"Wait a moment," Barco said in his rough voice, raising a hand to halt the cart. His sharp eyes scanned the faces of the survivors as if searching for a hidden answer. With surprising agility, he leapt off his horse, his wooden leg striking the ground with a thud.
"A knight... Was there a knight with you?"
A heavy silence fell among the guardians. The air seemed to grow heavier with their embarrassment, as if Barco's words carried a truth they were unwilling to face.
After a moment, one of the guardians hesitantly stepped forward. It was Dorton, one of the six survivors. His face was pale, and his voice trembled as he barely managed to speak.
"He... he fell in battle."
The news hit everyone like a thunderclap. A moment of deadly silence followed, then voices erupted in disbelief.
"A knight fell here? Could that even happen?"
"How could something like this happen? I've never heard of this before!"
"Could this just be nonsense?"
For centuries, rumors about knights had spread far and wide. They were said to be extraordinary beings, unlike ordinary men, possessing incredible powers.
Some claimed they were monsters in human form.
Others went further, believing they were hybrids—descendants of humans and mysterious races hiding in the shadows.
There were even whispers of secret experiments conducted by sages that gave birth to these beings.
But one fact remained consistent across all tales: knights were never defeated in single combat.
The soldiers exchanged confused glances, whispers growing louder among them. Some appeared shocked, while others cast strange looks toward the guardians.
Such news could easily spread to every clan in the southern region.
Barco raised an eyebrow, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly before he suppressed the reaction.
"Very strange. The report I received mentioned nothing about a knight being with you... nothing at all."
"A report? What report?" Barbon, struggling to rise despite his injuries, questioned in a strained voice.
Barco turned to him slowly, his gaze filled with suspicion.
"Yes, the report. A message was sent saying your group was in danger, but it mentioned nothing about a knight or a battle of this magnitude."
One of the guardians, silent until now, stepped forward, trying to maintain his composure.
"Sir Barco... we, too, were unaware of what was happening. As for the report, I assure you we didn't send it. If we had, we would have told you everything."
Barco narrowed his eyes, his voice growing harsher.
"Then who sent that cursed report? And who knew you were in danger?"
Another heavy silence descended, as though the words had fled from everyone's lips. The soldiers felt an unease beyond their comprehension. The guardians exchanged worried glances, as if the truth lay hidden among them, but no one dared to reveal it.
"What exactly was in the report?" Barbon interrupted.
"Excuse me?"
Barbon stared intently at Barco.
"If what you're saying is true, then this is serious. Sir Barco, tell me exactly what the report said."
Barco and Barbon exchanged looks for a brief moment. With a sigh, Barco spoke.
"I didn't bring the report with me, but I still remember its contents. It said you had been injured in a major battle, that you had many wounded, and that you needed protection."
"That's it?" Barbon pressed.
"What? Do you want me to make something up?" Barco lost his temper, shouting in frustration.
Barbon collapsed back onto the ground, overcome by his pain and thoughts.
"Take care of yourself; your wounds are still open," Rakos, one of the guardians, approached to assist him.
"Now, I need answers," Barco demanded.
"What answers? We've told you everything we know!" one of the guardians shouted beside Barbon, his face flushed with anger.
Barco leaned forward slightly, his tone becoming sharper.
"That's not everything. Tell me now... who's fighting in the plains? The one-armed man tearing through the Krithor like they're nothing but weeds?"
A tense silence filled the air, the atmosphere choking with apprehension. The guardians stood on the edge of a decision, their pale faces betraying their hesitation. If the man fighting was indeed a knight from the Remil family, they were facing an unavoidable disaster. Being accused of abandoning a knight in battle and lying about his death would be a scandal beyond repair.
"Sevrice!" Barco's firm voice broke the suffocating silence.
A slender young man stepped forward from the ranks, his youthful features marked by discipline and seriousness.
"Yes, sir," he replied.
Barco gestured toward the horizon.
"Fire three signal arrows toward the city."
The soldiers hesitated briefly, exchanging glances, before gripping their swords in preparation for what was to come. Barco's command left no room for debate.
"Prepare yourselves... We're going to exterminate the Krithor."
His decision was clear. Exterminating the Krithor would ensure the events remained buried, preventing any investigation or accountability should the surviving knight truly be from the Remil family.
The soldiers moved swiftly, their footsteps loud on the dry ground. Sevrice nocked his fiery arrows, the flames licking the tips with a quiet intensity.
As the first arrow soared, it carved a bright streak through the sky, followed by two more, signaling for the mercenaries to arrive.
"What signal did you send?" one of the guardians asked.
"The mercenaries," Barco replied.
"Are you sure they'll answer your call? And what about us?" another asked, doubt evident in his tone.
Barco understood the difficulty of mobilizing mercenaries for an ordinary person, but his situation was different. With a cold smile, he replied,
"Since I sent the request, they'll come. They know I command two large clans, and they certainly won't hesitate when they learn how much they'll be paid."
"And us?"
"You'll return to the city first," Barco said firmly. The guardians offered no argument, his words calculated and precise.
Though confident, Barco felt a pang of internal regret—it was his gold that would fund the mercenaries.
He gazed into the horizon, pondering the elite forces of the White Banner he had brought. Though formidable, they paled compared to the mercenaries from the guilds. He recalled Shadow Wardens roaming the monster-infested steppes near the Great Abyss and hunters from the Black Leather Guild specializing in subduing various races.
Barco retrieved a small horn from his belt and blew into it powerfully.
"Booooooo!"
The distinctive sound echoed across the field, signaling the forces facing the Krithor to retreat and reorganize.
Mounting his horse, Barco commanded his troops to form ranks.
The soldiers moved with precision. Shields rose to form an unyielding wall as Barco advanced at the forefront, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the mercenaries were sure to appear.
"Shield and sword formation!"
"Clear the path!"
"Cavalry, form up!"
"Clear the path!"
"Archers, take position!"
"Clear the path!"
---
Amid the roars and cries of the beasts, he stood alone. His tall shadow stretched across the blood-stained ground littered with torn limbs and broken bodies. His black armor was in tatters, barely covering his battered body. His chest heaved with labored breaths, yet he did not falter.
He held his sword in his left hand, his other arm hanging limp and lifeless. Yet this did not seem to hinder him. The sword, almost entirely black, was buried deep into the piled bodies of the Krithor, forming a small mountain around him.
From a distance, Mark watched the scene with wide eyes, paralyzed by fear and awe. He whispered to himself, his voice barely audible amidst the chaos surrounding him.
"That's not a man... That's something else... something no one can understand."