Being a knight is not easy

Chapter 232 Killer

Viscount Wilke's hand holding the parchment book trembled slightly, the candlelight flickering in the wrinkles etched around his eyes.

In the twilight outside the window, newly arrived migrants were winding their way along the long bluestone street, the clattering of pottery jars on their carts creating a soft, clattering sound.

The sounds of children's laughter and livestock's bellows awakened Wilkeburg, which had been silent for three years.

“Father, some of these people are specially trained carpenters and blacksmiths, talents that the territory urgently needs.” Robin took off his blood-stained cloak, the dragon scale patterns gleaming faintly in the shadows. “Look at that wasteland in the west of the city, it will only take half a month to transform it into a smelting workshop.”

In the council chamber late at night, sheepskin maps covered the long table.

Viscount Wilke used his dagger to lift an oil lamp, the dim yellow light sweeping across the dark red markers indicating "Famine Zone".

When the light fell on Robin's newly added handwriting, his pupils suddenly contracted. The new map had expanded the territory of four other domains into Viscount Wilke's domain.

If implemented, it would mean that Viscount Wilke's territory was betraying the entire nobility.

However, Viscount Wilke had already betrayed the existing noble circle, so he naturally didn't care. But from now on, the Viscount's territory would not only have to face attacks from the nobles of the Middle-earth, but also from the nobles of the West.

"Tomorrow, have the refugees organized into units based on their skills." The old lord pressed the oil lamp heavily against the center of the map, the flame scorching the words "iron vein." "Tell Andisu to give double the rations to those who know how to raise warhorses. We should also form our own knightly order."

As he spoke, the clanging of iron forging could be heard outside the window; the newly arrived blacksmiths had already set up the first furnace under the moonlight.

Earl of Crawford.

The Earl of Crawford's roar shattered the crystal chandelier in the study, and flying shards left several bloody scratches on his fat face.

This nobleman, who usually paid the most attention to his appearance, was now like a mad boar, overturning the gilded oak desk to the ground.

"Thirteen thousand slaves!" He grabbed a gilded ink bottle and smashed it at the kneeling scout captain. "That mute who can do the math alone is worth five hundred gold coins!" The ink bottle exploded on the man's forehead, and the black ink mixed with blood flowed into the scout's terrified eyes.

The butler nervously handed over the parchment scroll: "Master, loss statistics."

The numbers on the parchment scroll nearly made the count's breath catch in his throat—besides the slaves, there were forty-seven well-trained knights, one hundred and eighty light cavalry, and three months' worth of fodder. Most deadly of all was the ledger hidden in the secret room, which recorded the transaction details of all the "special clients."

"It's Rhine!" the count suddenly screamed, his short, fat fingers crushing the teacup. "That bastard! Only he knows the secrets of the ranch!" A shard of porcelain cut his palm, and blood dripped onto his silk shirt, spreading into dark red patterns.

“But Baron Rhine was killed by Baron Allen, the son of Viscount Wilke, in the last war with the West.” The butler said subconsciously.

"Snapped!"

The cracking sound of the whip tearing through the air echoed in the study, and a bloody gash appeared on the back of the butler's silk dress.

Earl Crawford's fat face turned a deep purplish-red, and the droplets of blood on the whip tip splattered onto the family portrait on the wall.

That was the "Glory of the Crawford Family" painted by a court painter at great expense.

"A smokescreen!" The count spat all over the butler's face. "That bastard is a master at faking his death! He used that trick to fool the tax collector three years ago!"

In a fit of rage, he kicked over the silver-plated inkwell, leaving the expensive purple ink to soak the carpet.

Suddenly, the count's beady eyes narrowed. "Go, send a group disguised as a caravan." His fat fingers nervously tapped the handle of his whip. "Focus on investigating the newly reclaimed areas of Wilke territory, especially..."

The secret door to the underground chamber suddenly slid open three inches, and a strange, cool fragrance wafted out.

The silver mask shimmered like ripples in the shadows, and the voice beneath it carried a strange, inhuman rhythm: "Why go through all this trouble?" The count's whip clattered to the ground.

He recognized the six-fingered snake pattern etched on the edge of the mask—the symbol of the Shadow Brotherhood, the largest assassin organization in Middle-earth.

“Three days ago!” The silver-masked voice slithered like a venomous snake across silk, “The heir of Viscount Wilke, with forty knights, went to the Emerald River.”

The butler's breath caught in his throat as he saw the count's nape instantly bead with sweat.

The obese figure froze for a few seconds, then suddenly let out a sinister laugh like an owl: "Interesting. Very interesting."

The silver mask slid silently behind the count, its icy fingers resting on his trembling shoulder: "We can provide... full service."

A crystal tube slid out from the sleeve, inside which luminous insect eggs were curled up, "including letting you see with your own eyes... your enemy's intestines being ripped out by your own sword."

Outside the window, the purple-striped raven suddenly let out a piercing laugh and flapped its wings toward Wilke's territory.

at the same time.

Before the beast bone altar of the Frost Tribe, the divination bone in the Great Chieftain's hand suddenly cracked in two.

The flame of the mutton oil lamp flickered violently, casting his shadow onto the ice wall covered with blood runes, twisting it like a snow wolf poised to pounce.

“Four tribes.” He ran his rough fingers along the cracks in the bone. “We didn’t even see the signal for help from the crampons.”

The scout kneeling below pressed his forehead against the ice, his breath forming a layer of frost in front of him: "The strangest thing is the battlefield. There are no signs of large-scale fighting." His Adam's apple bobbed. "Only... only many strange iron arrows and hoofprints."

The chieftain suddenly overturned the altar.

Animal bones, copper bells, and blood sacs slammed against the ice wall, producing a sickeningly loud clanging sound.

“Middle-earth?” He sneered, the wolf-tooth necklace rattling with the rise and fall of his chest. “Those silk-clad cowards don’t have the guts!”

The ice wall suddenly reflected a close-up of his pupils shrinking. "Is it the Bauhinia Organization? Or the Knights Guild?"

After all, these two organizations are the true rulers of the Western Region.

Suddenly, the mournful howl of a snow wolf came from outside the tent.

The chieftain suddenly ripped open the bearskin tent flap and saw that the North Star in the night sky was shrouded in blood mist.

The tribe's oldest shaman was slicing his wrist with a bone knife, dripping blood onto an ice mirror. The mirror reflected the newly built watchtower in Viscount Wilke's territory, and a man holding a golden spear suddenly looked over from the top.

The old shaman let out a wail, and the scene on the mirror was instantly interrupted.

“He is a human Order Knight,” the old shaman said, his face pale.

The chieftain understood instantly.

"Summon Zotura." The High Chieftain bit his thumb, drawing three bloody lines on the ice wall. "This time, I want Zotura to bring me the head of this Order Knight."

Although the barbarian tribes consisted of many tribes, they also formed a complete system of governance. The chieftain of the tribe, Gutu, was the most respected figure in the tribe, followed by the shaman of the plow.

(End of this chapter)