Kingdom Bloodline

Chapter 495 The First Crow
The yellow sand still drifts in the air, and the early sun remains hazy.

As Deleuze rode his horse, his expressionless gaze fixed on the horizon where dust met clouds, rising and falling with the saddle.

Dark and blurry.

Just like always.

Several seconds later, at the respectful reminder of his subordinates, Deleuze turned his horse around to look straight ahead:

A "gate" blocked by a dozen or so chevaux-de-frise, the hard sandy ground trampled flat, behind which a cluster of fortresses of varying heights stood, guards stood in solemn and orderly formation, and the double-star flag with a cross fluttering in the air.

Of course, there was also a flag that resembled a mist shrouding starlight.

Stardust Banner.

Just like always.

As expected, a group of camp guards stepped forward, looking arrogant.

They clashed with Deleuze's team, with the conflict ranging from verbal altercations and shouting to pushing and shoving.

Like two stallions sharing a trough in a stable.

Deller ignored the situation and let things unfold as they would, simply taking the water bag out of the saddlebag.

In the Western Wilderness, the tongue will tell you faster than the eyes:
The desert is not far away.

The conflict reached its climax when Deleuze swallowed his third mouthful of water, and his personal guard captain angrily pointed to the flag behind him: the two sides, glaring at each other, could no longer contain their emotions and drew their swords and bows.

At his command, his personal guards ordered hundreds of riders to immediately disperse into battle formation.

The camp guards behind the gate rushed out and surrounded them tightly, gritting their teeth.

Deler also caught a glimpse of a dozen or so magic guns and crossbows protruding from the crenellations of the watchtower high above, aiming at them.

The tension is on the verge of breaking out.

Just like always.

Still mounted on his horse, Deler gave a low hum.

He raised the water pouch again and swallowed his fourth mouthful of water with elegance and nonchalance.

Then, naturally, at the last moment, "Runaway" Frank appeared at the door, sternly reprimanding his standing army soldiers, and then approached Deler with impeccable manners and respect, asking him to forgive the royal standing army for its necessary vigilance during "extraordinary times".

It's as if they really have a "normal period".

Then, Frank, who looked much older than eleven years ago, welcomed them with joy and enthusiasm on behalf of Baron Baki.

I would also like to offer my sincere apologies for the Baron's busy schedule and inability to come and greet me.

Just like always.

So, amidst disdainful and hostile gazes, their group stepped into the camp, onto the main road, and into the cacophony of voices.

Deleuze, shedding his languid weariness from the journey, straightened his back, tightened his shoulders, and let his beloved horse "Saber" advance leisurely yet elegantly, calmly yet alertly. His personal guards on both sides rode on horseback, dutifully whipping their horses to clear the way, their ranks neat and their presence imposing.

The noisy campsite fell silent.

Amidst confusion and surprise, the people on the street stared at them blankly for about five seconds.

Then, the first group of people stared wide-eyed, trembled, covered their mouths with their hands, and let out suppressed gasps.

They pointed loudly at the large flag behind Deleuze, telling those who hadn't yet realized what it meant.

Faced with all sorts of gazes, Deler tensed his muscles: his back, arms, and cheeks.

Just like always.

About three seconds later, the crowd erupted in chaos.

Amidst a deafening roar comparable to a siege, Deleuze's captain of the personal guard skillfully stepped forward, his face fierce, his specially made long whip whistling through the air with a warning crack.

"Make way!"

The captain's voice echoed between the fortresses for a little over a second.

Then, the crowd that had filled the street and blocked the queue scattered in a chaotic manner.

Among them were hurried footsteps running back and forth, cries of people being dragged and knocked over, complaints from merchants whose goods were scattered, and vicious curses from those unlucky enough to have their valuables stolen in the chaos.

In the end, only those figures on both sides of the road and at the corners of the streets remained. Most people tried to squeeze their bodies into the corners as tightly as possible, while showing awe or curiosity in their eyes, occasionally sneaking a glance at Deler's group, with many of them focusing on Deler.

Just like always.

Centuries of accumulated prestige and the pervasive understanding that, at least on this land, few dare to go against the banner behind Deleuze.

Very few.

but.

Not without.

Deler's gaze swept across the dusty and filthy street, then returned to the two furtive, slovenly thugs. Before he could react, his personal guards, who were patrolling ahead, stepped forward and whipped the two men, who crawled away from the empty street, crying and howling.

Deler watched the dust kicked up by the whip, then casually pulled up his mask to cover his mouth and nose.

Eleven years had passed since he last visited Baki's camp: the shadow of the desert war had long since faded.

But Baki's camp remains unchanged.

Chaos, bloodshed, filth.

Even the charred houses and fortresses that had clearly been burned to ruins recently seemed perfectly natural.

Just like their western wilderness.

When he was a child, Deleuze's father, in a fit of drunken rage and ferocity, would whip him—actually, he would whip the servants, because every time his father sobered up and found bruises on his body, he would fly into a rage and cruelly punish the servants for failing to take good care of their young master—and had told Deleuze what the West had always been like:

A land of freedom, wildness, wealth, simplicity, and boundless openness, teeming with beautiful women of all kinds and fine wines from all over the continent.

And everything can be solved with a sword.

That is the true Western Wilderness.

Their paradise.

Of course, Deler had never seen the Western Wilderness that his father had mentioned.

In fact, he spent most of his childhood and adulthood away from his hometown.

One night when he was eight years old, Deleuze's alcoholic father barged into his room as usual, staggering around and trying to "teach him something."

His mother, as was customary with the servants' reminders, also hurried over to take Deler away.

That one time, however, his father got very drunk.

superb.

That time, the drunken father wasn't holding a horsewhip in his hand.

It was a sword.

That sword was very sharp.

Too sharp.

Deleuze suddenly felt that the colors in front of him had turned redder.

He shifted his posture uncomfortably and subconsciously pressed the back of his shoulder to dispel the bright red in front of his eyes.

That scar from decades ago still seems to ache faintly.

Everything can be solved with a sword.

Thinking of his father's words, Deler gave a soft hum.

He remembered that on their wedding night, when his wife timidly asked him where the scar on his back came from, and he answered with a stern face, "The battlefield," his wife, who was still almost a teenager, had an expression of half shock and half admiration on her face.

battlefield.

"My husband is a true warrior," the wife said, her soft fingers tracing the scar, her eyes filled with pride and reverence.

Thinking of this, Deler tightened his grip on the reins.

What a load of bull on the battlefield.

Shit.

His breathing quickened.

Deller had been to the battlefield and had been wounded—after leaving his hometown, his aunt and uncle insisted on raising him according to the traditions of the Western Wilderness—in fact, he had several battle wounds that he could boast about, some of which even the most hardened soldiers would give a thumbs up when they saw them.

Once, what flowed from within was also bright red, passionate blood.

But not that one.

Deler touched the back of his shoulder, his face tense.

No.

It's not that kind of bright red either.

No.

He still doesn't know why he lied on his wedding night.

I still yearn for the person closest to me in this life.

But it was too late.

Too late.

Just like that night.

Deler slowly released his hand, leaving the scar.

He also remembered how those strangers broke into the castle after the incident: the warriors were brutal and fierce, their armor painted with skulls with four eyeholes, and the family guards dared not utter a sound in their presence.

On that same day, Deler, who was severely injured, had a high fever, and was in a coma, met many people.

The ailing but dignified old duke and his nephew heir.

Count Bozdorf, who once held Deleuze.

And his aunt and uncle, who rushed over from the east.

Of course, there was also the prince, surrounded by a huge crowd and of noble status.

The father, who was always domineering and had the final say, stood alone in the center of the hall, facing a group of dignitaries, maintaining a rare clarity of mind, his face pale, his eyes lowered.

The last thing Deler remembered was something the prince said.

His father first roared, then charged at the prince in a rage. After being held back by the fierce, unfamiliar soldiers, he collapsed to the ground as if he had lost his soul, looking helplessly at Deleuze.

He still remembers his father's eyes.

Deller himself was held tightly in the arms of his aunt, who was weeping but unusually strong, and eventually got into the carriage and left the castle.

Far from home.

Along with his mother's coffin.

Years have passed.

Deler never saw his father again—the latter perished during the siege of Yongxing City in the midst of war and chaos, dying for his country.

Just like...

That prince.

Thinking of this, Deler suddenly opened his eyes.

At the end of the street, he saw the tall tower.

And those standing at the foot of the tower...

Another prince.

----

"Of course, if Your Highness wishes to go out for a couple of drinks, then without someone familiar with the place to guide you, absolutely do not go to that 'My Home' tavern in the south..." "I, cough cough, let me tell you, that bastard owner is a real scoundrel. Unlucky guys who don't know any better often get drunk there, only to wake up naked in a brothel, not only without their money, but also with an old man on top of them... or worse: naked in a prison of bones, with a bunch of old men on top of them... oh dear, we've saved countless wayward young men and old men since we started serving..."

Thales yawned as he walked downstairs, listening to Snakehand enthusiastically introduce him to the local customs and culture of the Blade Fang camp.

Legendary Wings is no joke.

Because the very next morning, the Serpent Hand, who was in charge of guarding the Ghost Prince's Tower, led a dozen or so "freaks" (the only woman, whose Spirit Blade kept casting menacing glances at the prince) to knock on the door, cautiously indicating that the team had assembled and requesting the sleepy-eyed prince: it was time to "return home in glory".

Looking at the sun, which was still not far above the horizon, and at the other party's pitiful, obsequious yet embarrassed expression, Thales sighed and finally abandoned the cruel idea of ​​sending Snake Hand back to "confirm" with Roman again.

As it turns out, the valiant and infamous Baron Roman Williams was indeed very…

Be petty.

He couldn't wait to...

Get rid of him.

Just for...

A sword given to me by someone?

So, as Thales yawned repeatedly as he packed his bags, dressed in coarse cloth ("Are you sure you don't want to try this? This is the best loot our squad has ever acquired! Look at it, bright red, covered in shimmering gold dust, even the cuffs and collar are gold-plated—how could it be vulgar? Even the Grey Bastards love it! Even our Baron himself wouldn't wear it..."—Snake Hand, using his powers to manipulate the clothes into various positions and poses, his face full of flattery), following behind Snake Hand down the eerie steps of the Ghost Prince's Tower, he couldn't help but mutter a complaint to the air beside him:

“You know, according to that letter, the Winged One was once Prince Hyman’s messenger.”

"Imagine that guy with that grumpy face, running around delivering messages... My god, even the Meteorite is cuter than that guy..."

Thinking of this, Thales couldn't help but hug the "Warning Sword" in his arms even tighter.

A few seconds later, a barely audible, hoarse reply came through the air:

"But... it's still a nice face."

Thales was speechless.

It seems that his uncle, Prince Hyman, is probably also a person who judges by appearances.

Thales subconsciously glanced back at the dilapidated Ghost Prince Tower and suddenly felt a chill run down his spine.

Ahead of him, the snake-handed man, who insisted on carrying the prince's luggage, cherished every moment spent with the prince, chattering incessantly to the interested prince (whom Thales had only mentioned casually) about all aspects of the Western Wilderness and the Blade Fang Camp:

"Oh, since you asked, I have to say, don't mess with those mercenaries! I mean, although they all risk their lives with swords, well, those sword dealers are all freaks. Who knows if they were murderers before they escaped to this camp? They'll do anything for money, unlike us. We are all good soldiers serving the kingdom, upright, loyal, law-abiding, responsible, and with legitimate identities!"

Having probably figured out the prince's good temper, Snake Hand spoke with particular confidence and righteous indignation, while Strange Fire and Dazzling Eyes behind him subconsciously scratched their heads and looked away.

As they spoke, they finally emerged from the Ghost Prince Tower and met up with the Stardust Guard, who were dressed similarly below the tower—clearly soldiers of the "freaks" as well.

Snake Hand, oblivious to the expressions on his two subordinates' faces, waved his hand excitedly.

"Also, since Your Highness has inquired about the tavern at Baki's camp..."

The Spirit Blade behind him suddenly picked up a wine bottle, awkwardly pressing the bottle's mouth against the lower edge of his chest, and strode forward with an overbearing posture. He forced out an exaggerated smile that was obviously something he had practiced in front of the mirror yesterday, and looked at Thales with the eyes of someone eyeing prey.

"Ahem, although I can't take you with me, I still went to great lengths to get you some fine wine, definitely one of the best in the Western Wilderness. Just remember how we've treated you these past few days... and please forgive yesterday's accident. But believe me, I'm not afraid of those big shots. It's just that that arrogant duke came too suddenly. You know, for you, I can..."

Faced with the expectant look on Snake Hand's face, Thales could only awkwardly push away the wine bottle that Spirit Blade was enthusiastically offering him in the open space—this was not easy, because you had to avoid her chest while pushing away the wine bottle.

"No way, wow, I mean... um, thank you, but I really can't drink..."

But the awkward atmosphere quickly dissipated.

"Snake...uh, team, captain?"

A strange fire's puzzled voice came, and Thales and the snake hand stopped what they were doing at the same time.

The bustling sounds of people in the streets and alleys quickly disappeared, replaced by the drumbeat-like sound of horses' hooves.

The members of the Freaks team suddenly changed color.

Equally puzzled, Thales pushed aside the snake's hand and, with his good eyesight, saw a flag slowly rising from between the fortresses in the distance.

"That is……"

Beneath that banner, appearing in the streets and alleys, were rows of cavalrymen in gleaming armor, riding majestic horses, marching in four columns in an orderly fashion toward the Ghost Prince Tower.

No fewer than a hundred riders.

And the leading flag depicts...

"One-winged crow".

"I can't believe it," said the confused member of the group.

One-winged crow.

Thales' heart skipped a beat as he recalled his encounter with Dante's greatswords in the desert:

"Is it that commando team, 'Thunder Ravens'?"

Spirit Blade's expression froze:
"Sunset, please don't let it be them again!"

This seemed to ignite something, and the freaks screamed and complained:

"Then what kind of profit could be made from all that eating, drinking, whoring, and lodging along the way..."

"Damn, 60%! They only took 60% of that last batch of goods! 60%!"

As the cavalry drew ever closer, amidst the freaks' unrestrained chatter, Snake Hand frowned and tried to calm them down:

"Alright, alright, so what if it's Lei Ya? Besides, we have a prince here, they wouldn't dare do anything..."

But among the crowd, the strange fire-wielding man who had been munching on a piece of bread shook his head:

"Do not."

“Look closely at their crow flags.”

With a strange look in his eyes, Guaihuo took a bite of his bread and pointed at the approaching banner:
"Inlaid with gold patterns."

The freaks fell silent, their expressions freezing.

With a crash, the wine bottle in Lingren's hand shattered on the ground.

But nobody cares anymore.

"No way……"

The snake-handed man carrying the prince's luggage comically caught up with him, his round eyes fixed on the flag.

The next second, the snake hand gasped.

"Holy crap—"

Now Thales could see it clearly: indeed, the edges of the flag were inlaid with gold.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no!"

Snake Hand cried out in pain and turned around with lightning speed!
"Quickly, quick, form up! Put on your armor! Monster Fire, stop eating! Spirit Blade, put your chest back in, we can't lose our momentum!"

Spirit blades, strange fire, blinding light... the entire freak squad moved erratically, as if they had encountered a monster.

Leaving Thales looking completely bewildered:
"I do not understand?"

Snake Hand was so busy making arrangements for his subordinates that he didn't even bother to answer Thales's question:

"Send another person to inform the Baron, oh my god..."

Thales could only clear his throat to get their attention:

"So, um, you guys have a grudge against Thunder Raven?"

After kicking the blind man, Snake Hand finally reacted, turning around and immediately adopting a fawning expression:
"No, Your Highness, 'Thunder Ravens' is just the nickname of the second squad of the Raven Guard—Thunder Ravens are all conscripts, all peasants and roughnecks, and the proportion of Raven Whistles light cavalry is not large, so we are not afraid of them."

Snake Hand turned around and looked at the approaching group of knights.

He held up his index finger, gritting his teeth, his face filled with envy, jealousy, and hatred.
"But have you noticed how much they've spent on equipment and mounts...? Almost all of them are Crowwhistles—no less than Lord Williams' personal guards in the standing army."

Thales narrowed his eyes: Just as he had said, the knights on horseback had sharp eyes and nimble movements, their mounts were spirited and had glossy coats, and they were fully equipped with everything from swords and spears to bows and arrows.

But he saw more: behind the lofty single-winged raven flag, there were at least ten other flags.

Lightning, spiders, giant axes... the patterns and textures on these banners are different, only slightly shorter, and they slowly follow the crow banner.

The prince frowned.

"As for their golden banners... Your Highness, these are not Thunder Ravens, but the Raven Guard... First Squad."

The snake-hand's eyes revealed fear and awe:
"On the western front, we call them..."

"The first crow".

A raven?

Looking at the bewildered freak squad, Thales quickly understood what it meant.

The procession carrying a golden-embroidered single-winged raven flag arrived not far from them.

The cavalry were divided into three groups:
A team came from both sides, spread out and took up positions at the edges and main roads of the open space, seemingly setting up sentry posts as was their habit.

The second team consisted entirely of soldiers carrying flags. Centered around the golden raven flag, they spread out horizontally, skillfully taking their positions to ensure that every flag was visible.

The third group of cavalry, which also seemed the most formidable, came in two columns. When they were about to approach the freaks, they stopped in unison, turned around and dispersed to the sides, then turned their horses back to face each other, creating a passage.

Watching their orderly steps, Thales couldn't help but think of the Palace of Renewal six years ago, where the sentries and guards were probably just like that.

"Holy crap, is it really necessary? It's all so...so..." Mi Yan complained, but then he glanced at the imposing cavalrymen around him, and his arrogant tone unconsciously softened.
"...It looks pretty convincing."

Facing this imposing group of "leaders," and looking at the freaks standing in a disorganized line, Snake Hand's expression grew increasingly grim.

At the rear of the column, the cavalrymen who had been stationed there skillfully and gracefully reined in their horses and stepped back, making way for a noble knight in unusual attire.

The knight was not old, only in his thirties, with a resolute and calm face. He wore gold and black armor, and his posture on horseback was upright and tenacious, revealing an aura that was out of place in the chaotic camp.

Thales sighed, pushed aside the freaks who were staring blankly, and stepped forward. Snake Hand hesitated for a moment, then quickly followed.

The noble knight spotted Thales from afar, deftly dismounted, and the cavalry behind him followed suit, dismounting as if by prior arrangement.

The middle-aged knight handed the reins and sword to his men, made a downward gesture to them, and then walked alone through the passage his men had made, into the freaks' formation.

Snake Hand nervously raised his chest, cleared his throat, and prepared to say something.

"Um, what is this...?"

But the knight seemed not to see him at all, simply passing by the snake-hand without glancing at him.

A guard standing nearby glanced at Snake Hand expressionlessly, and the latter immediately turned red in the face, unable to utter a word.

He raised his arm several times, seemingly hesitating whether to stop the other party, but in the end he did not have the courage to take a step forward, and just watched the knight walk forward.

The noble knight ignored everything and continued forward, stopping in front of Thales, who looked rather shabby.

He looked at Thales silently, his eyes clear but devoid of emotion.

Thales frowned slightly, carefully examining the single-winged raven pattern on the young knight's chest.

"Your Excellency Prince Thales."

The noble knight spoke softly, his voice steady and pleasant.

He clenched his gloved right hand, pressed it against his left chest, and nodded slightly—his manners were impeccable and perfectly measured.
"Bestowed by the King of Restoration, heir to the 13th Earl of the Founding Kingdom."

"The kingdom's vigilant, the watcher of the western wilderness, the guardian of the winged fortress."

The middle-aged knight raised his head, his expression indifferent.

"Dele Kloma".

A small commotion arose from the freak.

The knight named Deler removed his right iron gauntlet and extended his palm to Thales:

"At your service."

Believe me, I've been thinking about how to write the next part of the story for the past month. I only occasionally play games or watch movies in my spare time (not the other way around, hmph!).
by Wu Jian, who looked completely innocent.

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(End of this chapter)