Being a knight is not easy

Chapter 239 No retreat

"Let's call it a day." Robin hoisted his giant axe onto his shoulder, the dragon scales shimmering like they were alive in the sunlight. "Back to the capital, we'll determine the rewards for our service!"

In the morning mist, the soldiers began to clean up the battlefield, their songs mingling with the sound of metal scraping: "Better to be a free ghost than a caged bird."

The sound traveled over the mountains, startling a flock of ravens perched on cedar trees. They flapped their wings and flew into the sky, leaving dark shadows in the rising sun, like a declaration of war sent down upon the world.

The blood mist along the Emerald River had not yet dissipated, and Robin's dragon-slaying spear, trailing undried blood, drew a winding red line on the muddy ground.

As he rounded the bend, he saw Earl Crawford, his magnificent gilded armor now stuck in the brambles, looking like a beetle entangled in a spiderweb.

"Hey, isn't this our jade tycoon?" Robin's boot tip lifted the Count's jeweled sword that had fallen to the ground. "Are you enjoying a rural getaway?"

Viscount Wilke's anchor cloak still bore the claw marks of the frostwolves. He strode forward, pressed down on Robin's shoulder, and subtly brushed his fingertips against the arrow wound on his son's neck. Only after confirming it was merely a superficial wound did the old lord's beard stop trembling: "All wiped out?"

“Leave no one alive.” Robin’s toe crushed a delicate wolf fang pendant on the ground—the insignia of the Frostwolf Knights’ centurion—“including seven legendary barbarian warriors.”

Earl Crawford's pupils suddenly contracted.

His large body trembled violently in the thicket of thorns, his meticulously styled curly hair covered in mud.

Three hours ago, he witnessed the barbarian warrior cleave through Count Lorraine's steel formation with his king's axe, and now, that legendary battle axe is hanging on Robin's saddle.

"Impossible," the count managed to squeeze out broken syllables. "Those are three thousand Frostwolf Riders."

Suddenly, Ito used his sword sheath to lift a blood-stained leather pouch, from which rolled out a dozen bronze earrings belonging to barbarian officers—each earring cut off represented the fall of a centurion.

Ito grinned like a wolf that had just had a full meal: "Would you like to count?"

The setting sun cast long shadows on everyone, and Earl Crawford suddenly realized that Viscount Wilke, whom he had once regarded as a country bumpkin, was now casting a shadow that completely enveloped him.

Lord Crawford's gilded armor still gleamed in the setting sun, though now it was stained with mud and blood. His fat fingers gripped the thorn bushes tightly, as if they were his last straw. "I'll pay the ransom! Don't kill me," his voice trembled, all traces of his former arrogance gone. "Any amount will do!"

Robin's lips curled into a slight smile, but his gaze was icy cold. He waved his hand casually, as if shooing away an annoying fly.

“Father,” he said, turning to Viscount Wilke, his tone light, “these people are now in your care.”

Viscount Wilke's smile was gentle yet sharp. He patted Robin on the shoulder, his fingers tightening slightly, as if silently expressing pride. "Don't worry!" his voice was deep and resolute. "I'll make him cough up his last penny."

Robin nodded, turned around, and mounted his horse.

Behind them, Earl Crawford's pleading voices faded into the distance, replaced by Viscount Wilke's calm and precise negotiating tone.

That's the true hunter's stance.

The sound of hooves rose as Robin led his elite troops across the wilderness toward Forward Town.

The former Baron Alfonso has been completely transformed under his planning.

This land was once reduced to ruins by barbarian invasions, and several small villages had long been destroyed in the war, but now it will become the cornerstone of Robin's expansion.

The addition of more than 10,000 slaves revitalized this barren land.

The walls of Forerunner Town were being fortified, new farmland was being cultivated, and the first wisps of black smoke were rising from the chimneys of the workshops. This place bordered his baronial fiefdom, and the two lands could finally be connected, becoming the starting point for his future conquests.

Robin reined in his horse, stopping at a high point and looking down at the town that was gradually taking shape below.

The setting sun cast his long shadow onto this newly born land.

"Not fast enough," he muttered to himself, a sharp glint in his eyes. "We need to speed things up."

………………

The amethyst wine glass spun slowly between Mrs. Aishar's fingers, the crimson wine reflecting the slightly upturned corners of her lips.

Feng Ling knelt on one knee, presenting a parchment scroll with both hands. It emitted a faint smell of rust, the distinctive scent of battle reports from the front lines.

"To annihilate three thousand Frost Wolf Riders and four thousand Barbarian Warriors?" Lady Aishar chuckled, her fingertip lingering for a moment on the words "Barbarian Right Commander Beheaded." "It seems I underestimated this lad."

Feng Ling's lowered eyelashes trembled slightly, and she could feel the change in temperature in the lady's gaze.

The joy of discovering a new piece is like a hunter spotting a beast struggling in a trap.

"Madam, this is the list of supplies requested by Lord Robin."

Lady Aisha casually unfurled the scroll, her purple eyes quickly scanning the requirements down to the single digit: five hundred sets of fine steel heavy armor, one thousand warhorses, and thirty carts of amethyst ore. Her fingertip lightly tapped the last item, "Five Magic Cores," before she suddenly tossed the scroll back into Fengling's arms.

"Give it all." She stood up and walked to the French windows. Where her skirt swept, the bauhinia pattern on the carpet seemed to come alive. "Plus a 30% 'damage allowance'."

In the darkness outside the window, a purple-striped raven was flying past the model of the royal fortress.

Suddenly, Mrs. Aishar crushed the crystal glass in her hand, and the shards of glass, along with the red wine, spilled onto the central area of ​​the sand table.

"Let the noble lords of the Middle-earth see what a young dragon is like," blood dripped from her palm, staining the sand table with eerie patterns.

As Fengling left, she heard the lady's last whisper: "Tell Robin that I want Crawford's head. Send it to me in a gold-plated box."

Suddenly, the letter in Robin's hand burst into purple flames, and as the ashes fell between his fingers, they outlined the crest of the Aisha family.

He stared at the last line of text three times—"a gilded box," each stroke as clear as if carved with a knife.

Viscount Wilke's knuckles tapped out a dull rhythm on the oak table.

The firelight cast his shadow onto the genealogical tapestry, perfectly covering the records of his intermarriages with noble families from the Central Plains throughout the ages.

“Father,” Robin’s voice was a little dry, “this means we are going to be enemies with the whole of Middle-earth.”

The old lord suddenly grabbed the crystal wine bottle and took a large gulp, the amber liquid dripping down his beard onto the family crest: "You think there's still a way out?"

He abruptly unfurled the parchment map; the dense red dots across Crawford's territory represented known mines and pastures. "From the moment you slew your first legendary Middle-earth knight."

(End of this chapter)