Kingdom Bloodline

Chapter 385 Confrontation and Standoff

As curfew approached, fewer and fewer customers remained in the tavern, while the mercenaries with blood-stained horns began to arrive in twos and threes at "my house," seemingly planning to get thoroughly drunk tonight.

One by one, the greatswordsmen of Dante came down from upstairs. Louisa and Old Hammer greeted Thales and left, while Seaman and McKee ignored him and walked straight out of the tavern.

As Dean went downstairs, he was stopped by the man with the blood-stained horn.

“Hey Dean,” Ricky snapped his fingers and raised his glass to the bald mercenary, “I heard you guys ran into some trouble out there?”

These words drew everyone's attention.

“Normally, I might say we’re ‘okay,’” Dean said, walking down the stone steps with a serious expression. “But now… I guess there’s not much point in denying it.”

He glanced at the two rather serious-looking mercenaries beside Ricky.

“Yes,” Dean said calmly, “we’re in trouble.”

The mercenaries in the tavern fell silent, exchanging worried or puzzled glances.

Ricky frowned.

So the rumors are true?

"Williams and his hounds are out again... What is it this time? A second purge? Heading north to fight the Exter people? Supporting the Free Alliance? Or is the Star King taking a dislike to the Tower of the End and determined to take it down? Do you think they'd hire a hundred-man squad to fight? Or just capture the suicide squads in the Bone Prison?"

As Thales listened to Ricky's description of the Baron and the Stardust Guard, he couldn't help but raise his eyebrows.

Clearly, the mercenaries had limited goodwill towards Baron of the Baki Camp.

“I don’t know, but if you ask me,” Dean shook his head, “they’re serious this time.”

"As for hiring... I don't think they're short of men, Ricky."

Dean, with a warning look on his face, glanced around at his fellow Blood Whistlers: "Even the Blood Whistlers can't withstand the charge of a mere ten armed cavalrymen, and I think they have at least a thousand—when the horses pick up speed, they don't care which side you're on."

Ricky was silent for a moment, then exchanged glances with his friends.

"A thousand riders..."

“I’ll keep that in mind—we’ve all been having a rough time lately,” Ricky shook his head and pointed to the bar. “What would you like to drink? Rye? Old beer? Blood grape? Don’t tell me it’s Chaka…”

But Dean simply waved his hand and refused, saying, "No, we've had enough these past few days."

Ricky lowered his finger.

“Dean, you know, if you feel…” He looked at Dean seriously, a smirk playing on his lips, “Blood Horn is always ready to welcome you. We need to move, and we’re short of a captain here… maybe even higher?”

Dean shrugged, clearly not the first time he'd encountered this kind of conversation: "Thanks, but... I already have a captain."

Ricky chuckled.

“To obey a woman, Dean,” the mercenary with the blood-stained horn laughed as he downed a swig of wine. “You’ll die by her hand one day.”

The mercenaries nearby jeered, "Maybe he'll die 'on top' her?"

"Or 'inside'?"

Everyone in the tavern burst into laughter.

Dean simply shook his head indifferently, waved goodbye to Ricky, and went to Thales.

"Is it over?" Thales put down his glass and looked up to ask.

Dean sighed and nodded.

"Probably not a pleasant team talk. We've lost too much."

"And you, Wyman?" the mercenary countered. "Do you have any leads regarding your family?"

“Probably,” Thales sighed and answered him in the same tone, “I’ll familiarize myself with the surroundings, take care of some things, and then head out to find them tomorrow.”

"Handling things...sounds good," Dean raised an eyebrow. "And tonight?"

“I don’t know yet, maybe we’ll ask Tampa for a bed,” Thales said, giving Tampa a fierce look. “As long as we have enough money.”

Tampa grinned, showing his teeth.

Dean smiled too.

“You heard it too, the blood-soaked horns filled the whole tavern,” the bald mercenary said, glancing at the people in “my house.” “Come with me. We’ve rented a small house nearby. It used to be the team’s temporary base, but… at least it’ll be enough for you for one night.”

Looking at Dean's expression, Thales had a sudden thought.

His fist slowly clenched and then relaxed.

Thales smiled. "Sounds good. Anyway, I have nowhere else to go."

Dean waved his hand, indicating that they could leave.

Thales stepped down from the bar and slung his bag over his shoulder.

“Hey, Dean,” Thales shook his head at Tampa, then turned back and said earnestly, “Thank you.”

"For...everything that came here from the desert."

Dean stared at him for several seconds.

“Don’t mention it, I’m just looking out for myself,” Dean said, looking him up and down. “You’re an aristocrat, and probably quite wealthy, aren’t you?”

Thales responded with a smile.

"But before that..."

Dean frowned and looked to the other side of the pub: "How did he drink so much?"

Thales followed his gaze and saw that Quick Rope staggered over and slumped onto a table, drawing unfriendly glances from the guests.

“We’ve encountered too many deserts,” Thales sighed softly.

“Yes,” Dean’s brow furrowed even more, “for a newbie who’s only been on a tour for the second time.”

As the group of guests prepared to roll up their sleeves and give Quick Rope an unforgettable night, Dean turned and walked toward him.

"Come on, give me a hand."

"We can't leave him here."

Thales shrugged and followed.

A few hours later, Thales lay stiffly in the hut that belonged to Dante's greatsword, feeling the hard surface of the bed, staring blankly at the moonlight outside the window.

The mercenaries' encampment was indeed in poor condition. A small room contained four beds, with clay walls, a thatched roof, and dust and cobwebs everywhere. The gate looked like it was about to fall apart when pushed or pulled, and even the makeshift toilet outside reminded Thales of the time he spent in the abandoned house.

But it's better than sleeping outdoors.

Ten meters away, the heavy breathing of the fast rope could be heard, occasionally mixed with drunken ramblings and delirium.

Dean slept in the next room, while Old Hammer went to see his old buddies whom he hadn't seen in a long time and was probably going to drink until dawn. McKee had never liked being around people, and the few and often hostile Bone People in the camp had their own places to go. As for Louisa, according to Dean, she went back to her mother and stepfather's house.

Thales took a deep breath.

Incredibly, he escaped Dragonsky City, crossed the Great Desert—though only a small section of its outskirts—and endured Blackpath, Meteorites, Deathraven, hunger, loneliness, heat, cold, orcs, and mercenaries, finally arriving in the territory of the Star Kingdom.

He is back.

Thales gazed at the desolate moonlight above the edge of the desert, feeling the rare tranquility of the Baki camp during curfew.

Quick Rope rolled over and fell off the bed, but he was still muttering something and didn't wake up.

Thales let out a sigh of relief and sat up.

In the realm of hellish senses, Dean's breathing in his dream could be clearly heard next door.

In the darkness, he watched the outline of the rope spread out on the floor in a complex "K" shape, smiled wryly, and shook his head.

These people...

Mercenaries.

What kind of life is that?

Thales was lost in thought.

The prince took two slow breaths, and the next second, he grabbed the baggage and the Time Crossbow by the wall and stood up quietly.

He carefully stepped over the rope, pushed open the door without making a sound, walked through the rather simple and dilapidated hall, and pushed open another door.

Before me lay a burly, bald man, arms crossed, lying on his side on the bed, his chest rising and falling evenly, his breath coming in soft gasps.

He slept soundly, unlike the guy next door who was fast asleep.

Thales closed the door and walked to the man's bedside.

The prince stared at him silently for a long time.

So long that even the moonlight began to move.

Dean's breathing remained deep.

Finally, Thales's expression slowly turned cold.

He looked at Dean's broad back and slowly reached out his hand.

Reaching towards his waist.

He drew JC's dagger.

The blade emitted a faint, cold glint, causing Thales to frown slightly.

Six years.

The sharp dagger that Yara gave him has been with him for six years.

Quaid, Vampires, Dragon City, Calamity, Rumba, Great Desert...

For six years, no matter what dangers he faced, whenever Thales reached out and touched the dagger, feeling its cold and tough texture, a sense of security would arise spontaneously.

That was the strength that made him grit his teeth, straighten his shoulders, and face everything before him.

But those were all self-defense, forced counterattacks and retaliations.

But this time...

Today, Thales suddenly realized that when blood flows over the blade of a dagger, what is revealed on the blade is more than just its name.

But its true nature is that of a murder weapon.

Every time Thales mustered his courage and determination to stab an enemy with his dagger, he would recall the feeling of taking a life with his JC for the first time: hot, slippery blood gushing over the gauntlet, gushing onto his forearm, flowing into his chest, and shooting towards his head and face.

However, those feelings have never felt as real as they do now.

How easy it is to take a life.

It's not that I haven't killed people; on the contrary, I've killed quite a few.

Thales said quietly.

From living in an abandoned house in the lower city to an assassination attempt on King Street, and a life-or-death battle in the vast desert...

But for a considerable period of time, he deliberately ignored the feelings of killing.

He had no choice, did he?

To kill, or to be killed.

Thales gently lifted JC, narrowed his eyes, and aimed the blade at Dean's neck.

In the hellish senses, the blood surging in his carotid artery was so powerful and vibrant.

Thales continued to hold the dagger, aiming at Dean's neck, his face expressionless.

He has no choice.

He silently told himself.

With a simple poke or stab, one can negate the other's significance, strip away their existence, and make their continued value in this world vanish without a trace: they are gone, gone, dead, and will never appear anywhere, in front of anyone, or at any time again.

Just as Quick Rope said: From then on, he had no thoughts, no feelings, no consciousness, nothing left behind, and no knowledge.

He disappeared completely, losing all possibilities, all development, and all future.

Thales snapped out of his daze and looked at the sleeping man in front of him.

It only takes a gentle poke.

Everything about the other party will disappear immediately.

And the one wielding the knife, Thales, can gain much: revenge? Profit? Or simply satisfaction?

Or, it's the exhilarating feeling of killing someone and eliminating all the unpleasantness, frustration, hurt, and pain you felt from them, along with their very existence, allowing you to completely release your pent-up frustration.
And... calculating the pleasure of achieving one's goal and reaping substantial profits after eliminating the opponent?
Or is it that sense of power, authority, and dignity that allows one to control life and death with ease, manipulate the fate of others, and decide everything?

Hold.

Thales stared intently at Dean's neck, his eyes trembling slightly.

He has no choice.

He told himself that for the third time.

Another necessary killing, nothing more.

Is it?

A feeling of exhilaration.

Quaid's hideous and hateful face flashed by.

Pleasure.

The confident smile of King Nuen flashed through his mind.

A sense of power?
This time, Chaman Lombara's cold and indifferent expression appeared before them.

Thales took a deep breath and moved the dagger to the optimal angle for thrusting.

For the thrill of revenge, for the pleasure of profit, for the bullshit power, who cares about anything else... With just a flick of the wrist, everything is over.

Once I kill him, I won't have to worry anymore—

That moment.

A pale, terrified face appeared before him.

That was a face from a very long time ago, so long that Thales had almost forgotten it.

It's Kelly.

One of the people in the sixth house, that poor child, bravely rushed out at the last moment of his life, just to protect that little girl.

however……

Thales trembled slightly, as if he were back in that night: the damned Quaid laughing as he slit Kelly's throat, the boy's face filled with terror, while the murderer's face wore an absurd, disgusting satisfaction and excitement.

Hold.

It's the same for Quaid, isn't it? Just a light touch, and that feeling of pure pleasure... damn.

Another face appeared before my eyes.

She was a little girl standing in the Hall of Heroes in Dragon Sky City, her arms crossed with a pitiful expression, her face showing a mix of arrogance and spoiled behavior, making her quite unlikeable at first glance.

Alex Walton.

Innocent children born of sin.

Her upturned lips were eventually replaced by painful spasms and contorted cheeks after she drank the poison.

Thales stared blankly at the sleeping Dean, but before him were King Nunn's cold smile, Myrk's desperate cry, Nicolai's expressionless indifference, and the little rascal's terrified sobs...

Hold.

The same was true for King Nuen; with just a cup of wine, past humiliations and hatreds were put to rest, and the feeling of pleasure was immense…

Hold.

Thales gently closed his eyes.

Dean's neck disappeared from sight, but Dragon City from six years ago emerged from the darkness.

The devastated, burning shield zone was littered with corpses and endless wails.

In this scene, the terrifying man with an icy expression, the Grand Duke of Black Sands, coldly puts on his blood-stained crown.

Beneath his feet, the head of the born king rolled into the dust, falling into the countless corpses in the shield zone—commoners, nobles, craftsmen, farmers, and guards with melee weapons…

Don't be indifferent, be compassionate, don't be indifferent...

Humans are creatures who gradually become accustomed to many things, such as indifference, or certain perceptions that we know are inappropriate.

[Once you've been exposed to something for a long time, you become desensitized to its stench. But once you relax and get used to it, you'll no longer feel the difference between yourself and the outside world, and you'll never find your former self again—hold on, be resilient, don't compromise, and don't let this world enslave you.]

【Oh dear, young lady, how come you've suddenly become so... so 'Wu Qiren'?】

Is it really okay to criticize yourself...? Besides, isn't this your specialty's forte? Starting from a perspective you've never seen before, it shocks your preconceived notions, refreshes your worldview, shatters your unquestioned, deeply believed, and even dogmatic misconceptions and superficial understandings, revealing how absurd something can be, and how incomprehensible your previous way of viewing it was. It shows you a completely new world, allowing you to discover the truths you and the world know without realizing it, thereby elevating yourself?

Wow, after hearing your vivid description, I suddenly feel so proud of myself.

"Sigh, there's nothing I can do about it. Spending so much time with me, even if you're as dumb as SpongeBob, you'll gradually improve...right...?"

[So, can we leave now? -- Stop petting my head, your cat is at home, you can pet it for free without even standing on tiptoe -- We've already donated, so there's no need to stand in front of this donation box for another five minutes, right?]

Ah! My comic convention—I'm off, I'm off, I'm off!

Thales suddenly opened his eyes!

In the stillness, Thales breathed heavily, his brow beaded with sweat, his expression one of struggle.

JC was just a hand's breadth away from Dean's carotid artery.

He gripped the hilt of the dagger tightly in his hand, the tip of the blade trembling incessantly.

Hold.

Fuck!
It seemed like a long time had passed.

He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.

No.

The prince wearily put down the dagger.

Thales touched his damp forehead and bit his lower lip hard and painfully.

Finally, he sheathed the dagger and took one last look at Dean, who was sleeping.

Like a penitent who has endured great hardship, the prince slowly turned around, facing the door, his expression bitter.

However, just as Thales took his first step away—

"why?"

The sudden sound made Thales' hair stand on end!
“Why did you give up?”

Thales closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh.

He turned around and, in the moonlight, vaguely saw Dean sitting up, leaning against the wall, staring coldly at him.

"A stab in the back, taking care of the enemy before they even see you, is always the best option," the bald mercenary said calmly.

He bent one leg and placed it on the edge of the bed, rested his right elbow on his knee, and had the axe at hand.

"or……"

"You have to capture me alive?"

Thales looked at the mercenary with difficulty.

"You're awake," he said bitterly.

"Otherwise what? Do you think I should completely let my guard down and entrust my life to you?"

Dean sneered, "Who exactly are you?"

Thales opened his mouth, but for a moment he didn't know where to begin.

"I, you..."

“Or to put it more bluntly,” Dean flicked the axe beside him, his eyes sharp, “who sent you?”

Thales stared at him intently.

A struggle in his eyes.

Finally, Thales slowly exhaled.

He suppressed his complicated expression and reverted to his most indifferent and aloof demeanor.

"Dean, right?"

"You were rescued from the desert by old Dante a few years ago and became one of them. But before that..."

Thales stared coldly back at Dean.

“An ordinary mercenary, yet literate and insightful,” the prince said softly. “You come from the North, and you wield your axe with perfect precision. When you face orcs, your feints and deceptive maneuvers always remind me of another famous melee guard from Exter.”

Dean didn't speak; his gaze was fixed on the axe beside him.

The houses were silent under the moonlight, and the curfew on the streets made the surroundings so quiet that it didn't feel like the Western Front, but rather like a rural countryside.

“Not only that, you also know quite a bit of Orcish, and far beyond the ‘hello,’ ‘damn,’ ‘kill you’ that soldiers only learn after encountering them,” Thales continued. “That requires a considerable amount of systematic learning.”

"You even shaved your head, as if that would cover up your hair color."

Dean remained expressionless as he raised his left hand and touched his head.

Thales stared straight at him.

"Your insights and knowledge of national affairs and the political situation are far beyond what a naive soldier who only knows how to make a living and do business could possibly understand."

"Even Tampa says it's a waste for you to be a mercenary, to the point that even Blood Horn wants to recruit you."

Thales took a deep breath and, with difficulty and hesitation, voiced his greatest doubt:
"Dean, mercenary Dean, don't you think these characteristics... are too obvious on one person?"

The sound echoed clearly in the small room.

Time seemed to have frozen.

Dean raised his head and met Thales's questioning gaze without flinching.

"obvious?"

Dean's face showed disdain and anger: "Hmph."

"So, who sent you?"

He asked bluntly:
"Lisban? Or the White Blade Guard?"

Thales's gaze froze in mid-air.

"Or someone else?"

Under the moonlight streaming through the window, Dean spoke slowly, his gaze growing increasingly serious: "The orders I received were to find me... or kill me?"

Thales frowned deeply.

He remained staring intently at Dean.

“Even McKee said that coming out with Tomdin was a mistake, that he wasn’t a good deal, and that the Starfall blockade further indicated something was wrong,” Thales didn’t answer, but continued softly, “But you still came out, with the mercenaries, why?”

"This is not in line with your usual shrewdness and wisdom."

Dean clenched his fist.

"Is it because you know about the Free Alliance, and about the storm that Exter and Dragonstreet are going through? Is it because you're worried about your homeland and country that you risked traveling north, just to see for yourself?"

Dean didn't say anything.

So Thales spoke again.

“Answer me, Dean,” Thales sighed, “Are you him?”

This time, Dean slowly raised his head.

"he?"

Dean said calmly, "Who?"

"You know who I'm talking about."

Dean smiled.

He slowly raised his arm and pointed at Thales.

"you."

"You're suspicious too, aren't you?"

“A man came from the north and mysteriously collapsed in the desert,” Dean tilted his head and glanced at Thales, “holding a military crossbow that was clearly not something an ordinary person would own, and a dagger that could cut through iron like mud.”

Thales felt a sudden tightness in his back and waist.

"Your words and actions are very proper, polite, and attentive to detail. You are clearly a well-educated person. This is also why no one else wanted to talk to you a few days ago—well, maybe except for Kaisen, who is just a hothead who is scared of the ocean."

"And you are very clever. At least the background you fabricated is consistent with your words and actions. At first glance, it even makes sense."

Dean sneered.

"But what I find strange is that you are different from most nobles."

"Whether it's scorching sand or icy solid rock, you can lie down without any hindrance and fall asleep easily; dried meat that's been dried for months, coarse bread that's too hard to bite into, stews with a fishy smell, burnt food, no matter how unpalatable it is, you can swallow it smoothly and eat it as usual."

"Just like you've been used to it for a long time."

"At least, they don't seem like the adults I know in those castles."

“So, either you were born into a nouveau riche family, and before you even had a chance to become one of those increasingly foolish and selfish bastards in the castle,” Dean narrowed his eyes, his expression solemn.

"Either there must be a wise and sensible person in your family who has accumulated wisdom through experience, knowledge, time, or life experience, and who chooses to mold the next generation into men through harsh trials rather than fattening you up with food and enclosures."

Thales remained motionless, listening intently.

"And Wyatt Castle?"

Dean chuckled, but his gaze toward Thales remained icy: "Next time you tell another Northman a name, you'd better not use the same last name as 'Star Fox' Gilbert Cassel."

Thales moved slightly.

"Back then at Dragon Fortress, that man from the stars came alone, braving the angry gazes of King Exte and six grand dukes, speaking eloquently and debating back and forth. When the peace treaty was finally signed, he was quite famous."

Dean curled the corners of his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Thales shook his head regretfully, “It was my first time running away from home, and a lot of things happened suddenly, so I was a little nervous.”

Dean's eyes flashed.

"So, who are you?" he asked quietly.

"A mere teenager, yet possessing extraordinary agility and sharp reflexes—I suspect it's the power of termination—the 'coming-of-age killer' who managed to keep his pants from wetting himself when first facing terrifying orcs, Seka?"

Dean lowered his head, his expression hidden in the darkness where the moonlight couldn't reach: "According to Tomding, those Star Riders, are they hunting you?"

Thales breathed slowly.

He clenched his fist, then gently lowered it.

“Listen, I didn’t mean to make things this complicated,” Prince Star said, opening his palms and speaking in his calmest and most serious tone. “I could have found the Baki camp’s army much earlier and made them take action… but I didn’t. I waited until now.”

Dean nodded slightly, a smile playing on his lips.

"So you do indeed have a significant status and close ties to this officialdom," the bald mercenary scoffed. "But you've been hiding your identity all this time, just for me?"

Thales ignored what the other person said.

“I only need you to answer one simple question, Dean,” he said calmly.

Dean stared at him with interest.

“What a coincidence,” the mercenary nodded, “Me too, Wyatt.”

silence.

In the suffocating silence, the two stared at each other silently in the dimly lit, enclosed house.

Until Thales spoke again.

“So, Dean,” the Prince of Stars cleared his throat, finally asking the last question with seriousness and caution:

Are you Moral Walton?

"That willful prince who escaped from Dragon City six years ago?"

Dean didn't answer, didn't move, and didn't even offer a superfluous expression.

He just stared coldly at Thales.

“And you, Wyman,” he began softly, lifting his head slightly to let the moonlight illuminate his sharply defined features:

Should I call you Thales Star?

Thales tensed his muscles.

"The culprit who caused the entire Exter to shake and transformed Dragonsky City?"

Why have you been slow to update lately?
No, I didn't delay my updates because I was playing Dota 2!
Yeah, the reason for the delay is that I was dragged into playing World of Warcraft by the author of "The Trail of the American Comic World's Overlord," yes, that guy Yilu Jilu (I'm not a tank! It's clearly Yilu Jilu who's a healer!)... Everyone, blame him. This guy is clearly a prolific writer, typing 30,000 to 40,000 words a day, updating 100 chapters on the day of release, making us clumsy writers feel like we were dying of joy, and he's still not satisfied, trying to slow down our typing speed with a game... How hateful! Everyone, remember to condemn him! Oh, and before you condemn him, vote for him, then he'll be too intimidated to argue.

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(End of this chapter)