The guard’s attention was drawn away by the sound of footsteps, and he headed in the opposite direction.
Rhoen slowly rose to his feet.
The dungeon seemed to grow darker as a colossal shadow spread across half the wall, like a giant slowly rising to its full height.
The refugees instinctively shrank back.
Someone sucked in a sharp breath before burying their face between their knees, too terrified to look up.
Chains stretched taut, and the wooden stake groaned under the strain.
Rhoen took a deep breath and gave a violent yank with his right arm.
The entire stake ripped free from the wall.
Chunks of stone rained onto the floor, while the iron ring anchoring it was wrenched loose and sent flying.
One end of the chain was still locked around his wrist, while the other remained attached to the shattered stake.
He casually tossed the broken wood aside, leaving the chain hanging at his side.
The dungeon fell completely silent.
Even the sound of breathing seemed to disappear.
Rhoen walked toward the dungeon exit.
He had to lower his head slightly just to pass through the doorway as torchlight spilled in from ahead.
The guard stood with his back to him in the corridor outside the cell, head tilted as he listened to the commotion beyond, his sword half drawn.
The distant clash of steel was growing more frequent, mixed with the steady, rhythmic tramp of marching feet—the unmistakable advance of a shield wall.
By the time Rhoen was only three paces behind him, his enormous shadow had fallen across the wall in front of the guard.
The guard froze.
His pupils contracted as he spun around, drawing his longsword in one smooth motion.
The curse on his lips never had a chance to escape.
The chain cracked through the air with an explosive snap!
The chain around Rhoen’s wrist lashed out like a whip, the iron cuff at its end carving a dark arc through the air before smashing squarely into the guard’s head.
The iron helmet crumpled inward from the impact before being launched clean off, tumbling twice through the air before striking the stone wall of the corridor with a crisp clang and dropping to the floor.
The guard never even managed to scream.
He toppled sideways like a tree trunk cut clean through.
Rhoen removed the keys from the man’s belt and unlocked his shackles.
He picked up the longsword and tested its weight.
In his hand, it felt more like a dagger.
He then grabbed the nearby round wooden shield.
Its rim was cracked and reinforced only with a thin layer of iron plating, but it would do.
Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor.
The fully armored assault formation had already breached the interior, and the three glowing markers were advancing toward the manor’s main building.
The bandit chief upstairs had obviously heard the disturbance as well.
Furious roars and curses rang out overhead, accompanied by the crash of overturned tables and chairs.
Rhoen didn’t wait for his soldiers.
He climbed the stairs alone.
The second floor had been converted into a meeting hall.
Once the drawing room of the abandoned manor, it was now covered with fur carpets, while maps, scattered letters, and wine jugs lay strewn across the table.
The bandit chief stood by the window.
He was a burly middle-aged man clad in a half suit of armor, flanked by two guards equipped with the standard combination of leather armor and longswords.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, the bandit chief’s expression shifted from fury to astonishment as his gaze traveled from the top of Rhoen’s head all the way down to his feet.
“Who the fuck are you?”
There was a trace of hoarseness in his voice that even he didn’t seem to notice.
Rhoen said nothing.
His longsword hung at his side while the round shield covered his chest.
His shoulders were nearly as wide as the doorway itself, making it look as though an entire wagon had rolled into the room.
One of the guards charged first, thrusting his sword toward Rhoen’s abdomen.
Rhoen pivoted.
His shield exploded upward from below, slamming into the guard’s chin.
The crack of shattering bone was short and sharp.
The guard’s weapon flew from his grasp, bounced twice across the floor, and he never got back up.
The remaining guard hesitated for half a second.
The bandit chief shoved him aside, drew his sword, and gripped it with both hands, its point aimed directly at Rhoen’s throat.
His stance was textbook.
He had served as a soldier before—at the very least, he had received proper military training.
With murderous intent blazing in his eyes, he brought the blade crashing down.
The instant the two swords collided, sparks burst in every direction, and the ringing clash of steel echoed throughout the room.
The first clash tore the skin between the bandit chief’s thumb and forefinger.
Blood ran down the hilt of his sword.
His entire right arm had gone numb, and the weapon nearly slipped from his grasp.
He took a step back, adjusted his footing, tightened his two-handed grip, and swung down once more.
But Rhoen gave him no chance.
He lowered his body and exploded forward with a powerful push off the ground, crashing into him like a battering ram.
The momentum of his charge, the weight of his body, his towering 2.2-meter frame, and his 136-kilogram mass all slammed into the bandit chief at once.
The chief’s breastplate caved inward instantly.
With the screech of twisting metal, he was launched backward like a stone hurled from a catapult, crashing straight into the wall behind him.
Boom!!!
Chunks of stone rained across the floor as spiderweb cracks spread through the wall.
The bandit chief slid down the shattered masonry, blood bubbling from his mouth while fragments of his broken armor had been driven deep into his chest.
After dealing with the last guard, Rhoen turned and walked out of the room.
The courtyard had already fallen silent.
He pushed open the doors of the manor’s main hall.
More than a dozen corpses lay scattered throughout the central courtyard.
The surviving bandits knelt against the walls, trembling from head to toe.
The cold-forged lamellar armor of the Imperial elite heavy cavalry gleamed coldly in the firelight.
Blood still dripped from the weapons in their hands.
They stood scattered throughout the courtyard, their postures relaxed but their eyes constantly alert.
Six Fian Champions climbed down from the rooftops and arrow towers.
Their longbows were slung across their backs, and more than half the arrows still remained in their quivers.
They moved far more lightly than the armored cavalry, landing almost without a sound.
Standing together, they resembled a row of silent pine trees.
Rhoen slowly swept his gaze across the courtyard.
Wherever his eyes passed, the kneeling bandits lowered their heads even further.
Dozens of men, women, children, and elderly people who had been freed from the dungeon huddled together in one corner of the courtyard, looking pleadingly at the soldiers.
To the refugees, these expressionless iron-clad warriors drenched in blood seemed even more terrifying than the bandits themselves.
An elderly man with graying hair stepped out from the crowd.
His legs trembled so badly they could barely support his weight, yet he still forced himself forward until he stood before one of the armored cavalrymen.
Then he knelt.
“M-My lord…” His voice was so hoarse it was almost impossible to hear.
“Please…
please don’t kill us.
We have nothing.
We’re just farmers…
Please…”
The cavalryman lowered his head and looked at the old man kneeling before him.
Behind his visor, he blinked once.
He said nothing.
He was waiting.
Turning his head, he looked toward Rhoen, who stood atop the steps.
Just as Rhoen was about to speak, someone else stepped out of the crowd.
It was the scholar.
His legs were shaking as well, but he took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing his fear before addressing the soldiers.
“According to Article Seven of the Northern Realms’ Wartime Regulations, no regular military force may commit acts of violence against non-combatants outside an active combat situation.”
“Furthermore, under the supplementary provisions of the Cintra Armistice Accord, signed between the Nilfgaardian Empire and the Northern Kingdoms in 1268, rescued prisoners of war are entitled to temporary personal freedom.
Neither side may enslave them again, directly or indirectly.”
His voice trembled, and he spoke rapidly, as though desperately reciting the only thing he could rely on.
“My name is Erwin von Herlde.
I hold a doctorate in history from Oxenfurt Academy, am a member of the Oxenfurt Academic Society, and a researcher with the Royal Historical Society of Temeria.
On the basis of the Northern Realms’ Wartime Regulations and the Cintra Armistice Accord, I respectfully request an audience with your commanding officer.”
Erwin finished speaking.
The refugees had no idea what regulations, treaties, or supplementary clauses he was talking about.
But they understood one thing.
Someone was negotiating on their behalf.
The old man kneeling on the ground raised his head, a faint glimmer of hope flashing in his eyes.
Rhoen looked at the frail scholar standing between the refugees and the soldiers.
Just as he was about to speak—
The clatter of metal armor rang out from every direction!
Twenty-two figures dropped to one knee simultaneously.
Their left hands rested on the pommels of their swords, while their right fists struck their chests as they spoke in unison.
“Your Highness!”
Standing atop the steps, Rhoen looked at the soldiers kneeling before him and listened as those words—”Your Highness!”—echoed throughout the ruined estate.
He opened his mouth, intending to say something.
But as he looked at the figures kneeling in pools of blood, he saw the lingering fear in their eyes and the fresh sword marks carved into the cavalrymen’s shoulder plates.
Rhoen fell silent for a brief moment.
“Rise.”
His gaze swept across the soldiers before him.
“Take inventory of the supplies, secure the prisoners, and see that the civilians are cared for.”
He glanced at Erwin, who was still standing where he was.
The scholar’s mouth hung slightly open, his expression frozen in astonishment, almost comically so.
“Professor, I believe you and I need to have a long talk.”
Rhoen turned and walked up the steps.
His footsteps were heavy, each one echoing with a dull thud.
Behind him, the twenty-two soldiers rose silently to their feet.