I, the prince in distress, send money

Chapter 365 Holy Water and the Messenger

It got dark; night fell.

About seven or eight kilometers southwest of the Bagnia camp, or perhaps further away, in a small grove of trees, Kuang Chuan sat on a large rock, legs spread apart, his skirt armor falling in front of his crotch, barely separating the cold metal from his bloody wounds.

Every slight movement aggravated the deep, bone-revealing knife wound on the inside of his thigh, causing his thigh muscles to twitch.

Even though he had already lowered his pain threshold to the minimum by hacking through an entire street, the wound still made him feel extremely uncomfortable.

A sword lay across his lap, its blade stained with dark red blood and bits of grass, its original gleam now obscured by the filth. He held the hilt loosely in his weak hand, his fingertips trembling slightly from blood loss and exhaustion.

Across the street from the street where the carnage was rampaging, about four or five meters away, stood a knight of Leteria.

The Knights' situation was no better than hacking down a street.

Instead of sitting on the rock, he leaned against the trunk of a small tree that had been snapped in half in an extremely awkward position, barely managing to keep from falling.

His magnificent plate armor had become a prison and a burden. A gruesome crack had been cleaved in the center of his breastplate by some kind of sharp weapon, the edges curled up to reveal the blood-stained chainmail and lining underneath.

The knight's left arm guard was twisted and deformed, hanging limply, and the knuckles of the hilt were covered with dirt and dark red blood.

Worst of all was his head; the helmet adorned with the family crest was askew on his head, and a large gash had been ripped open in the visor of the mask, from which blood was seeping out, meandering down the gleaming silver armor and staining a large patch of dirt on his chest.

His breathing came through the gaps in the deformable mask, rapid and hoarse like a broken bellows, each breath accompanied by a painful groan.

He still gripped the hilt of his longsword tightly with one hand, but the sword had been deeply embedded in the tree trunk he was leaning against, almost half of the blade was inside.

The knight had clearly tried to pull it out, but the excruciating pain in his arm and exhaustion forced him to give up, leaving him futilely gripping the hilt and using it as a foothold.

The two were less than ten steps apart. The small clearing in the woods was filled with a strong stench of blood, the sour smell of sweat, and the metallic tang of metal rubbing together.

The moonlight struggled to filter through the sparse branches and leaves, casting dappled and fragmented shadows on the two men, making their blood-stained armor and pained, contorted faces look like demons returned from hell.

He slashed wildly down the street, wanting to move, wanting to pounce, but the slightest movement caused the wound on his thigh to protest.
The knight opposite him also wanted to move, to pull out the sword stuck in the tree, or simply to pounce on him and smash his throat with his fist, but the excruciating pain in his chest made every attempt to take a deep breath feel like torture.

Why are the two of them here?
He slashed through the entire street just to find out what was going on. He remembered that he was originally capturing prisoners on the battlefield, and then he saw a high-value target... which was this guy in front of him.

Then he rushed over on foot, knocked him off his horse, and chased after him while the latter fled. They chased each other until nightfall.

"Hey, hello...yes, I'm calling you."

He hacked through the street and then suddenly struck up a conversation with the knight across the street, acting like a petty thug.

"You ran here instead of returning to your own camp. Was someone there to meet you?"

The knight did not answer.

Even though the questioner was an enemy, Edmund was a little embarrassed to tell him that he was actually terrible with directions, so much so that while fighting and running on the chaotic battlefield, he ended up plunging headfirst into this damned grove of trees that seemed like he could never get out.

What humiliated him even more was that in that decisive struggle after he fell from his horse, his sense of direction was completely disrupted by pain and dizziness. He only remembered that he had to drag this persistent enemy away from the center of the battlefield, and as a result…

And so it turned out like this. Two wounded idiots are wasting their time in this godforsaken place like abandoned pieces of scrap metal, with not even a trace of an army camp in sight.

"Surrender."

The mocking and hoarse voice that had been slashing down the street rang out again, like sandpaper rubbing against Edmund's taut nerves.

“I will treat prisoners well. Chris said you can exchange them for warhorses... so you won’t die.”

"Why don't you surrender? I also treat prisoners of war well..."

Edmund couldn't help but retort, then interrupted him by hacking down a whole street.

"You can't beat me."

Edmund didn't want to talk anymore.

Lies don't hurt, truth is the knife.

When Edmund first arrived in this forest, he was not alone; he was accompanied by a troop of knights and archers, while the enemy on the other side pursued him alone.

Now he's the only one left alive; everyone else is dead.

So all Edmund could do now was glare at his opponent through the gap in his helmet, conveying his anger and contempt.

But after waiting a while, Edmund knew he couldn't continue like this. The pain in his chest kept reminding him that if he waited any longer, he would die from blood loss.

"Let's leave peacefully, and I won't lay a hand on you."

Edmund tried to negotiate with his opponent.

"It's a beautiful thought."

Without a second thought, he rejected Edmund's suggestion to cut down an entire street.

"I'll give you something, something good."

Edmund kept trying; he was still young and had a bright future ahead of him, and he didn't want to die here.

He laboriously reached into his waistband and fumbled for a while before pulling out a small, transparent bottle from his waist pouch. The bottle contained half a bottle of thick, viscous liquid that shimmered with a faint golden light. Even from a distance of four or five meters, it attracted the attention of the entire street-wide slasher.

Seeing his opponent looking over, Edmund introduced himself.

"This is the holy water of the sun god. If you spare me, I'll give it to you?"

"What's the use of this thing?"

"Oh, you didn't know?"

Edmund paused for a moment, then he began to explain.

"After drinking the holy water of the sun, physical training can increase the body's strength and endurance in a short period of time. It is also effective for horses. It is a sacred object for knights, which is common knowledge."

And this thing?
Isn't this holy water just like the power potions in a typical fantasy game?!

He paused for a moment after hacking down the street, then burst out laughing.

"But it's no use talking to me about this. I've got you, so what's yours is mine..."

"Okay, now I really believe you don't know about the Holy Water of the Sun..."

In Retalia, even children know that holy water is a gift from the sun god to believers, and only a sincere offering can preserve its effectiveness; theft, robbery, and deception will render it useless.

Edmund raised the small bottle higher so that his opponent could see the light inside.

“Once you snatch the holy water from my hand, the sunlight in the water will fade, and the holy water will turn into ordinary water.”

"Really?"

He was somewhat skeptical of the man who had hacked down the street, but after watching Edmund for a while, he believed the latter's words, because he could find out the truth about it by asking a Reteria prisoner of war later.

Secondly, the fact that the knights of Leteria could cut down an entire street without caring about what Edmund had, whether it was real or fake, shows that the good stuff the knights had wasn't actually that great.

"Never mind, I don't care."

He used the uninjured leg that had been chopping away down the street to get to his feet.

"Surrender..."

Having won today's battle, Chris is now completely relieved. Although his side suffered considerable losses, compared to the gains, these casualties were entirely worthwhile.

After this battle, Chris was basically certain that his gains were secured. Regardless of what the Minisians thought or whether the Reteria would leave tomorrow, the Tavitsky Province was now confirmed to belong to the Kingdom of Bagnia.

Because, tonight, Reteria sent a team of messengers.

The night was as dark as ink, with only sparse starlight and the scattered campfires of the Bagnya military camp in the distance barely illuminating the way ahead.

The Reteria envoy... Lord Cassani, an old-fashioned nobleman known for his composure, sat with his lips tightly pressed together in the bumpy carriage, his fingers unconsciously stroking the cold family crest ring.

Sending a mission to Bagnia's military camp was no easy task, but Cassani had no choice. Besides the lord's request, he also clung to a sliver of hope that his son, who had not returned, might have been captured rather than killed in battle.

Outside the car window, all was deathly dark, but the unique smell of burning, blood, and gunpowder in the air grew stronger and stronger as it seeped into the car.

The envoy's convoy is passing the site of the southern front where the bloody battle took place this afternoon.

The wheels rolled over the soft ground, occasionally making a teeth-grinding "crunch" sound, as they crushed some unrecognizable object half-buried in the mud.

Lord Casani, suppressing his discomfort, lifted a corner of the carriage curtain to look outside.

The moonlight in the night sky was stingy in its showers, outlining the desolate contours of the battlefield. Broken shields, snapped spears, and scattered arrows, like abandoned skeletons, appeared and disappeared in the shadows.

More often, there are dark, irregular patches that have soaked into the earth and exude an aura of death.

He even caught a glimpse of a dead warhorse, its belly torn open, its internal organs spilling out, their outlines purplish-black in the pale moonlight.

There are almost no intact corpses here, whether from Leteria or Bagnia, only the remnants spit out by the war behemoths after chewing.

Lord Casani felt a churning in his stomach and quickly pulled down the curtain. His face was even paler in the dim light of the carriage. The scale of this crushing defeat was far more shocking than the urgent battle report he had received had described.

In addition to feeling nauseous, Lord Casani was also filled with fear... He was afraid of seeing a familiar face here.

The convoy finally approached the outpost of the Bagnia military camp.

To Lord Casani's surprise, the camp was not as chaotic or lax as he had imagined. The sentries wore uniform dark green military uniforms, and their figures stood tall and straight as pines in the light of the campfire.

The weapons in their hands made Lord Casani's pupils shrink slightly. They were not the usual matchlock guns or spears, but flintlock guns with more complex structures and longer barrels, the muzzles gleaming with a cold, hard metallic luster in the firelight.

What alarmed him even more was that, even at night, the steel breastplates on the soldiers' chests reflected the dim light of the campfire, polished to a high shine, protecting their vital organs. They wore thick, uniform leather boots, and standard-issue canteens and ammunition pouches hung from their waists.

The Bagnian soldiers were so well-disciplined and equipped that they far surpassed the regular army of Reteria and were even comparable to the royal guards.

“Bagnia…when…”

Lord Casani was in a state of shock. He had thought his opponent was just a nouveau riche who had won by relying on mercenaries and luck, but the high degree of standardization and discipline displayed by the army before him was something that could not have been achieved overnight.

The logistical, financial, and organizational capabilities behind this put him under immense pressure.

Because messengers had been sent in advance, Lord Casani's convoy was not deliberately harassed by the sentries. After a thorough check, the convoy of more than twenty men was allowed to enter the enemy's southern camp.

Once inside, Lord Casani drew back the curtains to observe the enemy's details more closely.

The campsite was well-planned, with tents arranged in neat rows and clear pathways.

The soldiers either ate quietly around the campfire, cleaned and maintained their flintlock rifles and bayonets, or stood guard and patrolled.

Exhaustion was evident, and many people had blood-soaked bandages wrapped around their bodies, but the overall atmosphere exuded a sense of composure after victory rather than the chaos of surviving a catastrophe.

The ubiquitous green military uniforms, gleaming breastplates, and neatly arranged equipment create a highly imposing scene.

Lord Cassani even noticed some soldiers cleaning up captured Reteria weapons, piling them up to the side, a silent testament to the afternoon's battle and their pride.

Finally, the carriage stopped in front of the commander's tent, which was larger and more heavily guarded than the other tents.

Lord Casani took a deep breath, straightened his slightly disheveled robes, and tried his best to maintain the dignity befitting a nobleman. Under the cold gaze of the guards, he walked in with his head held high.

The tent was brightly lit, illuminating the young figure behind the central table with exceptional clarity.

Lord Casani paused almost imperceptibly, a hint of shock flashing in his eyes.

Is this Chris?

The nominal prince of the Kingdom of Bagnia, but the actual ruler?
too young!

Chris looked to be only around twenty years old, with a youthful air that hadn't completely faded from his face.

In Lord Casani's eyes, Chris was dressed in a well-tailored dark casual suit, without too many fancy decorations, only epaulettes and a simple badge on his chest indicating his identity. At this moment, he was looking down at a document, and the candlelight cast a small shadow under his thick eyelashes.

Hearing footsteps, Chris looked up and calmly met Lord Casani's gaze.

Those were deep, sharp eyes, quite out of proportion to their age.

There was none of the restlessness or smugness common among young people; there was only an almost cold calmness that seemed to penetrate the heart.

Lord Casani instantly abandoned any trace of disdain he might have felt for the young man's youth. This young man exuded an invisible, all-encompassing pressure, and the light in his eyes was more chilling than that of many cunning and calculating politicians he had ever met.

After a brief, suffocating silence, Lord Casani bowed slightly, performing a standard aristocratic salute, his voice deliberately calm and tinged with arrogance.

"Greetings, Your Excellency Chris. I, Casani Hohenzollern, have come to negotiate with you on the orders of Prince Reteria."

Chris did not get up, but simply nodded slightly, his voice calm and unchanging, revealing neither joy nor anger.

"Lord Casani, it's a pleasure to visit so late at night."

Lord Casani straightened his back, looked directly into Chris's unsettling eyes, and began to speak with a deliberate hardening tone, trying to regain the initiative in terms of momentum.

"I am unworthy of your hospitality, Lord Chris. I am here on behalf of the Reteria Empire to lodge a formal protest regarding the fate of a group of our esteemed knights and soldiers, including Count Ekar Schwarzberg, who were unfortunately captured by your forces on the battlefield today!"

He deliberately emphasized the words "unfortunately captured" and "honorable knight," and paused to observe Chris's reaction.

However, the other person's face remained expressionless, as if they were listening to something trivial.

It's really irrelevant. Chris doesn't care about the title of prisoner. It would be a good thing if he could exchange for warhorses, but it wouldn't matter much if he couldn't. He could exchange the rewards for the players and then launch a night raid tonight.

The players didn't get to play to their hearts' content today, and many guild leaders sent Chris requests for night raids, planning to continue working tonight.

However, Chris felt that a night raid might accidentally injure the horses that were already his property, so he temporarily blocked these applications... only temporarily. If the messenger did not meet his requirements, Chris would let the players take their own things.

Then, while you're at it, kill some Retalians.

Chris's nonchalant attitude made Lord Kassani's heart sink slightly... Were there too few captured nobles, or too many?

Too little, the enemy will think the ransom won't be much, so they won't care... Conversely, too many prisoners of war, the other side will also be indifferent, with so many hostages in hand, they will think that Leteria has no choice.

"Your Highness, may I know how many of our men have been captured?"

"You can go and take a look. I'll give you an hour to check on the person. After you come back, we'll talk about the next steps."

Kassani was satisfied with the terms and was eager to get an answer.

(End of this chapter)