[The Hidden One] Episodes 13-15 Author: Blood Coral

【The Hidden Master】
Author: Blood Coral
Publisher: Hetu Culture

Chapter 1 ◆ Murderous Intent in the Forest

"I'm going to kill him, I'm going to slaughter him, and that prince won't get away with it either. I'm going to kill them both, I'm going to tear them to pieces!"

A furious roar echoed through the Valdero family's hall.

Vasam Valdero hysterically vented his anger, stomping his feet on the floor, causing the slate floorboards to shatter.

"I've warned you several times, don't always try to be clever, is that fun?"

The speaker was a short, stout middle-aged man wearing a red plaid coat and a heavy gold chain around his neck. He was Vasam's father, the head of the Valdero family.

In the hall, besides the father and son, two other people sat in the seats nearby. One was about seventeen or eighteen years old, very tall and thin, looking as if a gust of wind would knock him over. He had long, disheveled hair, a pale face, and a sickly appearance. The other boy, around fifteen or sixteen, was still just a big kid, and compared to his two older brothers, he seemed somewhat timid.

"Me, trying to be clever?"

Vasam glared. As the eldest son and the undisputed heir, he had never shown any fear, not even towards his own father.

"I never wanted to go there in the first place. Since I've already chosen my side, there's no need to play both sides."

He lectured his father.

"I sent you to gather intelligence," the father snapped, slamming his fist on the table. "Do you think those people are fools?"

Vasam retorted, "Information that can be obtained without the prince's trust can be bought from a soldier for two copper coins. Is it really necessary for me to go?"

This left the head of the family speechless. To be fair, he didn't think his eldest son was wrong. Everyone knew that their family had chosen Prince Siegfried.

Unlike other lords in the area, their territory contained a copper mine. Prince Siegfried had promised that once he became king, he would return ownership of the mine to the Baldero family. This wasn't an empty promise, but a tangible benefit.

Compared to a copper mine on their own territory, Prince Philip's money wasn't nearly as tempting.

"What do you two say?"

the patriarch asked his other two sons, seeking reinforcements. The third son, naturally, shrank back and remained silent. The second son pondered for a moment, glanced indifferently at his elder brother, and then said, "Our actions this time were indeed somewhat inappropriate. Although we made our choice long ago, there was no need to let others know so soon."

"Bullshit! To gain Prince Siegfried's favor, you have to respond to his offer immediately. What do you know?"

The eldest son of the Valdero family was furious at his younger brother's criticism.

"You brute! This has nothing to do with favor. We only made a deal with the eldest prince. We supported his succession to the throne, and he gave us those two copper mines. The Valdero family doesn't owe him anything. Don't make yourselves look like dogs."

This second son clearly lacked his brother's rage and assertiveness, but he possessed a hint of sarcasm and gloom.

"Damn it, you're the dog!"

Vasam roared, charging forward as if to slap him.

Suddenly, he swiftly withdrew his hand and took several steps back.

His brother was holding a snake, which hissed and flicked its black tongue. Snakes were rare in the North, as they were cold-blooded and hibernated in the cold. The winters in the North were long and harsh, making it difficult for ordinary snakes to survive. Therefore, the snakes that survived were all magical beasts.

Vasam didn't want to be bitten by a magical snake; that would be certain death. He also didn't believe his brother was just trying to scare him with a snake; in the North, fratricide was commonplace.

"Duval, Duval!"

the father called out his second son's name, shaking his head. "How many times have I told you? We're family, there's no need for this tension!" "I don't want this either, but my brother's acting all aggressive, like

he wants to beat someone up," Duval said nonchalantly, glancing at his brother with a hint of provocation.

"Vasam, step back,"

the father waved his hand.

The eldest son of the Baldero family muttered and took a few steps back. He finally had a way out. Besides, he could be rude to his father, but he absolutely dared not disobey his father's wishes.

In Gorenant, the head of the family had absolute authority, and without doing anything else, simply stripping him of his inheritance would make him regret it deeply.

"Duval, what do you think we should do?"

the father asked. He now regretted revealing this information so soon after deciding to side with Prince Sigel.

“We all thought that Philip, having grown up in the south, wasn’t very familiar with the ministers and lords, and was rather weak-willed, wouldn’t have much of an advantage over Siegel. But now it seems…”

Duval looked at his father.

“I know, that was my miscalculation. Philip has a much broader vision, and he has capable people around him.”

This head of the family wasn’t without wisdom. The lords of the North were short-sighted, but they weren’t stupid.

“That’s the key. He has capable people to advise him, he has capable people to make money for him, and he has capable people to renovate the city.”

Duval said, taking a step forward.

“Capable people my foot.”

Vasam muttered under his breath.

“If they weren’t capable people, would Philip have gotten that territory? They even used this opportunity to drag Siegel into it, forcing him to accept the challenge. If Siegel’s territory develops slowly, or even fails to develop at all, what face will he have to inherit the throne?”

Duval pointed out the key issue. He only talked about strategy, completely omitting the mention of making money and renovating the city.

That chest of gold coins wasn't fake, nor was it just for show. Half of it had already been exchanged for silver coins; the national treasury had been emptied by a third to exchange for this money. As for the city's reconstruction, the results would be clear in a week at most. By then, the first row of five model houses should be completed. Everyone could go inside, take a look, and spend a night there to see if those people were truly capable.

The city of Qiaohui was simply a collection of houses; if the houses were well-built, the city wouldn't be bad either. "You think Siegel has no chance?"

the father asked.

"Yes, the chance is if Philip suffers a major setback."

Duval chuckled sinisterly. "It's hard to say. Perhaps the barbarians from the north will come to see what's going on after hearing he has money, or perhaps some will be interested in the money, but that certainly won't be us."

"You mean to make things difficult for those outsiders?"

The head of the family understood Duval's meaning.

Their family already had disagreements on this matter.

The eldest son had always been eager to take the lead and gain Prince Sigel's favor. While acquiring new lands was unlikely, securing official positions shouldn't be difficult. His other two sons, however, were more conservative, preferring to observe the situation first and not rush into a decision.

Initially, he shared his eldest son's view, but now he was wavering.

"Foolish! This is simply handing credit to someone else. Don't forget we're now Prince Sigel's men,"

Vasam warned, noticing his father's hesitation.

Choosing the wrong side in Gorenant wasn't terrible; at most, they'd face temporary suppression, but the possibility of losing their title and land was small. Besides, even if Prince Sigel failed, he would at least retain his earldom title, still own the land, and have a small circle around him—the Valdero family could definitely gain a foothold within that circle. The real danger was fickleness, ending up excluded by both sides.

"What do you want?"

the father hesitated again, realizing his eldest son's words made sense. “Philip himself isn’t all that great; it’s those outside helpers who are formidable. If we can get rid of them, everything will be fine,”

Vasam said through gritted teeth. “Of course, if we can also kill Prince Philip, Prince Siegfried will be even more grateful to us.”

“You’re playing with fire,”

Duval’s face turned unusually grim.

“I’m not playing with fire. Like you just said, the barbarians know Prince Philip is very rich and will definitely try to take advantage of him. So we don’t need to kill him ourselves; we can just pass on some messages to the barbarians.”

Vasam became more and more smug as he thought about it, and he laughed loudly.

“You’ve done so much for Siegfried, what has he given you

in return?” Duval laughed contemptuously. Surprisingly, the eldest son of the Baldero family actually showed a smug expression: “You don’t know this, His Highness the First Prince personally summoned me and gave me a letter of appointment, appointing me as the chief administrator of Haruk Province.”

“Are you bragging?”

Duval looked at his brother, then at his father. The head of the family nodded: "What your brother said is true. Prince Siegfried came here personally, and he signed more than one commission, but all of these commissions can only be fulfilled after he ascends the throne."

This made Duval fall silent.

A promise and a commission are two different things. The former can be repudiated, at most resulting in a bad reputation and the label of "untrustworthy." The latter is unreliable; if it cannot be fulfilled, they can use the commissions to jointly sue the new king, and might even overthrow the throne and force him to abdicate.
In the woods outside Berg, a group of people rode leisurely on horseback. Ahead of them, a pack of hunting dogs was galloping, their barks echoing intermittently.

These dogs, seemingly running aimlessly, were actually highly trained, running in an arc, forming an encirclement.

From the encircled patch of woods, a group of hordes of dogs sprang out, driving the others in all directions.

It was autumn, the time when all kinds of animals were feeding voraciously, storing up fat to survive the long winter. It was also a good time for hunting.

Leading the procession were Prince Philip's eight guards, all now his personal knights, holding the title of lord. Prince Philip walked in the middle, with Nice beside him.

"Your archery is the best; I imagine you'll have the biggest catch this time,"

Prince Philip said with a smile, a reminder to Nice.

In the North, intelligence alone wasn't enough; one had to have strength to be valued, and that strength had to be enough to defeat others. Even the most skillful auxiliary magic wouldn't earn them recognition.

Suddenly, a barking dog came from ahead, followed by a rustling of bushes, from which a figure could be vaguely seen darting about.

"The prey is coming!"

shouted one of the knights at the front of the procession. Prince Philip immediately raised his bow; the first arrow would undoubtedly be aimed at him. Prince Philip, though not as skilled as Nice, had also practiced archery diligently, but hunting was no problem for him. He used a longbow, a weapon inherited from the northern barbarians. Nocking an arrow, drawing the bow, and with a twang of the string, the arrow pierced the forest like lightning.

A mournful cry rang out, and a roe deer staggered forward a few steps before collapsing to the ground, the arrow piercing its neck.

This arrow served as a signal; all the sons of nearby lords who had accompanied the prince on the hunt raised their bows.

Most of these bows were also longbows, a weapon with a two-thousand-year history in the north. Some used composite bows, which had come from the east.

Arrows flew out, the only sounds being the twang of bowstrings and the whooshing of arrows through the air.

This showed Nice the difference between the knights of the north and the knights of the south.

In the south, bows and arrows weren't highly valued weapons, and the knights there were generally mediocre archers. In this dense forest, most arrows would simply embed themselves in the trees. But these people before him were all skilled archers; very few missed.

Fortunately, Nice was extremely confident in his archery.

Nice was still using rapid-fire arrows. His right hand gripped five arrows, plucking the bowstring like a harpist, and the arrows flew out like a shower of petals, each aimed at a deer.

His arrows were not only fast but also followed an arc, because three deer were hiding behind the trees, impossible to hit with ordinary archery. Just as Nice was feeling triumphant, suddenly, with a soft "thud," a large tree, requiring two people to encircle it, was pierced by a beam of white light.

That white light was an arrow, an arrow imbued with battle aura.

Having battle aura wasn't too unusual, but being able to use it with a ranged weapon was no simple feat. Nice quickly turned to look.

To his surprise, the arrow was shot by a young man slightly older than himself. The young man didn't lower his bow; after firing one arrow, he calmly drew another. His archery style was different again, each shot exceptionally steady, always gathering his energy before releasing the string, the arrowhead gleaming with a sharp edge of fighting spirit at the moment of release. Another

white light shot out, another soft thud, and another hole appeared in another tree. This arrow was unstoppable, its destructive power no less than a magical arrow imbued with penetrating, anti-magic, or heavy-hitting properties. "That's the Sambaldran's Heavenly Bow technique,"

Prince Philip said, knowing Nice was interested. "Sambaldran?"

Nice wasn't familiar with the name, not even knowing if it was a place name or a person's name, but he was very interested in this archery technique.

During the night of the Asaks catastrophe, he felt his hidden weapons lacked power, so he had been hoping to remedy this weakness.

"That's an island in the north, one of the three holy sites of the barbarians. The Heavenly Bow is one of their schools; as the name suggests, they specialize in archery. Their strongest archery technique is called 'Shooting Down Stars,' said to be able to obliterate a star with a single arrow,"

the prince explained.

Niss felt something was amiss and asked, "I remember the barbarians don't use battle aura."

"The principles remain the same despite variations."

The prince was certainly no novice when it came to martial arts, and he explained directly to Nice, "What the barbarians call 'hidden strength' is actually quite similar to battle qi, except that hidden strength comes from the blood and qi, resides within the blood and qi, and circulates with the blood and qi, while battle qi originates from the internal organs and is distributed throughout the body."

Nice was overjoyed. He had always had a vague understanding of the knightly training system because there were no books on it. He had consulted many people before, but the problem was that most knights only knew how to train, but never considered why they trained that way. He hadn't expected that Prince Philip, whose strength wasn't particularly strong and whom he hadn't initially thought highly of, would actually be such a theoretical expert. He would have to learn more from him. However, at this moment, he had more important matters to attend to.

Nice secretly asked using a secret language, "Is that person supporting you? Or are they observing? Or is he a supporter of your brother?"

"He's one of my men. He and his family recently pledged their allegiance to me,"

Prince Philip confidently assured him.

Nice was now relieved. He learned the secret swordsmanship of Lonik Island from Mondstadt. If the customs of Sambaldran and Lonik Island were similar, perhaps he could also learn the Heavenly Bow technique.

"You want to learn the Heavenly Bow technique?"

the young man asked Nice in surprise. "What price do I need to pay for it? Money or something else?"

Nice asked directly. The young man didn't answer; he spurred his horse towards the deer. All the deer were gathered in an open area, and soldiers were examining the arrows.

All the arrows bore unique markings.

Nice's arrows were as thin as straws, very light, and entirely black from tip to tip. Every single deer had such arrows, and all had hit vital points. "Your archery is very accurate,"

the young man said.

He wasn't flattering; some of the deer were riddled with arrows, but three only had a few wounds because they were hidden by trees.

To hit them, the arrow either had to curve or pierce through the trees.

"You don't need to learn my archery at all. Our style is completely different. The Eastern Gale Archery is more suitable for you,"

the young man shook his head and sighed. "

The Gale Archery lacks lethality,"

Nice understood the difference perfectly.

The Heavenly Bow Technique was meant for sniping powerful knights on the battlefield, focusing on accuracy and power, while the Gale Archery was for killing soldiers, focusing on speed and continuity. His rapid-fire arrows were very similar to the Gale Archery, so he naturally knew its advantages and disadvantages.

"Both styles are completely different. You'll ruin yourself by practicing them,"

the young man said, his heart not bad. "I just wanted to learn from him,"

Nice wasn't one to give up easily.

The young man sighed softly and took off his bow, placing it in Nice's hands: "Try drawing it."

Nice took the bow.

As soon as he held it, he felt something was wrong. This bow didn't seem to be made of wood or horn; it looked like it was forged from metal. He tried to pull the bowstring. The bowstring didn't budge. "The core of the Heavenly Bow Technique is that the strength of the bow determines the power it can unleash,"

the young man said patiently. "This bow is made from branches of the Golden Tree, and the bowstring is twisted from ice silkworm silk. When fully drawn, it requires about 300 kilograms of force, and can shoot up to 700 meters." Nice gasped.

For a knight, especially a high-ranking knight who could use battle aura, 300 kilograms wasn't much, but that referred to the force of slashing; using it on a bow was extremely rare.

The strength of this bow was astonishing; even heavy military crossbows weren't this powerful—it was practically a ballista. "You still can't draw the bow Abdul gave you!"

Ister walked over, teasingly revealing Nice's secret.

Returning the bow and arrow to the young man, Nice frowned, deep in thought. He didn't quite agree with what he'd just said.

It wasn't that the harder the bow, the more powerful the arrow. The power of an arrow was only related to its speed. He had conducted research in this area. He had tried using various launchers to fire arrows of varying weights, and found that a stronger bowstring tension did not necessarily mean a longer range.

A medium-sized crossbow had a bowstring tension of seven or eight hundred kilograms, while a regular crossbow had a bowstring tension of only twenty kilograms. When both fired standard light arrows, the crossbow's light arrow flew over two hundred meters, while the medium-sized crossbow's light arrow only traveled about one hundred and forty meters.

The crossbow's power only became apparent when firing specially made heavy arrows. That one-meter-long arrow weighed three kilograms and could penetrate a half-foot-thick wooden board at three hundred meters.

Therefore, he concluded that

, when speed and weight are considered, the heavier the arrow, the greater its power and the longer its range.

When weight and speed are considered, the faster the speed, the greater its power and the longer its range. Ness clearly saw that the arrow's speed was indeed at least twice as fast as his, but the difference in power was more than double, more than a thousand times. That couldn't be the effect of battle aura.

Battle aura could sharpen an arrow, but to pierce a tree that thick, the arrow would have to be nearly as sharp as a blade of destruction. That was impossible.

"Still haven't figured it out?"

Prince Philip was pleased to see Nice getting stuck on this. "I find you more like a magician than a priest."

That wasn't wrong. The biggest difference between a priest and a magician was their perspective. Priests, regardless of which god they worshipped, believed that everything in the world was as it should be, and that the laws governing the operation of all things were determined by the gods.

Magicians, on the other hand, believed that the operation of all things followed specific laws, and that the gods could only use and change these laws. They believed that if people grasped the secrets, they too could possess power like the gods, so they liked to get to the bottom of things.

Nice smiled reluctantly. He had no interest in discussing these things; his mind was filled with things like speed and power.

Suddenly, a sharp squeaking sound brought him back to his senses. The sound came from the bamboo basket tied to his waist.

The lid of the bamboo basket sprang open, and a silver light shot out, followed by several more.

Nice's heart tightened instantly. The little creature was connected to him telepathically, possessing all his abilities, including the ability to foresee the future. Furthermore, animals' senses are far more acute than humans', so it could always detect deeply hidden dangers.

At this moment, the hunters at the front of the group ran about without noticing, appearing leisurely and peaceful.

Nice felt a chill run down his spine; this tranquility only fueled a strange fear. Almost instantly, he activated the divine spell attached to the Thorn Crown.

The Thorn Armor was a ranged divine spell, not just for himself; anyone within five meters of him would be protected.

The next moment, Prince Nice and Ister beside him were enveloped in a layer of armor-like light. As soon as the divine spell activated, more than a dozen figures sprang from the surrounding woods and under the bushes.

They were all holding bows and arrows.

A series of bowstring twanged, and a volley of arrows flew towards Nice and his companions. The whooshing sound of the arrows piercing the air was like the flute of Death, or the breath of a demon king. Most of the arrows were aimed at Nice, followed by Ister, and two were also aimed at Prince Philip.

The arrows were concealed weapons, but they were powerful and fast, and the archers were so close, only thirty or forty meters away, that there was no time to draw a weapon to block them.

To make matters worse, all three were on horseback, unable to even dodge. Nice reacted the fastest, his body falling to the right as the arrows came from the left. "Whoosh whoosh whoosh!"

Arrows grazed his head, and a few struck his body. The moment they hit him, these arrows transformed into a foot-long streak of white light. Where the white light flashed, the light membrane of the thorn armor was instantly pierced, even the outermost layers of the soft armor were penetrated. If these arrows were all anti-magic arrows, the person who arranged this assassination had paid a heavy price. Fortunately, Nice's soft armor was strong enough to withstand such an attack, and fortunately, he dodged the arrows shot towards his head.

With a roll, Nice fell from his horse, kneeling on one knee, his right leg riddled with two holes.

When the soft armor was made, because the hide of the large rat was not big enough, it could only be used on vital areas such as the chest, abdomen, head, and back. The limbs and other secondary parts had to be made of other materials, so the defense was insufficient.

"Assassin! Assassin!"

The prince's guards shouted as they rushed towards the prince, shielding him with their bodies.

The other knights hesitated for a moment, then raised their bows and arrows. "I'm fine, grab them."

Prince Philip's voice rang out amidst the chaos. He was decisive enough; both his hands were pierced, and knowing he couldn't dodge, he simply used his palms to block.

The anti-magic arrows could pierce magic and armor, making them far more powerful than ordinary arrows, but they had a weakness: upon hitting an obstacle, the magic on the arrow would activate, transforming into a thin white light that pierced through the obstacle, turning the arrow itself to ashes. Therefore, in a critical situation, using one's hands and arms to block could save a life.

Compared to these two, Easter was in a much worse state. His reaction wasn't slow either; he also tried to block with his hands, but there were too many arrows aimed at him, and he couldn't block them all.

The only saving grace was that the two arrows aimed at his head and heart were blocked, leaving holes in his chest, abdomen, left collarbone, and below his left rib. These were fatal areas, but not enough to kill instantly. Before Easter could fall, a golden light instantly struck him and Prince Philip. The golden light emanated from the golden scroll in Nice's hand—a divine scroll containing the spell "God's Mercy."

This was a top-tier divine spell, equivalent to having an extra life.

"God's Mercy" could heal most injuries, as long as the heart wasn't destroyed, the head punched through, the head separated from the body, or the body severed in half.

Nice only possessed one or two such life-saving scrolls, and he wouldn't use them unless in a critical situation.

After rescuing Ister and healing his and the prince's injuries, Nice pulled out another handful of scrolls.

In the blink of an eye, Nice and the surrounding knights were enveloped in multicolored light. The assassins had already disappeared into the woods; seeing that the first attack hadn't achieved the desired effect, they immediately fled.

A dozen knights loyal to Prince Philip leaped off their horses and rushed into the woods—a perfect opportunity to demonstrate their loyalty.

Suddenly, another bowstring twanged, and the assassins instinctively fired arrows behind them. The pursuing knights were thrown into disarray. They were hunting, wearing only light armor and armed with bows and longswords, while the assassins wielded magical arrows, putting them at a significant disadvantage.

A flash of light forced everyone to close their eyes—a "Flash of Light" spell. Immediately afterward, a shower of sparks flew towards them, drifting aimlessly at a low speed but densely packed, igniting anything they touched. This was "Fire Rain."

Several arrows struck the trees, instantly turning into thick, dark brown smoke. The arrows' destructive power was clearly minimal, yet it deterred the pursuing knights. Nice grabbed his bow and quiver, leaping to the treetops, his figure disappearing swiftly into the canopy. Jumping from tree to tree, each leap sending him flying several meters, he avoided the battlefield below, soaring towards the direction the assassins had retreated.

As he chased, he grabbed a handful of arrows, each bearing a special mark and a slightly bulging shaft.

These were also magical arrows, specifically those used by magic archers, requiring magical activation. Five arrows were nocked.

As he released his fingers, the arrows flew out like a peacock spreading its tail, weaving and dodging through branches and obstacles as if they had grown wings, each locking onto an assassin. These were the magic archer's guided arrows.

"Watch out!"

one of the assassins below shouted, followed by a series of bowstring twangs.

A rain of arrows shot from the assassin's hand. His archery skills were identical to Nice's, but faster and more precise; his arrows actually intercepted all of Nice's arrows. A series of booming sounds echoed through the air. A vast forest was enveloped by a massive cloud of fire.

Trees near the explosion's epicenter were blasted to pieces, and billowing flames turned a vast forest into an inferno. The horrific sight startled everyone below; both the fleeing assassins and the relentless pursuing knights instinctively bent low.

A wave of intense heat pressed down from above, making everyone feel as if their souls were engulfed in flames.

Another volley of arrows rained down from the sky.

The roar echoed once more, and another large swath of forest was engulfed in flames. This time, Nice deliberately raised his bow high, firing the arrows directly in front of each target before turning them around to fly towards them, so the fire from the explosion blocked the assassins' path.

"Charge through! Charge straight through!"

it was the same assassin who had commanded loudly. The assassins were all desperate men; without hesitation, they charged into the inferno. Suddenly, a scream rang out from below, followed by an assassin's shout: "Watch out, something's there!"

This was his last cry. The swirling cloud of fire above his head suddenly poured down, instantly incinerating the assassin to ashes.

Before the other assassins could even understand what was happening, another scream erupted.

"It's a monster...like a rat...watch your step!"

The leader of the assassins was indeed formidable; he once again commanded, "You go, I'll cover your retreat."

A fierce glint flashed in his eyes as he slightly raised his head to look up at the treetops.

Niss, who was speeding through the treetops, suddenly felt a chill run down his spine, as if he were being watched by a ferocious beast. He quickly dodged to the side.

Poisonous clouds, fireballs, and acid rain exploded where he had landed, followed by a volley of arrows.

Niss barely had time to dodge; the arrows were too fast. A fireball exploded at his feet, the blast wave sending him flying.

He has now discovered another formidable opponent who wields hidden weapons; there are simply too many things that can explode, rendering all the illusions surrounding him ineffective.

A melee fighter wouldn't dare attempt this, unless they wanted to die fighting.

Regaining his balance mid-air, Niss activated the "Aerial Path" spell on his boots. Standing suspended in mid-air, not touching the treetops, the assassin below instantly lost his target. This is the helplessness of a warrior against a mage.

Knowing he had lost his chance to kill, the assassin dared not linger and turned to flee, picking up the quiver he'd thrown to the ground—a gift from his soul companion.

Suddenly, he pushed off the ground, leaping into the air and landing on a tree. A flash of silver light appeared on the ground, and a clump of thorns sprouted from where he had just stood, writhing and twisting wildly like living things.

At the same time, a fiery cloud rapidly descended from the sky.

The assassin's reaction was incredibly fast, and his strength formidable; he could even twist in mid-air, his battle aura surging forth, miraculously withstanding the deadly heat of the fiery cloud.

Clearly, this person's strength was only a hair's breadth away from that of a Grand Knight. Just then, a white light pierced the air. The man had no way to avoid it and could only turn his body as fast as he could.

The white light, like a steel needle piercing cloth, silently penetrated his body, leaving only a small hole. The light continued its trajectory, piercing through a large tree five meters away.

The assassin leader knew he couldn't escape. Duels between archers were far more dangerous than those between other professions, because archers couldn't stop attacking, and because they completely abandoned defense, relying solely on sharp offense to overwhelm their opponents, or else they would be overwhelmed.

He no longer bothered with careful planning, no longer cared about the expensive magical arrows, and grabbed five explosive arrows. The bowstrings twanged almost in unison, and the arrows flew into the dense forest like soul birds, and towards the other side like a swarm of soul bees.

Some of the explosive arrows flew upwards, exploding in the tree canopy and igniting large sections, causing burning branches to fall. Others embedded themselves in the ground, kicking up clouds of dust and ash with each explosion.

For an archer, seeing their target is paramount, but when alone, blinding everyone is advantageous, especially since he was armed with magical arrows; blind combat is to his advantage.

Everywhere were charred remains, uprooted trees, and cratered ground.

Anyone seeing this scene would immediately guess that a fierce battle had just taken place. At the edge of the forest lay five corpses: two charred remains, two riddled with arrows—the assassins, killed at the outset. The last one was also heavily wounded, pierced in at least four places, with three arrows still embedded in his body.

The others held a degree of respect for this assassin leader; though an enemy, he had fought valiantly to cover the retreat of his companions, making him a true warrior.

"Do you know who they are?"

Prince Philip was still shaken. The assassination attempt had terrified him and filled him with uncontrollable rage.

From the day he decided to compete with his brother for the throne, he had foreseen this day, but he never imagined it would come so soon.

Their competition had only just begun, and their two territories had barely been acquired before his brother resorted to such extreme measures to fundamentally resolve the issue—it was truly chilling.

"These don't seem to be from our country; they're most likely mercenaries."

Captain Sean, a veteran who had served the prince, had already examined the corpses. His loyalty was beyond question, and his experience was extensive.

"The people who hired these assassins are quite wealthy," another knight, who had once served as the prince's guard, muttered, holding the empty quivers. They

were all large quivers, each holding forty arrows; so many magical arrows alone were worth a fortune.

"When did Prince Siegel become so extravagant?" another knight muttered.

"It seems my brother has found a wealthy supporter as well."

Prince Philip smiled wryly at Nice. This supporter's wealth should be no less than that of the Rosicrucian Company. "Who could it be?"

"It's unlikely to be a native."

"That's hard to say. Those counts certainly have the money."

"They can afford it, but they're incredibly greedy. Rather than hiring assassins, they'd probably prefer to do it themselves."

The people below whispered among themselves. Nice was in a very bad mood at this moment.

This supporter might have some designs on the Kingdom of Gorenant, but it was more likely that he was targeting the Rosicrucian Order, after all, for the sugar business.

His Highness had glanced at him earlier and had obviously guessed this possibility. "Is Ister alright?"

The prince turned to ask another former guard. "He'll probably be bedridden for a few days. Luckily, that scroll was used in time, otherwise he would be dead. I just looked at it; it's all vital parts."

The knight replied.

"Take me to see him." The

prince's action was clearly an implication. Regardless of the reasons why those people supported his brother, he would stand with the Rosicrucian Order.

To ease the tension along the way, he joked, "Priests are indeed very useful, but unfortunately, the customs of the North are hard to change. We can only recruit more priests within our own territory."

"That's certainly necessary,"

the former guard agreed, nodding repeatedly. He was in charge of treating the wounded. Five men had been shot during the pursuit, their injuries far less severe than Ister's, but they were all lying motionless because they hadn't received immediate treatment; they were only treated after returning, which wasted time.

If there had been enough priests with them, things wouldn't be like this.

The ward was a large tent. As soon as His Highness approached, he sensed a sacred aura. There were two priests inside, one the prince's personal priest and the other a priest from the Berg Church. Six beds were arranged in a circle, all the wounded lying there, a golden mist swirling around them, emitting a fragrant aroma.

Upon seeing the prince enter, the two priests immediately stopped treatment, bowed slightly, and withdrew.

"Their treatment isn't as effective as your scroll,"

East said to Nice with a smile. "You have the nerve to say that? You should pay for that scroll,"

Nice retorted jokingly. "No problem,"

East replied nonchalantly.

"Luckily, you were hit by standard magic arrows. If they had been explosive arrows, we probably would have needed a 'resurrection spell' to save your lives,"

one of the wounded soldiers joked. The one who said this was the young man who was proficient in the secret arts of the Heavenly Bow. His name was Black Mistark, and his wounds were from his duel with the assassin leader. In terms of archery skills, the two were about equal. In a one-on-one fight, Black might even have a better chance, since his archery skills were originally suited for dealing with experts.

"What he needs isn't to gradually increase his strength, but to install a pair of pulleys on his arms. I told him about this method before,"

East mocked from the side.

Nice glared at Ister, but he wasn't angry; in fact, he was a little pleased. Of all the people who came out of the Nangdao Academy, only this guy would still joke with him without a care in the world. The other three had all become somewhat distant.

Chapter Two ◆ Reconnaissance

The clanging of pickaxes against the ground filled the air.

The ground of Gorenant had begun to freeze, becoming exceptionally hard; picking at it felt like hammering steel.

Since the assassination attempt, His Highness had strengthened his defenses, starting with digging a trench around his temporary camp.

The trench wasn't deep, only about a meter, but it was over ten meters wide.

Ten meters wasn't much for a knight, but that was with light armor. In heavy armor, even a great knight couldn't do that. Warhorses couldn't leap that far either.

Inside the trench, a wooden palisade had already been erected to protect against archers.

"We were too hasty in dismantling the castle back then,"

the prince said, looking at the nearly demolished castle on the hilltop with deep regret.

"It wasn't your fault,"

Nice could only say in front of everyone.

Those in power couldn't afford to be wrong.

"I'll have people speed up the castle's construction,"

Ister added from the side.

"What I'm worried about is the north,"

the prince said, his face full of worry.

If the Baldero family could think of using the northern barbarians, how could he not have considered it?

"I was just planning to go north and take a look... while the weather isn't too cold yet."

Nice glanced at Metro, who was busy outside the door.

This money-grubber was now completely obsessed with money; going north was his suggestion, and he had prepared over a dozen cartloads of goods for it.

"The primary target of the assassination is you. It might not be safe for you to go to the barbarian territory, would it?"

the prince asked worriedly; he didn't want to lose this strategist.

Nice sighed inwardly. Going to the barbarian territory might be safer; staying here was actually unsafe.

Prince Siegfried's actions were reckless, but what was even more worrying was that several days had passed since the assassination attempt, yet the capital had shown no reaction whatsoever. It was illogical

for a father to stand by and watch his sons kill each other.

This inevitably raised suspicions that the father might simply not care about his sons' lives.

Moreover, the king was young and undoubtedly attached to the throne; the two princes, who had threatened his position, were likely seen as potential enemies.

Such occurrences were common throughout history.

Of course, another possibility was that the king had lost control of the capital and was unable to react.

The royal power in Gorenant was exceptionally weak; numerous local lords outside the capital refused to submit, and within the capital, a multitude of nobles were engaged in infighting. Therefore, this possibility was also quite high.

Just as Nice was about to explain, Black rushed in from outside.

"We're ready."

"You're coming too?"

The prince was somewhat surprised; he hadn't expected that an assassination attempt would have brought this young man, whom he valued highly, to such a close relationship with Nice and the others.

He was quite pleased to see this happen.

He and his territory were in their early stages of development, and naturally hoped for close cooperation among his men, not caring at all about factionalism.

"I'd like to take this opportunity to visit a few friends,"

Blake said somewhat embarrassedly. "If possible, I also plan to return to Sambaldran."

Hearing this, Prince Philip couldn't object. As a lord whose territory bordered the barbarians, he was eager to maintain good relations with Sambaldran, the barbarian holy land, which wielded considerable influence throughout the North.

After the two men took their leave of the prince, they emerged from the tent, where the caravan was indeed ready.

Metro, dressed like a merchant, sat in the lead carriage.

These carriages were all drawn by four horses, resembling a sled or a cart, somewhat similar to the sleds Nice and his men had used to go to battle.

Their designs were also by Ister.

"These are your clothes,"

Metro tossed two coats over.

Nice picked up his coat and put it on. He usually dressed as a burlesque, and Metro had prepared a warm travel cloak for him, which he could simply slip on over it.

In the North, priests often ventured into barbarian territory, but the barbarians didn't seem to mind, as long as the priests didn't preach there.

Blake, on the other hand, received a coat typical of noblemen from the northern coast.

Blake's background was similar to Luke's; he came from a lord's family and was very favored. From a young age, he was sent to Sambaldran to learn archery, where he was also a prodigy. Unlike Metro and Palm, he didn't need to serve as someone else's subordinate, so he inevitably carried a touch of nobility. Rather than deliberately concealing it, it was better for him to appear as a traveling nobleman.

Traveling to barbarian territory as a nobleman would easily attract attention, but it could also make him a target for kidnapping.

After changing clothes, the two boarded the second carriage.

The caravan left the camp and headed north along the main road.

The roads in the North were all in terrible condition. The journey here had been incredibly bumpy for Nice, so these sled-like carriages were a good alternative, at least the ride wasn't so bad.

However, they had their drawbacks: slow speed and limited carrying capacity.

Prince Philip's territory was right on the border, mostly no more than a mile wide, so the caravan soon left Gorenant territory.

North of Gorenant lay the barbarian tribes, though the nearest tribes were dozens of kilometers from the border. This was because there was plenty of land in the north, and no one liked to be too close together, as it could easily lead to unnecessary conflict.

The main roads of the Kingdom of Gorenant were already in poor condition, rarely well-maintained, and riddled with potholes. But once they crossed the border, Nice realized that Gorenant was, after all, a civilized nation, and the roads were relatively smooth. The road the caravan was currently traveling on was simply a dirt track worn down by countless footsteps.

"Get the weapons out! This journey won't be peaceful!"

Metro shouted. He had already made several trips back and forth and knew the situation well.

At this moment, he was carrying a shield, with a battle axe beside him. Since they were heading to barbarian territory, it wasn't convenient for him to carry a replica of the Spear of Longinus.

Blake had been holding his bow since boarding the carriage; he knew the dangers of the North better than Metro.

Nis hesitated for a moment, but ultimately took out his own bow.

This was an oddly shaped bow. It was originally the Saracen craftsman's exquisitely made bow that Abdul had given him, but now it had an extra small roller on each end.

These two rollers were only the size of buttons, and a thin silk thread passed back and forth between them twice.

"No way? You really put a pair of pulleys on it?"

Blake looked at Nice in disbelief, speechless.

Everyone knew that Easter was joking and shouldn't be taken seriously.

Nice didn't bother to explain.

He had discovered this method after numerous experiments. Without damaging the bow's structure, simply adding these two pulleys reduced the draw weight to only a quarter.

Nothing was more convincing than shooting an arrow, so he drew an arrow and nocked it.

The bow was fully drawn, and more so than any other bow.

The one Abdul had given him was a compound recurve bow, suitable for archery on horseback, with a shorter bow arm, allowing the bowstring to be drawn to arm length. But this bow was drawn to chest level.

Only a longbow could be drawn to such a degree.

With the bowstring pulled back as needed, the more it's drawn, the faster the arrow naturally travels.

With a resounding thud, the arrow shot straight out.

The sound of the arrowhead piercing the air was exceptionally sharp, a hissing sound like silk being torn.

Metro in the carriage ahead couldn't understand the secret, but Blake was an expert; he knew that only arrows traveling at extreme speeds would make such a sound.

In the previous battle, if Nice's arrow had been that fast, it would have been impossible for anyone to intercept it.

To break an arrow with an arrow, one's own arrow must be faster than the opponent's.

"Unfortunately, your arrow is too light,"

Blake said, not intentionally belittling.

Heavy arrows and light arrows differ in weight by about three times, but their power differs by at least five times, and the difference increases with distance. A heavy arrow can penetrate chainmail at a hundred meters, while a light arrow can't even pierce raw cowhide.

"Shoot an arrow for me too,"

Nice leaned back, casually clipping a round lens to his right eye.

Blake had no idea what Nice was up to, but he wanted to test his skills. After lying in bed for days, he felt utterly exhausted.

He drew his bow and aimed at a bird in the distance.

Although using the Heavenly Bow technique to shoot a bird was like using a sledgehammer to crack a nut, he couldn't find a better target.

As he released his grip, a white light shot out, accompanied by a slight shockwave in the air.

Nice hadn't noticed this strange shockwave on the day of the hunt because of the distance, but now he saw it.

He also saw the trail left in the air after the arrow was shot.

And on the lens, many mysterious characters had appeared—characters only magicians could understand.

"So that's how it is,"

Nice murmured to himself.

He understood the mystery of the arrow.

When battle aura was infused into the arrow, it became very heavy; the more battle aura infused, the heavier it became, as if it were transforming from wood into iron, and then from iron into lead.

The bow's power was equivalent to a medium-sized crossbow, and the arrows were roughly the same weight, yet the diameter was so small; the penetrating power was predictable, so it wasn't surprising that they could pierce a tree.

He couldn't help but recall those fragmented memories of the Martial Soul.

He had always wondered why that person could casually swing a throwing knife, seemingly without any hidden secrets, yet no one could block it, even those in heavy armor would be killed instantly.

Now he understood somewhat.

Besides hitting vital points, that person probably used similar methods.

In comparison, that person's throwing knife was even more terrifying because his battle aura didn't have a dazzling light; after being infused into the throwing knife, it was completely invisible from the outside. Although the throwing knife's range was not as long as a bow and arrow, its speed and stealth made it difficult to defend against.

Faintly, he had already seen the correct direction.

Hidden weapons need to be fast, stealthy, and heavy. Changing flight paths or using illusions to obscure their trajectory are not the proper methods. They can be used to fill a gap when one's strength is insufficient, but if one becomes obsessed with these, then one has gone astray.

************

Dust billowed, and a large pit immediately appeared by the roadside. Corpses were thrown into the pit, all killed with a single arrow.

"Hurry up, we must reach the East Wharf before evening, it will definitely close after dark,"

Metro said anxiously, looking at the sky.

The cart drivers quickened their pace; they didn't want to sleep in the suburbs.

Blake also joined in; he was the one who created the pit. Having battle qi was convenient; after accumulating battle qi, the wooden planks could become as hard as steel, and a casual swing could carry two or three hundred pounds of force.

“This isn’t our fault. We’ve already encountered three groups of bandits along the way, and you insisted on letting them return to the earth, not becoming food for wolves in the wilderness,”

Nice sighed.

“If we don’t bury them, are we just waiting for their people to come looking for revenge?”

Metro was furious.

He was angry because he now regretted his actions.

They had prepared far too much cargo this time; a dozen large wagons would definitely attract attention for miles around. In three days, they had already killed eleven groups of bandits.

“It’s alright, as long as we travel quickly from here on out,”

Blake said calmly.

The bodies were finally buried, the drivers boarded the wagons again, and the caravan continued on its way.

Sitting in the wagon, Nice touched the hole in the wooden plank beside him, pierced by arrows during the attack.

He had only encountered bandits once on the thousands of kilometers he had traveled from Asax to Corunant, nothing like this before. It seemed the further north they went, the more dangerous the road became.

"Speed up, we're in a hurry!"

Metro shouted, cracking his whip.

The men below naturally pushed forward with all their might.

Autumn days in the north are particularly short; by three in the afternoon, the sun was already setting. Fortunately, the caravan had finally reached its destination.

A wall could be seen in the distance.

It was a wooden and earthen wall, only about a person's height, covered with sharpened wooden stakes.

The wall was long, but had only one entrance.

What struck Nice strange was that there was no gate, only a wide drawbridge spanning a moat.

The moat looked very familiar, much like the one being dug in the woods outside Berg City—wide and shallow, filled with sharp rocks and pointed wooden stakes, a feature typical of the North.

It was evening, and many vehicles were entering the city, forming a long queue.

"Don't talk nonsense once we're inside; this is barbarian territory,"

Metro warned the people behind him.

They had spent the previous two nights camping in the wilderness without encountering any trouble, but things were uncertain now.

Nice, of course, wouldn't cause trouble, so he put away his bow to avoid any problems.

"What place is this? A city? Or some tribe?"

he asked softly to Black beside him.

"Neither, it should be considered part of Rogersfield,"

Black said.

Nice recalled the information Metro had given him, and the characteristics of this city.

Barbarian cities were completely different from the concept of a city he was familiar with.

Here, the city's area was vast, possibly tens of kilometers apart, but the actual inhabited area was very small.

Most interestingly, the barbarian city likely housed dozens of tribes, each with its own settlement, walls, and fortifications—a veritable "city within a city."

Rogersfield was the most prosperous city in the northern part of the Kingdom of Gorenant, and the center of over two hundred surrounding barbarian tribes.

The caravan slowly moved forward, and half an hour later, they finally entered the city.

Nice surveyed his surroundings.

This place was indeed completely different from the world he was familiar with.

Upon entering, there was a wide plaza, which also served as the main road and a place to park carriages. A row of stables ran along the wall.

The houses were crammed together, similar to those in Berg, with large thatched roofs. The difference was that they were independent, not in rows or lines, allowing people to walk freely in all directions.

Because of this strange layout, there seemed to be no specific streets or alleys.

"I'm going to sell a shipment. Black, you take them to the lake to camp,"

Metro said, unusually giving orders.

"Camp?"

Nice thought he had misheard.

"Don't expect any inns here. If you're on good terms with the locals, they'll invite you to stay in their homes and let you and your men sleep in the living room. Do you have any friends like that?"

Metro asked.

Nice shook his head in disapproval; this land and its people were beyond his comprehension.

"Why are you in such a hurry to sell your goods?"

Nice suddenly thought of something else.

"The bandits along the way have terrified me; we're too conspicuous,"

Metro said helplessly.

"Aren't you afraid of losses?"

Nice asked. He assumed that if they were in such a hurry to sell, the barbarian merchants would definitely take the opportunity to drive down the price.

"There won't be any losses. Barbarians are actually quite charming when doing business; they don't like haggling,"

Metro said, lowering his voice. While these were kind words, their effectiveness depended on who heard them. Barbarians were neither simple-minded nor naive; they were adept at misinterpreting others' words and finding fault with them.

Metro led the wagons away. There was no need to worry about bandits in the city; the barbarians considered trade sacred. Murder and arson were permitted within the city, but robbery was absolutely forbidden.

Black led the rest of the group northeast.

This place was called East Wharf because of a lake to the northeast, around which the entire city of Rutgersfield was scattered.

Sure enough, there were many tents and wagons along the lakeshore—these were the belongings of passing merchants.

Nice felt many eyes fixed on him, their gazes filled with curiosity and greed.

"I feel uncomfortable,"

Nice whispered.

"You'll get used to it after a few more times. The people here are interesting; they're honest and fair in their dealings. But be careful, once you leave the city, they might pull out their swords and steal everything."

Black couldn't transmit his voice; he could only whisper in Nice's ear, and he spoke in Thurte, which few could understand.

"It's a really interesting place,"

Nice could only say; he couldn't find any other words.

"What's the fastest way to get them to accept me?"

Nice asked telepathically.

"Get them to accept you?"

Blake racked his brains.

Gorenant was close to the barbarians, so he was very familiar with their customs. Plus, he'd been sent to Sambaldran, the barbarian holy land, where he'd lived with them for nearly ten years.

"The environment here is extremely harsh, so the people here are very competitive. They like to compete in anything—drinking, chopping wood, horseback riding, archery, swimming… Do you have any particular skill?"

Blake asked.

Nice scratched his head.

His archery was good, but he didn't dare compete with the locals. He was also intelligent, but that was a different story; he couldn't exactly play riddles and have a contest, could he?

While he pondered, Blake didn't waste any time and led the group to set up the area; they were going to pitch tents for the night.

In the North, pitching a tent was no easy task. The nights were extremely cold, and a poorly pitched tent could freeze someone to death.

Blake had some dry leaves spread on the ground. Their tents were completely sealed, with only one opening for people to enter and exit.

There were nine tents in total, arranged in a circle, with a campfire burning in the center. Spending the night here without a campfire would be unbearable; thankfully, the north was vast and populated, otherwise there wouldn't be enough trees to cut. Just as

the tents were almost set up, Blake was considering whether to prepare dinner when a commotion arose in the distance.

"What's going on?"

Nice snapped out of his reverie and looked in the direction of the sound.

"I don't know."

Blake leaped up, his feet scrambling across the tree trunk, reaching the top in the blink of an eye.

He was a knight who used a bow and arrow, so he was very skilled at climbing.

Seeing Blake's actions, Nice didn't stay on the ground. He hadn't immediately climbed to the treetop for fear of making a mistake; after all, he wasn't familiar with the local customs. What if the people here considered trees sacred?

Standing at the top of the tree, they could see torches lit across a patch of land in the distance, and more and more people were gathering there.

"What are you doing?"

"Nice asked curiously. He felt this wasn't a bad thing; there was a festive atmosphere emanating from them, and the loud bang earlier had a joyful feel to it.

"They're night fishing. It's salmon spawning season, and the salmon are at their fattest,"

Blake said, looking eager to try as well.

"Why don't they use nets?"

Nice asked, puzzled.

Blake glanced at the guy; he now understood the Prince and Sean's comments—these Southerners lacked romance and were somewhat mercenary.

"It's a custom. During salmon spawning season, nets aren't allowed; you can only fish with a fishing rod."

Nice's eyes lit up. He rummaged through his magic bags one by one, finally finding what he needed in one.

It was a long, narrow package, with tubes vaguely visible inside.

"Did you bring a fishing rod?"

Nice asked with a smile.

"No… but I can borrow one."

Blake had been itching to try it. A skilled archer would certainly enjoy hunting, and a hunter would certainly enjoy salmon fishing.

"Splash, splash, splash!"

The oars cut through the water, creating a splashing sound.

This was a standard barbarian longship, its prows and sterns arched high, its hull gracefully curved, resembling a work of art rather than a means of transportation.

However, this type of boat had its drawbacks; it lacked a deck, allowing the dampness and cold winds of the lake to rush in, making it exceptionally chilly.

It was six in the morning; the temperature might not be at its lowest, but the humidity was certainly at its highest, making it even more uncomfortable. To

make matters worse, the boat was loaded with goods, including the remaining seven cartloads of cargo, plus a huge pile of furs.

They had arrived with sixteen cartloads of goods, nine of which had already been sold—cloths, cashmere blankets, copperware, and the like—all exchanged for furs. Metro had even used the money he brought to buy these furs.

Fur was a specialty of the barbarians, their largest business, and the most profitable commodity here.

Sitting atop a pile of pungent furs, watching the boat rock with each sway, the lake water only a foot from the gunwale, Nice's heart pounded. He was increasingly helpless against Metro's greed; it was beyond saving.

To Nice's surprise, Blake seemed completely unconcerned, as if it were commonplace. Even the barbarian sailors rowing and the ship's owner at the helm appeared indifferent, as if the ship being so fully loaded was perfectly normal.

It seemed that everyone here, and every merchant who came to trade, was a greedy opportunist like Metro.

"I didn't expect you to be so skilled at fishing for words,"

Blake remarked, surprisingly having the leisure to chat with Nice.

"So-so,"

Nice replied stiffly.

Of course, he wouldn't tell Blake that he didn't actually fish for words using his own skills.

His fishing rod was specially made; once the line entered the water, it would immediately unfurl like a jellyfish's tentacles. Once a word touched these tentacles, the line would instantly wrap around it, and the hook would automatically pierce the word's mouth.

This was the first magical item he had created using alchemy.

He had originally made it to compete with the old knight who served Princess Anna. On his first sea fishing trip, he had suffered a crushing defeat at the old man's hands and had always wanted to regain his honor.

Based on his true skill, he was no match for the old man, so he decided to cheat.

Unexpectedly, instead of having a chance to compete with the old knight, he won first place here.

Nice smiled wryly, touching the statue in his hand.

It was a salmon, carved from red beech wood. The wood itself wasn't particularly valuable, but the carving was absolutely magical.

He had some knowledge of statues from decorating the church, and had seen many masterpieces in the Papal States.

Those masterpieces were mostly figure sculptures, beautifully shaped and lifelike.

This salmon statue, while not as finely carved, possessed a certain dynamism; even knowing it was fake, it felt as if it might come to life at any moment. This

statue couldn't compare to the masterpieces of the Papal States, being much smaller in scale, but the person who sculpted it was absolutely no less skilled than those masters, perhaps even surpassing them, because he had transcended the realm of technique.

To transcend technique is the realm of a master.

This was proof of his night fishing competition victory.

Just as Blake said, winning a competition was definitely the best way to gain the barbarians' approval.

The night fishing competition ended at ten o'clock, but afterwards everyone dragged him to drink until dawn. If Metro hadn't urged them to set off, he probably would still be sitting at the table drinking with a group of barbarian burly men!

"I'm increasingly confused about the people of this land,"

Nice said, expressing his bewilderment. "From what you said before, the people here are vicious, ruthless, obsessed with wealth, and capable of doing anything for it. But last night, they seemed to know how to enjoy life, always finding ways to have fun."

"That doesn't seem contradictory,"

Blake said, puzzled by Nice's confusion. "Life in the North is very difficult, so the people here will find ways to have fun whenever possible, otherwise they'd go crazy. As for being ruthless, it depends on who you're dealing with. If you're truly accepted by them, they won't steal from you, and sometimes they'll even help you, but that's definitely not easy."

Blake rambled on about his understanding of the barbarians and some old stories.

Nice listened quietly. His initial impression of the barbarians came entirely from Elena; he thought they were rude and straightforward. But now, his perception seemed somewhat blurred.

The lake wasn't very large. Two hours later, the boat docked at a small island in the middle of the lake.

It wasn't a large island, surrounded by a wall, inside which were rows of houses.

Nice's eyes brightened slightly; finally, he no longer saw single-story houses.

The island was filled with two- or three-story buildings, built like towers—tall and pointed.

This was one solution, though not very efficient, but much better than single-story houses.

"This is the central area of Rogersfield City, equivalent to our royal city. Everyone living here is a high-ranking noble,"

Blake explained softly.

"High-ranking nobles? How high?"

Nice asked.

This question stumped Blake.

Due to the barbarian system of conquest and the lack of spirituality in various countries under the rule of the church, nobles here are very common, and there is no system of investiture. As long as they have some land, slaves to help cultivate it, and they and their families have no worries about food and drink, they can practice martial arts in their spare time, and they can also hide a few suits of armor and a considerable number of weapons at home. When war breaks out, they can arm a group of people and be called nobles.

As for the great nobles, they were often just a few families with decision-making power within a tribe. Most barbarian tribes were similar to villages in the south, generally consisting of only a few dozen households and a population of no more than two hundred.

Therefore, the great nobles here were incomparable to those in countries under the rule of the Church, which explained Nice's contempt.

"Don't look down on them,"

Blake said with a wry smile.

In the south, the strength of a territory was determined first by its population, then by its wealth, and finally by the number of knights under its command. But this system didn't apply in the north.

"Don't forget, back then, a dozen or so tribes near the North Sea united, gathering two thousand men to march south, plunging the entire west coast into fear. Even a great power like the Franks was defeated and forced to cede territory. Afterwards, they gathered more than six thousand men and fought all the way to the Papal States."

Blake didn't intend to argue; he only stated the facts, all of which were clearly written in history books.

"That was their heyday."

Nice didn't believe the current barbarians possessed such capabilities.

He wasn't completely ignorant of the barbarians. The barbarians were all soldiers; even the women were skilled riders and archers. In terms of military strength, a barbarian tribe of two hundred could indeed rival a southern earldom.

However, the key to war was high-level military power.

When they fought under Duke Frederick, they saw a large group of super-level experts gathered there, and the opposing Duke of Upper Baria also had formidable forces, not to mention the Papal States.

Therefore, he could only guess that during that period, a large number of super-level experts suddenly appeared among the barbarians, creating such a glorious spectacle.

"You have no idea how powerful the barbarians are,"

Blake said, shaking his head. The more one knows about the barbarians, the more one understands their terrifying nature.

"Tell me about it,"

Nice said.

"They have a lot of super-level experts, far more than you imagine. Most tribes have super-level experts in charge."

Blake looked around, unsure if there was such a person standing next to him.

"Super-level experts aren't that cheap, are they?"

Nice asked, somewhat incredulous.

"This is related to their internal energy cultivation system. Barbarians can master internal energy from the very beginning of internal energy cultivation, unlike battle qi which only appears after reaching the mid-stage peak. Moreover, breaking through bottlenecks in internal energy cultivation is easier, so the proportion of warriors far exceeds that of great knights,"

Blake explained with envy.

However, he was only envious and never tempted. Because internal energy cultivation is fast and breakthroughs are easy, but each burst of power causes great damage to the body, so barbarians don't live long; living to fifty is considered a long life.

"No wonder some people say that if it weren't for the small barbarian population, they would probably have ruled the whole world long ago,"

Nice frowned.

Surprisingly, Blake, who cared so much about barbarians, scoffed at this.

"That's just talk. Barbarians are powerful, but there are those even more ruthless."

"You mean the Jochi Urus?"

Nice immediately thought of this possibility.

"And then there were the fierce people from a thousand years ago, the people known as the 'Scourge of God.' Like the Jochi Ulus, they came from the distant East."

Blake was lost in thought. The terror of the "Scourge of God" had been a constant tale in the North since ancient times. When the Jochi Ulus arrived a century ago, everyone believed they were descendants of the "Scourge of God."

"How much do you know about the Jochi Ulus?"

Nice asked.

"Not much. Even the barbarians are afraid of them, and there's not much trade with them. The Jochi Ulus have very strange ideas; they rarely appreciate what we like, and they have many artisans who can make whatever they want themselves."

That was all Blake could say.

A soft crack of metal breaking made everyone stop working and talking.

This was followed by a series of shouts of battle.

"What's going on? Is there a war?"

Nice picked up the bow at his feet.

"Don't panic, it's probably a vendetta."

Blake stopped Nice's impulsiveness. Reacting defensively during a feud between two sides could easily lead to being drawn in.

Hearing this, Nice withdrew his hand.

Vendettas also existed in the south, especially in city-state alliances like Pisa and Vena. The powerful families there built their mansions like castles, equipped with heavy weapons like crossbows, all to protect themselves from enemy attacks.

The shouts of battle grew louder, and a figure approached from afar.

It was a young man of about twenty, carrying a girl on his left shoulder, a longsword in his right hand, and a dozen or so fully armored men wielding longswords and battle axes chasing after him.

"I misspoke, this isn't a vendetta, it's an elopement,"

Blake whispered.

The young man suddenly pushed off the wall, leaping into the air towards a small boat.

The people on the boat were clearly his comrades; they were already prepared to set sail, rowing vigorously.

The pursuers climbed onto the wall and, seeing this scene, immediately drew their bows.

A twang of the bowstring rang out, and arrows shot towards the small boat.

The young man had already put the girl down. Standing at the stern, he deftly deflected and parried with his longsword, preventing any arrow from getting within three meters. Even more impressively, the arrows he deflected all bounced back, flying back towards whoever fired them.

Nice and Black exchanged a glance, both seeing a hint of fear in each other's eyes.

They didn't know the young man's strength, but they could tell from the sound of the arrows piercing the air that the archers were skilled.

These archers used incredibly strong bows, the bowstrings snapping back with a crackling sound like whips, and the arrows whistling sharply as they flew.

Such powerful arrows were definitely more potent than crossbow bolts, yet the young man easily blocked them, even allowing them to bounce back.

"He seems to treat those without souls differently,"

Nice remarked, noticing the oddity.

Some arrows were deflected by the young man, while others were deflected back by him.

"That's to be expected. There are two groups chasing her. One group is the girl's relatives, and the other group is probably the men of the family she is betrothed to,"

Blake explained in a low voice.

Nice had heard of this custom among the barbarians.

In the barbarian tribe, a girl could refuse to marry the husband her parents arranged, but if she fell in love with another man, that was unacceptable. The man would then face pursuit from both the girl's family and the family of the man she was betrothed to.

He had only ever heard these stories before, but now he witnessed them firsthand.

Suddenly, a loud shout rang out, and in the blink of an eye, a burly man appeared on the city wall, wielding a battle axe and glaring at the small boats below.

"Adulterers, I'll chop you down!"

the man cursed, leaping into the air and bringing his battle axe down with overwhelming force.

This axe strike was incredibly powerful, as if only this invincible giant axe existed in the world; people hundreds of meters away could feel the chill emanating from its blade.

The lake surface parted instantly, as if cleaved by an invisible blade.

Nice's pupils constricted instantly.

This man's strength reminded him of the squire beside Cardinal McMullen and Cardinal Amar.

Once any profession reaches the Super-Rank, there are no longer any ranking distinctions. However, everyone knows that even Super-Rank experts have varying levels of strength, with vast differences between them. The person before them was a prime example.

To Nice's disbelief, the young man actually thrust his sword forward.

His sword emitted a melodious zither-like sound, as if casually wielded, appearing unremarkable, neither fast nor fierce.

The sword tip met the axe blade.

Almost instantly, everyone around felt a sharp pain in their ears. The sound of the two weapons colliding was far too loud, exceeding the range of their hearing, so they heard no sound at all. After a moment,

a soft "clang" was heard.

The sword shattered, breaking into fragments that flew everywhere.

The small boat was thrown more than ten meters away from the shore.

Water splashed everywhere, and the man wielding the battle axe fell helplessly into the water. He had gathered all the power in that axe strike, and now he had no strength left.

However, the water surface quickly parted, and the man leaped into the air once more.

The young man on the small boat seemed to have anticipated this move. With a flick of his wrist, a white wave rose from the lake.

He used the lake water as a sword; the sharp, razor-sharp wave sliced through the air with a hissing sound as it hurtled towards the burly man.

"Transforming heaven and earth into blades,"

Blake murmured, his eyes wide.

He knew perfectly well what this attack meant.

The lake water dispersed, and the burly man swung his battle axe slightly, turning the water sword into a shower of spray. But this axe blow also shattered his momentum.

He fell back into the water.

The small boat sped away, leaving the pursuers on the city walls to watch helplessly, venting their anger with curses.

"What are you all standing there for? We have boats too!"

the burly man shouted as he jumped ashore.

Chapter 3 ◆ Caught in the Storm

Stepping on the cobblestone ground and looking at the towering houses on either side, Nice finally felt a sense of being in a royal city.

It wasn't exactly prosperous, but it was still quite grand, though somewhat rough around the edges.

For him, accustomed to neat brick houses, carved railings and fences, and mosaic floors, everything here was rather unappealing.

They were currently standing in a square, before a palace—a large building constructed of granite with a 45-degree sloping roof, an angle that was considered quite flat.

Nice secretly guessed that the pillars inside must be very thick, otherwise they wouldn't have been able to withstand the pressure of a meter or two of snow.

Metro was currently inside, not only conducting business but also bringing gifts for the king.

As the sun gradually set, the two stood at the entrance, unsure whether to leave or stay, and bored, they could only chatter about the scene they had witnessed at the dock.

"That guy who snatched the bride was clearly very powerful. What level was he? A Saint-level?"

Nice asked.

"Impossible. If that person is a Saint-level expert, would anyone dare to lay a finger on him?"

Blake said this because there was a Saint-level expert in Sambaldran, and with just a word, all the barbarian tribes would give him some face.

At the Super-level, numbers can't compensate for the difference in rank. A Super-level expert can easily move through thousands of troops, killing whomever they want.

And once they reach the Saint-level, no amount of Super-level experts can contend with them, making them even more terrifying.

Saint-level experts are few and far between in the world today, and many people don't like to meddle in other people's business, so no one dares to anger a Saint-level expert.

"However, that person has probably already found the path to the Saint-level."

Blake left a loose end, not daring to make a definitive statement.

"Do archers have a path to the Saint-level?"

Nice asked in a low voice. He asked this question partly out of curiosity and partly to test the waters.

"Yes,"

Blake answered with unusual certainty, but his tone immediately softened. "However, it's very difficult, much more difficult than becoming a mage, priest, or warrior."

"Why?"

Niss had always wanted to understand this. He was absolutely certain that the warrior's soul within his consciousness was a Saint-level powerhouse, an unknown Saint-level powerhouse.

In those fragmented memories, this person always concealed his strength, pretending to be a high-ranking knight while fighting on the battlefield, enjoying the thrill of slaughter.

This was absolutely the most unscrupulous and shameless Saint-level figure.

Niss's question left Blake speechless for a moment, because even he himself didn't understand it.

Hanging in the Hall of Heroes in Sambaldran was a bow, an extremely ordinary wooden bow, a bow without a string, with the words: "This is the gate to the ultimate."

Unfortunately, no one could understand the meaning of those words.

The person who left these words was the founder of the Heavenly Bow lineage. Sambaldran had produced seventeen Saint-level figures in total, but he was the only archer.

Because it was unique, no one has since interpreted this statement.

With a soft creak, the palace door opened, and a dwarf stepped out. He glanced sideways at Nice and Black, and said disdainfully, "You're thinking too early. If you intend to go as far as possible in the martial arts, don't always look up. Your eyes should always be on your feet. Occasionally, you can look ahead to make sure you're on the right track."

As he spoke, he beckoned.

This dwarf was quite comical-looking, with short arms and legs, walking with a waddling gait. His face was covered in wrinkles, making him look like a little old man, but he didn't have a single hair on his head—not even eyebrows.

Nice dared not show any disdain, for when he spoke with Blake, he had habitually set up a barrier, and the dwarf had overheard everything—a skill no ordinary person could possess.

Moreover, the little creature seemed to sense something as well, curling up in its cage and trembling.

The little creature's ability to sense danger had always amazed him. Therefore, he was 100% certain that this dwarf was someone to be revered.

"You are a saint… no, you are a wizard."

Nice smelled an unusual aura, somewhat like a magician, but he was certain it was not a magician.

The dwarf grinned: "Don't guess wildly. There have been many magic schools throughout history, and you yourself have learned one, haven't you?"

Nice felt increasingly that this person was unfathomable.

The greatest characteristic of the Pasens sect's secret arts was secrecy, and now it had been seen through at a glance.

What terrified him even more was that he hadn't even used the Pasens sect's secret arts yet!

Nice felt this couldn't continue, so he decided to use offense as defense, asking, "With your immense power, why are you staying in a place like this?"

"Who told you I'm so strong?"

the dwarf smirked. "I'm here, of course, seeking refuge."

Nice was slightly taken aback, but quickly understood.

Knights, priests, and mages all had their peaks; those at those levels possessed near-godlike strength.

Other professions also had their peaks. For example, prophets and alchemists, upon reaching their ultimate level, didn't possess overwhelming power, but rather mysterious and unpredictable abilities. The former could see into the past and future, discerning good and bad fortune, while the latter could transform the rotten into the magical, forging all things into divine artifacts.

He just didn't know which path this dwarf had taken, or what kind of abilities he possessed.

"Let's go in. Do you want our king to wait too long?"

the dwarf pointed to the door behind him.

Nice then remembered their purpose for coming here.

The palace was truly shabby. Upon entering, Nice's first thought was of taverns.

Many taverns in Asakus were more beautiful than this one.

This was a large house, without any lights inside, only torches for illumination, and a campfire burning in the center.

Nice noticed the pillars.

Sure enough, they were all thick, made of stone, supporting large, sturdy wooden beams, and the roof was made of wooden planks.

It was very noisy inside, filled with shouting and recitation—was it a story? Or a long narrative poem?

He and Black hadn't heard anything outside; clearly, a soundproof barrier existed.

The dwarf led them to a table. Metro sat there, the table in front of him laden with silks, gilded and silver utensils, and exquisite enamel ornaments.

Opposite Metro sat a large, overweight man in his fifties, wearing a crown and a loose-fitting sweater, clearly naked underneath.

This was the king? Nice found it hard to believe.

Beside Metro sat a large group of women, ranging in age from seven or eight to thirty or forty.

"Young man, sit down! Don't be shy, there aren't so many formalities and etiquette here."

The king didn't even wait for them to approach before patting the bench next to him.

It was indeed a bench; the table was surrounded by benches, even less elegant than those in southern taverns, where at least everyone sits on a single stool.

Nice was somewhat bewildered, but Blake was quite composed. He bowed, offered a few words of blessing, and then sat down.

Nice could only follow suit.

"I heard this morning that a foreigner actually won the night fishing competition yesterday. Kid, your fishing skills are quite good,"

the king said casually.

"We used to live in a port in the south, right next to the sea. I'm very interested in fishing, and I have a formidable rival, an old man. In the past ten years or so, I've never beaten him. My biggest wish is to beat him just once,"

Nice said.

His words contained not a single lie, yet were full of misleading implications.

It was standard ecclesiastical truth.

The king had no interest in Nice's past; a nobody, a stranger he might never see again, not worth his time.

"Your baiting skills are good, and the goods you brought are quite impressive. You'll be rich."

The fat old man said, grabbing a handful of silk and twirling it a few times.

"Especially this color; none of the previous caravans had this color."

A seventeen or eighteen-year-old girl playfully picked up a bolt of silk, draping it over her shoulder and comparing it to her own.

Nice chuckled inwardly. Even in the south, this color of silk was hard to find; most of it was controlled by them, and the remaining small portion was hoarded by other merchants, waiting for a better price.

These weren't goods, but gifts; the best silks were here, though not in large quantities.

Given Metro's stinginess, he certainly wouldn't give away too much.

"What gifts did you bring?"

A fifteen or sixteen-year-old girl ran over.

Nice was startled; he hadn't expected to bring gifts.

"Just grab a few things, a handkerchief will do,"

Blake reminded him from the side, well aware of the barbarian woman's prowess.

Nys broke out in a cold sweat, frantically searching his body, finally pulling out his magic pouch and rummaging through it.

He had plenty of odds and ends, especially various kinds of hidden weapons, but nothing suitable as a gift.

"How about this?"

Nys pushed the wooden salmon carving in front of the girl.

"This represents your honor, how can you give it to me? You have no sincerity."

The girl crossed her arms, looking determined not to let him off the hook.

"Alright, I'll make it right away."

Nys beckoned to Metro: "Give me a mink pelt."

"A mink pelt? What do you need a mink pelt for?"

Metro was extremely puzzled. Even if he wanted to be perfunctory, he shouldn't be so casual!

Nevertheless, he took a pelt from the stack of mink pelts he had just received and tossed it over.

Nys dejectedly pulled a scroll from his magic pouch—a creation scroll, which could be used to create whatever he imagined.

This thing is rather impractical, because everything it creates is all show and no substance. If you use it to make swords, they'll definitely break with a single strike; if you use it to make bows, you'll be lucky if you can shoot an arrow thirty or forty meters.

He originally bought this scroll to make models.

In the past, he had to tell East his ideas first, and then East would make the models. Sometimes he would encounter situations where he couldn't explain things clearly. With creation magic, he could directly turn his ideas into models without going through this roundabout process.

Nice then took out a handful of colorful gems, all of which were only the size of rice grains, and were catalysts for spellcasting and materials for alchemy. In addition, there was a ball of silk thread and two silver coins.

The scroll was torn open.

The sable fur, gems, silver coins, and ball of silk thread floated into the air, gradually disintegrating, scattering, and then recombine.

In the blink of an eye, a lively and adorable little squirrel appeared before everyone's eyes. It had large, jewel-like eyes, a fluffy and wide tail, and its two front paws rested proudly on its chest, its chin slightly raised.

It was indeed very cute. Everyone could see that the toy squirrel was a reference to the girl, and the girl knew a little about it too, but she still couldn't resist grabbing it.

"Me too!"

"Me too!"

"Give me one!"

Except for a few slightly older women, all the other women crowded around.

Nice was very satisfied with the effect.

He had anticipated its popularity before even starting, because he had previously bought a similar gadget as a gift for Princess Anna, and even the oblivious Elena was envious.

Since then, he knew that women had little resistance to small and cute things.

He waved to Metro again; the scroll's effect lasted five minutes, enough for him to make hundreds of these gadgets.

"You're quite clever,"

the old fat man laughed heartily. "Didn't you want to open a trade route? Then go for it! I've got my eye on you."

************

One after another, furs were loaded onto another ship, a much larger one, with its gunwales specially raised and covered with a layer of cowhide.

This was a seagoing vessel.

"Luckily you're here; you really know how to handle women,"

Metro laughed at Nice.

To be honest, he was very unhappy, but not at Nice; he felt wronged. If he had known that a few toys could win these people's hearts, why would he have sent expensive silk?

"The king here said he doesn't welcome you. You made his daughters fight in front of everyone, making him lose face,"

Blake said, his face still beaming with a smile, a smile he'd had since yesterday.

Nice looked utterly bewildered. He had no idea that barbarian women's emotions were so open, and their temperament so uncouth. Even these women, who should be princesses, would snatch anything of value, and fight if they couldn't get it.

Of course, he was partly to blame.

Some of the trinkets he made looked remarkably lifelike.

Nice himself didn't know why.

The most significant reason was that the wooden salmon carving had touched him, so he unconsciously copied a trace of its spirit into those toys.

This wasn't a flash of inspiration; that spirit was completely elusive.

Yet, he had a feeling that if he could grasp that spirit, once his strength reached the peak of the high-level realm, he could easily cross that threshold and reach the level of a bishop.

It was like countless mountains in the world, each different in shape, height, and form, but the climbing techniques and tools were similar. If someone could climb one mountain, climbing another would be much easier.

"This time everything finally went smoothly. I plan to take the sea route to Iberia to sell the goods there. Although I'll earn much less, it'll be much safer and save time,"

Metro said, discussing his business acumen.

"We're planning to travel a bit further. With Black as our guide, we should be fine,"

Nice said. He didn't plan to go to Iberia with Metro; he had no interest in business.

Besides, they might run into Marquis Cerhalan there, and if he asked about Princess Anna, he wouldn't know how to answer.

"Then good luck!"

Metro said indifferently. He and Nice maintained this kind of relationship for now—cooperating when needed, otherwise going their separate ways, neither harboring any animosity nor showing any particular closeness.

The two men and their two horses leisurely traveled across the wilderness.

Once they left the city of Rutgersfield, they left the main road and traveled through the mountains and forests, as this was safer and less likely to encounter bandits.

"I still don't understand. You were doing just fine in the south, so why did you come here? Just those few territories in Chitu? Don't you have a port with tens of thousands of people? The entire country of Corunant only has five or six cities that can compare to that port..."

Blake had been asking similar questions all the way.

"That can't be a base,"

Nice couldn't explain.

He himself was doing it for safety. If he made a name for himself in the north and established a power base, then even if his relationship with the Knights Templar was exposed one day, the Church might not dare to touch him.

As for Luke and the others, it involved confirming their noble status.

Having a territory meant being a true noble, even if that territory was in the north, even if its prosperity couldn't compare to the south, even if that territory wasn't even as good as a village in the south.

Before this, they were only superior in Asax; elsewhere, they received treatment similar to those quasi-nobles.

"If Father hadn't forbade it, I would have loved to go south and make my way in the world,"

Blake said with longing.

"Welcome, we're short-handed there."

Nice certainly wouldn't let such an opportunity pass.

"That's wonderful, there will definitely be opportunities in the future."

Blake readily accepted this informal invitation.

He had already thoroughly investigated Nice's group, knowing their greatest strength was business, and what Golanant lacked most was money.

If he had money, he could buy subjects and grain from his father, and his territory would soon prosper…

"Actually, there's a good opportunity right now, didn't you hear? We're planning to open a trade route to the north as well,"

Nice said, hoping to leverage Blake's connections among the barbarians.

"Besides furs, what else do the barbarians have?"

" No need to be nervous," Blake asked, puzzled. He had lived on this land for a long time and knew very well that the various barbarian tribes were self-sufficient, needing to buy very little from outside, and even less to sell.

"Can you imagine women fighting over something as small as a sable pelt, two broken gems, and a ball of silk thread?"

Nice said smugly. "It's the same principle; the people on this land simply don't know how to utilize their resources."

Blake looked at Nice; he didn't think Nice was exaggerating.

"Anyone who dares to say that is either a wise man or an idiot,"

a harsh, mocking voice suddenly came from above.

Nice and Blake were startled and quickly raised their bows and arrows.

"No need to be nervous; I mean you no harm, I just want to borrow some things from you."

A person jumped down from the treetop.

When Nice and Blake recognized the person, a hint of tension immediately flashed in their eyes.

This person was the young man being chased at the docks.

Nice turned and looked into the depths of the dense forest.

Sure enough, four people were still standing in the trees several hundred meters away—the same four soul-wrenching men who had come to their rescue by boat.

"What do you want? Not our lives, are you?"

Nice asked.

"I want food, clothes, and your horses,"

the young man said bluntly.

He was confident he could say that; with his strength, there wasn't a single caravan he couldn't rob.

"Food? With your strength, you can't get food?"

Blake was suspicious of the man's motives.

Hunting was easy for them; even if the mountains were snowbound a month later, with his strength, he could certainly get whatever he wanted.

"Stop talking nonsense. Either you bring it out yourself, or I'll come and get it myself,"

the young man said, patting the longsword at his waist; his threat was clear.

Nice and Blake had no choice but to accept their fate.

Niss dismounted, tossing his outermost travel cloak onto the saddle. Underneath, he wore a church robe, tailored to his size; barbarian riders were generally large and tall, and even women might not be able to fit into his clothes, let alone men.

Blake quickly removed the outer robe, revealing a close-fitting, silver-gray outfit embroidered with green leaves

—the symbol of Sambaldran.

"We must keep our bow and arrows,"

Blake said, taking his quiver and bow from the saddle. As the inheritor of the Heavenly Bow Technique, losing even his bow would be an indelible disgrace, and returning to Sambaldran without it would be difficult to explain.

The young man paused slightly, surprised that they had abducted two people. Sambaldran, as the barbarian holy land, wielded immense influence. He had already incurred the enmity of two families through the abduction and didn't want further trouble.

If the person who killed Sambaldran were to find out, he would face endless pursuit, and no tribe would dare to take him in.

The three holy lands might not care about such a lowly disciple, but they needed to maintain their prestige.

As for the other member of the church, Hunyang, he was also a big problem. The church's influence in the north was nothing, but its true strength was far more terrifying than that of the three holy lands.

Besides, if he were to be driven to desperation, he might want to hide in the south. Killing the church member would block that route.

Just as he hesitated, a woman's voice came from afar, "There's no need to rob them. Let them come with us. They're not from this place, and no one will suspect their connection to us. They can use them to gather information and replenish their food."

The young man immediately thought it made sense. He pointed behind him and said, "Did you hear that? We won't do anything to you, but we need your cooperation."

He wasn't worried about Nice and Blake causing trouble.

In his eyes, the strength of these two was insignificant.

Nice and Blake exchanged a glance, and Hunyang shrugged helplessly.

While courage is essential for a knight, displaying it at this moment is tantamount to suicide. The first thing a knight must understand is when to surrender.

Eight men and eight horses traversed the towering mountains, with one person always at the rear, responsible for covering their tracks.

Nice and Blake were caught up in the middle of the group; they now knew what was going on with this group.

Just as Blake had guessed, the young couple were eloping lovers.

The man, Murphy, was a member of a small tribe; his father was the tribal chief, and he was the third son, yet the most likely to inherit the chieftainship.

The girl, Betty, was the daughter of a powerful family in Rogersfield, betrothed from childhood to a member of another powerful family in the city.

These two families wielded considerable power; they had garrisoned every tribe along the way, and all the main roads were blocked, with travelers and caravans subject to inspection.

Beyond the mountains, a canyon could be seen in the distance, and within it lay a tribe, resembling a grand gate.

"It's your turn this time,"

one of the henchmen patted Nice on the shoulder.

For the past few days, Nice and Black had taken turns going out to gather intelligence and buy food, while the other man stayed behind as a hostage.

"This road is blocked,"

Nice said lazily, raising his right hand, two glittering beads in his palm—these were for divination.

The others didn't say anything; they already knew Nice was a prophet, skilled in divination. His predictions had saved them from several ambushes in the past few days.

"That's not something you need to worry about,"

Murphy said indifferently.

Nice didn't say anything more. He knew his place; he was a prisoner, and a prisoner should behave like one. However, he also had his rights.

Nice tossed the two beads to the ground, watching them roll around before slowly coming to a stop.

The divination had concluded that the road ahead was blocked, but there was no danger on this journey.

He didn't intend to use his divine magic to predict again. This was barbarian land; the power of God couldn't penetrate here. His prayers wouldn't be answered; instead, they might anger the local gods.

The barbarians also had their own gods and temples. Many of the priests in those temples were skilled in divination, and they valued prophecy far more than the church, because natural disasters frequently struck the north, and many would die if they couldn't foresee them.

With a casual wave of his hand, he retrieved the two beads, left the group, and rode his horse towards the tribe.

Upon closer inspection, he realized it was a sizable tribe, more prosperous than other places because travelers and caravans passed through it.

The tribe's perimeter was encircled by a wide but shallow moat and a row of earthen and wooden walls.

Sure enough, several men guarded the gate.

However, compared to the checks he had encountered before, this was much more relaxed. As long as one wasn't pulling a large cart loaded with goods, or acting suspiciously, they were allowed to pass.

It was clear this tribe was quite powerful, so the two powerful families didn't dare to be too presumptuous or treat this place as their own territory.

Places like this were perfect for gathering information, because the people here, fearing the two powerful families, often spoke their minds.

Nis walked straight in; the group was even less inclined to check someone like him who clearly didn't belong here.

As soon as Nis entered the town, he dismounted, and a group of children immediately surrounded him.

In barbarian territory, there were no taverns or inns. If he wanted to spend the night, he either had to find someone to stay with or sleep in a tent. The advantage over outside was the walls; he didn't have to worry about bandits or wild animals, and therefore didn't need to arrange for guards. Horses and carriages could also be looked after.

All the workers were children under ten years old; this work gave them a chance to earn a little money and familiarize themselves with animal care.

"I want to know, whose family makes the best flatbread here? Who's the best at roasting meat?"

Nice pulled out a silver coin, flicking it between his fingers.

"Ours!"

"Ours!"

"Don't listen to them, ours is the best!"

Little hands shot up, the children vying for the deal.

Nice tossed the reins to a pretty, clean-looking child.

The child excitedly pulled Nice forward, leading him to the front door. He called out twice in his local dialect, and a family immediately rushed out.

"I need dry rations, the more the better, and some meat that you can help roast,"

Nice shouted .

"We have as much dry rations as you want,"

an old woman said enthusiastically, ushering Nice inside.

In the corner of the room was a stone table with a stack of freshly baked flatbreads on it.

The crusts were snow-white and looked quite firm; the contents were indeed of good quality.

"There's still a little too little,"

Nice said, only dissatisfied with this. He knew the family assumed he was traveling alone and didn't know he had seven people with him, six of whom had large appetites.

"Not enough?"

The old woman was somewhat surprised, but she wasn't worried about the big eaters the least. "No problem, we'll make you as many as you want."

Saying this, she turned and shouted at the girls, "What are you standing there for? Get to work!"

"Bake these too."

Nice took a bag from under his travel cloak, poured it out, and a large pile of bloody chunks of meat emerged. This was prey hunted along the way, already skinned, deboned, and cut into small pieces.

"So you're a mage!"

The old woman became even more respectful. To be able to pour such a large amount of food from such a small bag, there was no other possibility but a mage.

The sorcerer's magical powers were certainly awe-inspiring, but what made her so respectful was that all sorcerers were incredibly wealthy; they could turn a lump of mud into gold. Of course, she didn't expect Nice to be able to do that, after all, Nice was too young, at most an apprentice.

Following the old woman's command, the girls immediately busied themselves, some kneading dough, some making pancakes, some curing meat, and some grilling.

"What's going on with that group of people at the door?"

Nice asked casually.

"I heard that the daughter of a wealthy family in Rogersfield ran off with a stranger, and that family and the girl's husband's family are searching everywhere for her. Because of this, the area from Badanren to Simatcol has been sealed off, and everyone entering and leaving is being strictly checked."

The old woman clearly enjoyed discussing such matters, eager to spill everything she knew.

Suddenly, the old woman lowered her voice, almost whispering in Nice's ear, "I heard from outside that the girl's husband's family has already gone to ask the White Prophet of the Thor Temple for help. The eloping couple won't be able to hide for much longer."

On the mountainside, eight people sat in a circle on the ground, a large sack in the center, its opening emitting the aroma of roasted meat.

"What do you plan to do?"

Nice took food out of the sack and handed it to them one by one.

Murphy looked worried; the news had him distraught.

"Aren't you a prophet too? You should have a way to deal with another prophet, right?"

the girl asked.

"You overestimate me. Even if someone is a prophet, it depends on who's stronger."

Nice smiled bitterly. If he had that ability, he wouldn't need to worry about the Church.

"You know more about divination than we do. Do you have any way to avoid being targeted by divination?"

Murphy asked, desperate. He didn't think Nice really had a solution; he was just asking casually.

“There are many ways. If you had a divine artifact, you wouldn’t need to worry about any prophecy,”

Nice said intentionally, a form of revenge.

The couple took this seriously, exchanging worried glances.

“Are there any other ways?”

Belledy asked.

“Hide in another god-controlled territory,”

Nice suggested again, this time telling the truth.

“We could go to Colunant,”

one of Murphy’s men immediately said.

“It’s at least 170 kilometers from here to Colunant, and all the roads to the south are blocked. How are we going to get there?”

Murphy pounded on a tree trunk.

The group fell silent.

After a while, the girl suddenly shouted, “There’s a road we can take!”

“Which road?”

Murphy looked up.

“Death Valley,”

the girl said through gritted teeth.

Hearing this name, even Blake gasped, and the other five turned pale.

“That’s a place of no return,”

Murphy said, taking the girl’s hand and gently shaking his head.

"It's not that scary. Someone from our tribe once ventured deep into Death Valley and knows some of the inside details. I happened to have seen his notes,"

the girl said.

"If you know, the rest of your family probably knows too. It's not safe there,"

Murphy shook his head.

"You have no other choice,"

Belledy said urgently. She knew her lover wasn't afraid of death, but worried about her safety. "Only by entering Death Valley can we escape the search of the prophecy."

"Death Valley can resist prophecy?"

Nice immediately perked up.

"Yes,"

Black nodded, explaining for the others, "Those who enter Death Valley are always difficult to predict their fate; it's a terrifying place."

Actually, the last sentence was redundant; the fact that it could block prophecy meant that the place possessed some powerful force, making it extremely terrifying.

"It's not certain death; with some preparation, you can still get through. The most terrifying thing in Death Valley is the poison. The plants, trees, even the rocks and water are all filled with deadly toxins, and the air is also poisonous, sometimes more potent, sometimes less so."

The girl explained what she knew.

Everyone looked at Nice; no matter how strong the others were, they couldn't deal with the poison.

"We have to go in too?"

Nice felt a chill run down his spine.

He immediately saw Murphy's fierce eyes.

"Alright, alright, we'll go in too. I want to see this infamous Valley of Death anyway."

Nice had no choice but to give in; he knew there was no room for refusal now.

He was also certain that if he refused, they wouldn't kill him, but they would beat him up and drag him into the Valley of Death—the result would be the same.

"But before we go into the Valley of Death, let's do some business!"

Nice was still unwilling to be taken advantage of.

"What kind of business?"

Murphy didn't refuse. Barbarians were naturally interested in wealth, and consequently, they were also somewhat interested in words like business and trade.

"You plan to venture into the Valley of Death, presumably to cross it to the south, but you're penniless. Do you intend to support your family by being a mercenary?"

Nice was certain these people had never been to the south and didn't know the market rates.

Super-level powerhouses made money easily; a single mission could earn thousands of gold coins, so he wanted to hire these people before they headed south.

"Can you help me find a job?"

Murphy sized up Nice for the first time. He hadn't paid much attention to Nice initially, partly because their strengths were far inferior, and partly because people who came to the North generally had little status.

"I own a port in the South. Due to some business reasons, other ports, including several city-state alliances, are eyeing my port. So I've been looking for someone powerful to back me up."

Nice didn't boast like a typical merchant, but instead explained his predicament.

However, this explanation itself was self-aggrandizing; if he didn't have something good, why would so many forces covet it?

"What exactly is it that makes so many people interested?"

Murphy's curiosity was piqued.

"Some small businesses, but they're exclusive deals."

Nice deliberately kept a low profile.

"A small business? A small business that so many powerful forces would take notice of?"

Murphy was starting to believe in Nice's capabilities. "You're very rich?"

"I used to be, but recently I suffered a huge loss. Not only did I lose all my money, but I also incur a large debt."

Nice deliberately poured out his grievances.

"What happened? How much did you lose?"

This time, even the girl became curious, because it concerned her future.

"My port was attacked twice. The first time, the docks were burned down, and the second time, the warehouses were burned down. The total losses were..."

Nice suddenly stopped.

Barbarians used silver ingots for transactions, and he needed to convert them first, but he wasn't familiar with them.

"The value is equivalent to twenty tons of silver,"

Black said for Nice.

The news about the Rose Cross Trading Company had already spread throughout Berg. In their spare time, people often converted the gold coins lost by the Rose Cross Trading Company into various currencies, which always caused a stir of surprise.

This time was no exception.

Murphy and his four men couldn't help but exclaim in surprise.

"If you're not exaggerating, I'll accept your employment."

Murphy, being a barbarian, immediately agreed.

"We'll go see for ourselves."

The girl was more perceptive, and women are naturally suspicious.

"No problem."

Nice wasn't worried at all, because it was all true; a simple inquiry in Asaks would confirm it.

The attack and subsequent fire not only brought them enormous profits but also cemented the reputation of the Rose Cross Trading Company. Now everyone knew that the Rose Cross Trading Company had deep roots and connections in various fields, making it difficult to destroy.

Before this incident, everyone considered the Rose Cross Trading Company to be just a mid-sized trading company, but now, despite its heavy debts, everyone considered it among the top-tier trading companies.

A pile of thick leather, wood, charcoal, birch bark, glass, two large spools of thread, and freshly boiled bone glue—all of this was being broken down and reassembled under the influence of creation magic.

Eight pieces of clothing and eight sets of horse armor were gradually taking shape.

Both the clothing and the horse armor were airtight, even the eye area was covered with glass. Breathing was done through a long, thick tube filled with charcoal powder, its opening surrounded by purification magic circles.

"Is this the equipment your tribesman used to cross Death Valley?"

Murphy looked at the valley filled with black soil, a chill running down his spine.

But at this point, even with doubts, he had no choice but to grit his teeth and go in.

After spending over an hour getting dressed, even the horses were clad in horse armor, the group finally stepped into the terrifying valley.

Death Valley stretched from here to the border; it wasn't just one valley, but rather a network of branches like a river, resembling a crouching centipede on a map.

It was autumn, but snow fell intermittently, leaving some snow on the ground. However, the temperature inside Death Valley was noticeably higher, so there was no snow at all, and the ground was dry.

Despite its name, Death Valley wasn't entirely devoid of life. Many shrubs grew on the eerie black and yellow soil, their shapes bizarre and covered in sharp thorns.

Nys tore open a divine scroll, and the earth rippled. As the ripples swept across, everything was stained red, in varying shades.

"It's all poisonous; even the air is filled with toxins,"

Nys said, looking warily at the deep red areas.

Suddenly, he crouched down, grabbed a handful of yellow soil, and examined it closely.

"What's this?"

the girl asked in a low voice, her heart pounding with more nervousness than anyone else's, as she was the one who had suggested venturing into Death Valley.

"It's sulfur,"

Nice replied, having roughly understood what Death Valley was all about.

It was most likely a massive volcanic fissure.

Volcanoes always release toxic substances, causing countless deaths and the destruction of countless cities throughout history.

But even more terrifying than the toxic gases were the creatures here; for tens of thousands of years, they had absorbed the toxins, accumulating and evolving them into even more deadly poisons.

"Be careful. I'll lead the way; you'd better follow in my footsteps,"

Nice instructed. Although he had been forced to come, he now acted more like the leader of the group.

The others didn't object; everyone knew that traversing this place wouldn't be easy, even with formidable strength, only divine magic and spells could save them.

"How about we follow behind you?"

Murphy asked, tossing over a rope.

Nice took the rope and tied it around his waist, so that if he stepped into a hole, the people behind him could pull him back.

Belle had read in the notebook that the ground here was very loose, with many natural holes underneath.

After making the final preparations, Nice pulled out the animal cage and released the little creature and ten other rats.

The Dean had a total of twenty-six rats, which Linda had traded for with breeding minks, and the two of them divided them equally.

Because of the animal cage and the little creature's presence as the rat king, the rats all obeyed his orders obediently.

He had brought ten with him this time, leaving the other three in Rat King Valley to guard the valley in the little creature's place.

Nice wasn't worried about the rats getting hurt; their tolerance to toxins was astonishingly high, especially metallic toxins. They could drink mercury without any problems, and most of the toxins emitted by volcanic eruptions belonged to this category.

These rats were the best pathfinders; they scattered, unfolding rapidly like a fan, then combing forward like a comb.

Besides the ubiquitous poison and hidden underground caves, Death Valley faces another danger: venomous insects and reptiles lurking in the shadows.

The little mice act as hunting dogs, sounding the alarm once they spot these dangers.

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