idea he was standing right among them.
As the wine continued to flow and the discussions grew bolder, Henselt, now thoroughly inebriated, let out a loud burp. He shoved aside the attendant who had been helping him and shouted to the red-faced, drunken nobles gathered below:
"Okay, gentlemen, after drinking wine and eating meat, it's time for everyone to show off their skills."
"In this hunt, the person who can bring down the largest prey will receive a generous reward: three thousand ducats. If the winner does not already hold a title, I will grant him knighthood and elevate him to the nobility."
As Henselt made his promise, cheers erupted throughout the tent.
For the great nobles, a knighthood might mean little, but for the soldiers and warriors, a knighthood was a lifelong aspiration.
Thus, the soldiers cheered loudly, shouting the king's name as if they were ready to die for him. Such enthusiasm was something Henselt relished.
He was a rather crude man who preferred the camaraderie of soldiers in the barracks, where he could indulge in vices like prostitutes, boxing, and gambling, rather than dealing with the intricacies of court life in a luxurious palace.
To him, only violence, conquest, and the expansion of his territories were worth pursuing.
As the king basked in his supporters' admiration, ready to lead them into the forest to flaunt his prowess in a grand hunt, Wayne quietly moved behind him, discreetly stretching out his hand to cast the "Curse of Misfortune" on the king.
Ding!
The Curse of Misfortune has been successfully cast on the target. The caster gains 19 points of luck, and the target's luck is reduced by 20 points.
'19 points of luck!'
It seemed this king was even unluckier than the wealthy merchant who had ended up in a vegetative state. With nineteen points of luck drained from him, Henselt's luck had now plummeted to minus twenty.
What kind of misfortune would befall someone with luck that low?
As the invisible power was siphoned from Henselt, Wayne noticed that the king's previously flushed face grew pale and lost its luster at a speed visible to the naked eye.
However, Henselt was only in his thirties. Despite being weakened by years of heavy drinking, he was not on the brink of a stroke like the merchant.
Unaware of the curse, Henselt stepped out of the tent. But as soon as he took a step, his body suddenly trembled, and an uncontrollable urge to urinate seized him. Feeling warmth spread through his crotch, Henselt blushed with embarrassment, realizing he had wet himself.
Fortunately, it was early spring in cold Kaedwen, and everyone wore thick clothes and armor. The warmth that spread down his crotch and legs was not immediately visible.
Henselt maintained his composure and continued to bark orders. If he drew attention to his mishap now, it would be far worse. He planned to address the issue after the nobles dispersed.
But his string of misfortunes had only just begun. As the nobles and knights mounted their horses, His Majesty the King, with his slightly damp trousers, climbed onto his favorite steed.
Who would have expected that this fierce horse, which he had tamed and ridden for years, would suddenly go wild for some unknown reason? It reared up, kicking out with its powerful hind legs, striking an earl next to him and throwing the camp into chaos.
Then the horse neighed, rearing up and throwing the king to the ground.
If not for a nearby general who quickly realized something was amiss, delivering a swift punch to the horse's head with his iron-gloved fist, the horse might have trampled Henselt's chest with its iron-shod hooves.
With the help of his attendants, Henselt got to his feet, trembling with fear and humiliation. He pointed a trembling finger at his now-dazed mount, preparing to unleash his fury. But before he could speak, a nearby mare, panicked by the chaos, suddenly turned around, presenting its rear to the king, and released a loud and noxious burst of flatulence, accompanied by a spray of warm horse dung.
The foul-smelling gas, mixed with the filth, splattered directly onto Henselt's face, even spraying into his open mouth just as he was about to yell.
Vomit!
The combination of alcohol and the overpowering stench caused the king to vomit violently. His body, already strained by the embarrassment and the physical shock, betrayed him further as his muscles relaxed uncontrollably, causing him to soil himself audibly.
Seeing the normally fierce and intimidating king in such a humiliating state, several of the nobles present struggled to suppress their laughter, their fists clenched tightly to prevent any outburst that might earn them the king's eternal enmity.
The owner of the unfortunate mare, a lowly baron, dismounted in terror, hastily kneeling before the king and offering frantic apologies. He dared not meet the eyes of the king or his fellow nobles, fully aware that his life and title were now precariously hanging by a thread.
King Henselt was not known for his forgiveness. The disgrace he suffered at the hands of his own mount and the mare was unlikely to go unpunished. The baron, realizing this, could already envision the difficulties and dangers that awaited him after this day.
As the attendants rushed to lead the humiliated king back to his tent to clean up, bathe, and change into fresh clothes, the clear sky above suddenly darkened with storm clouds. The shift in weather was abrupt and ominous, causing the gathered nobles to frown in confusion.
Before anyone could curse the unpredictable Kaedweni weather, a bolt of lightning shot down from the dark clouds, striking the most opulent tent in the camp—the king's tent. One bolt was quickly followed by another, then a third, and a fourth, each strike igniting the leather of the tent with searing heat. The wind picked up, fanning the flames, and soon the entire tent was engulfed in fire.
The noble knights and soldiers outside had no time to react before they saw Henselt, naked, enraged, and humiliated, being carried out of the blazing tent by a few of his personal attendants. The king's bare, snow-white buttocks were exposed for all to see as he was rushed out, his flushed face a mask of fury.
This spectacle—of the once-majestic and fearsome king now reduced to such a state in front of thousands of his subjects—was almost too much for the assembled nobles to bear. The stark contrast between Henselt's usual imposing demeanor and his current humiliation nearly broke their composure. Yet, the fear of the king's wrath held their laughter in check, though they would remember this sight for the rest of their lives, savoring the memory in private.
Just when it seemed that the farce might finally end and that the king's string of bad luck had run its course, the earth beneath them suddenly began to tremble violently. The ground quaked, cracks spreading rapidly, and a deafening rumble filled the air.
The realization struck them all at once—an earthquake, and a severe one at that.
Before the soldiers could react, the knights were thrown from their panicking horses, which began to run wild, adding to the chaos. Servants screamed and scattered, and the strong winds blew the flames from the king's tent onto others, spreading the fire. In moments, the entire hunting camp was in utter disarray.
Meanwhile, Henselt, who had been hurriedly brought to another tent, let out a groan as the tent collapsed around him. A wooden beam struck him hard on the head, and the king fell unconscious into the bathtub.
In the midst of the chaos, his servants, driven by their own survival instincts, abandoned him. The king, forgotten and alone, lay submerged in the water, unconscious.
It wasn't until several minutes later that Sabrina and other warlocks arrived, raising a magical shield to protect them as they used magic to clear away the debris. They found King Henselt unconscious, having swallowed a significant amount of bathwater.
On this day, what was meant to be a grand and vigorous hunting celebration for the nobles turned into a disaster, with the unknown earthquake plunging the kingdom into further turmoil.
...
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