Leading the veiled figure through a crowd of people prostrated with their faces to the ground looked less like a procession and more like something else entirely.
Even so, by the time they had completed one circuit of the streets, Ian had shown no reaction whatsoever.
He’s not a fool, yet he pretends to be one.
“Shall we return now?”
The procession had begun in the morning and was supposed to continue until just before sunset. Since they had completed only a single circuit, it could hardly be said to have truly begun.
But if it was the Grand Duke’s command, that was another matter.
Claude, who had appeared at some point, bowed his head without a word of protest, turned on his heel, and immediately gave the order.
“All units, assemble. We’re returning immediately.”
The knights swiftly reformed their ranks.
Logan’s horse, which had been waiting near the entrance, approached. Logan watched briefly as Claude took hold of the chain and mounted the horse behind Ian, then climbed onto his own mount.
The closed castle gates slowly opened.
They retraced the path they had taken earlier, passing once more over the footprints left behind in the snow.
When they were about halfway through the forest, the faint sound of weeping drifted toward them from somewhere in the distance.
At the same time, several of the more perceptive knights sensed presences nearby. They exchanged subtle signals and spread out to either side.
Someone was following them from beyond the trees.
Their first priority was determining whether it was human or something else, so everyone looked toward Logan.
But he gave no order.
That alone was answer enough.
The knights tightened their grips on the reins and drew their swords.
As though they had been waiting for that very moment, arrows shot out from between the trees.
“They’ll come out on their own, so don’t go into the forest!”
Claude had barely finished speaking when masked figures burst from every direction.
Ambushes were hardly unusual.
But this time, there were far more attackers than usual.
Blood splattered across the once-pristine snow.
Logan pulled on his reins and glanced back.
Amid the chaos that had erupted in an instant, Ian remained alone atop his horse, isolated from everyone else.
He showed almost no reaction.
“…”
Does he simply want to die?
He did not cry.
He did not beg.
He did not even look as though he felt wronged.
Perhaps he truly did.
A man’s head was severed right in front of him amid the clash of steel, yet Ian merely sat there in silence, holding the reins.
After watching him for a moment, Logan turned away.
If that’s the case, dying here wouldn’t be so bad.
He had no interest in things that lacked even the will to live.
He had no idea what Rox intended to demand, but whatever it was, he could simply refuse.
A man cut down one of the nearby knights and rushed straight toward him.
Logan stared at the approaching attacker without much interest, already sinking back into boredom.
A sharp longsword gleamed as it came for his stomach.
He was just thinking that they never seemed to tire of sending people on such pointless errands when—
A harsh metallic screech tore through the air.
Logan blinked twice at the back of the person who had suddenly stepped between them.
The man who had been about to drive his sword into the Grand Duke’s stomach faltered at the sudden interference.
His longsword trembled where it had been caught by a chain.
He instinctively tried to strike again, but before he could, the other man surged forward and looped the chain around his neck.
It all happened in a matter of seconds.
It wasn’t one of the knights.
For an instant, no one understood who had intervened.
Then they noticed the pale skin.
A veil covered his face, but not enough to hide the foreign cast of his features.
They realized it was the Prince of Rox, the subject of the rumors that had recently been spreading through the North.
But by then, Ian had already moved behind the man, the chain clenched tightly in his hands.
“Guk…!”
Ian’s bare feet, pale and mottled purple from the cold, planted themselves firmly against the small of the man’s back.
He pulled.
The man’s body arched backward.
With the chain wrapped once around his throat and Ian’s full weight behind it, his windpipe was crushed tight.
Unable to breathe, the man gagged and clawed desperately at his neck with his free hand.
His fingernails scraped uselessly against the chain.
He flailed with his other arm, but caught nothing except empty air.
“Keok, ugh.”
Ian tightened his grip.
His hands felt frozen stiff, and his joints barely moved, but he paid it no mind.
Even as the man’s strangled gasps reached his ears, only a handful of thoughts passed through Ian’s head.
Why did I run over here?
Even in the middle of that chaos, that was the only thing he found himself wondering.
He had felt nothing while standing amid splattering blood.
He had remained seated on his horse even after watching a man get decapitated directly in front of him.
Yet absurdly enough, Ian had found himself unable to stand by and watch what was happening to the man a short distance away.
Despite holding the highest rank among them, no one was protecting him.
The instant Ian saw that he had been left exposed and defenseless, someone began closing in on him.
And the moment Ian realized where that sharpened longsword was aimed, he had jumped from his horse.
Drip.
Something warm ran down his palm.
The chain had become slick beneath his fingers.
The metal had probably torn through his already frozen skin.
The sensation of squeezing the life from another person traveled through his hands.
As Ian watched the man’s eyes roll back until only the whites remained, he sensed a faint presence nearby.
A lean man who had been creeping up from behind lunged forward and drove his dagger down.
But the one who coughed up blood was not Ian.
It was the corpse still caught in the chain.
Realizing that Ian had spun around at the last instant and used his companion’s body as a shield, the man ground his teeth.
“You bastard!”
By the time the man had even begun to wonder, How is he so fast?, Ian had already pulled the longsword from the dead man’s hand.
The weapon was clearly heavy.
Ian could feel its weight.
Yet there was not a trace of hesitation in the arm that swung it.
“Keok!”
The man had no time even to yank his dagger free.
The longsword plunged straight into his abdomen, and blood spilled from his mouth.
Ian did not stop there.
He twisted the blade.
The horrifying sensation of his insides being churned sent agony ripping through the man’s body.
“Aaaargh!”
His uncontrollable scream drew the attention of the knights fighting at the rear.
They had naturally assumed that the Grand Duke was responsible.
But the person standing there with a sword in his hand was someone else entirely.
Although most of the elite forces were absent, every knight present belonged to the Northern Order, known throughout the empire as the most difficult order to enter.
Compared to the monsters they faced during subjugation campaigns, an ambush like this was nothing.
They were already bringing the attack swiftly under control, restraining those who were still alive and had not yet managed to kill themselves.
But what in the world was happening over there?
They had seen him sitting on his horse only moments ago.
None of them had even noticed when he moved.
No.
More importantly, why was that man killing the assassins?
No—how could he kill them?
Ian had taken down two men in an instant, despite the shackles still binding his hands.
When he pulled the longsword free from the man’s stomach, warm blood poured onto the snow.
The knights understood the reason for his actions in the very next moment.
An assassin who had been cautiously observing the situation from within the forest to the right suddenly emerged behind the Grand Duke.
And Ian moved.
Somehow sensing the man approaching from the opposite direction, Ian acted before the blade could even reach the Grand Duke.
The assassin’s head flew from his shoulders.
As they watched Ian swing the sword without the slightest hesitation, the knights were thrown into complete confusion.
Did he really just protect the Grand Duke of Higher…?
That man, who’d be perfectly fine the next day even if someone blew a hole through his stomach?
That lunatic who, whenever something like this happens, lets himself get stabbed a few times for absolutely no reason?
“Hah.”
Everyone knew that something so trivial would never kill him.
That was precisely why no one bothered guarding him.
In fact, hovering nearby only increased the chances of being cut down in his place.
None of them wanted to die such a pointless dog’s death.
Whenever incidents like this occurred, the knights were usually the first to put some distance between themselves and the Grand Duke.
Which made Ian’s actions all the more unmistakable.
He had deliberately killed every assassin who came near the Grand Duke.
To actually try to protect a man like that.
He clearly wasn’t in his right mind.
The knights stared at the scene with expressions caught somewhere between shock and bewilderment.
Then their eyes drifted to the sword in Ian’s hand.
Come to think of it…
What was that?
They had heard that he had undergone only a ceremonial knighting oath.
His hands, smooth and without a single callus, belonged to someone who had never properly held a sword before.
But the movements they had just witnessed told an entirely different story.
It had not been the graceful swordsmanship noblemen learned as a refinement.
No matter how they looked at it, that was—
“If you’re finished restraining them, we’re returning. The interrogation will be conducted at the mansion. Make sure none of them can kill themselves.”
“Ah.”
They had become so absorbed in their thoughts that they had completely forgotten what they were supposed to be doing.
At the cold voice from behind them, they hurriedly turned.
Claude stood there with his usual composed expression, his face frigid.
That Vice-Captain was more frightening than the Captain himself.
Desperate to avoid being reprimanded, the knights sprang back into action as though they had never been standing around in a daze.
Claude watched them return to their positions.
Then his gaze shifted forward for a moment.
Ian, drenched in blood, threw the sword in his hand onto the ground.
Claude watched him briefly before turning away.
“…”
Silence settled between them, broken only by the corpses lying in the snow.
Ian, breathing in short, shallow gasps, began to turn away.
Then his gaze fell to the ground.
It was a rough, poorly maintained forest path, though the snow covering it softened its appearance.
He had thought walking was merely difficult because of the cold.
Apparently, the soles of his feet had been torn open as well.
When he lifted his left foot slightly, he saw blood dripping down and soaking into the snow beneath him, staining it red.
Yet there was very little pain.
His feet had turned purple, almost as though frostbite had already set in, and what little sensation remained in them was rapidly fading.
The chains clinked softly at his badly chafed wrists.
When Ian turned, his eyes met those of the man who still sat astride his horse.
He had not even drawn his sword.
As though the sight before him had left him frozen in shock.
Ian stepped closer.
Blood had splattered across the man’s otherwise immaculate uniform.
He wanted to ask whether he was all right.
Only then did Ian realize that he did not even know the man’s name.
That’s right.
He didn’t even know his name.