Ghost Knight King's Dungeon Project

Chapter 39 [Idealism and Romanticism]

Within the empire, beside a main road, in a secluded grove under the shade of trees.

The old man, wearing a leather hat and a sheepskin coat, slowly got out of the car with the help of Yachi Yevel and looked at Samael and Talia in front of him.

“Though Rondoran has collapsed, its spirit of mutual aid has not been forgotten. Thank you both for rescuing us from the ruthless hunters of Sitika—the Sand Tyrant treats exiles horribly and often captures them as slaves. We haven't traveled the eastern route in a long time.” He spoke in a hoarse yet refined and gentle voice. “I am Collins Duke, the patriarch of this exile tribe.”

His hair was gray, and his white beard and sideburns were neatly trimmed. He wore small, round glasses with metal rims, the lenses of which looked like high-end pieces crafted by skilled artisans from the Kingdom of Florence. Although his clothes were torn beyond recognition by Musa's barbed whip, he was still a respectable man, even a handsome old man.

"What are you doing? What are you doing? Why are you helping me?" He pushed away Yaqi's support. "Even if I'm old, I'm still a demon. These little injuries from a couple of punches and a scratch have long since healed! Do you really think I'm an old goat?"

"Oh, oh." Archie snapped out of his daze and let go of old Duke's hand.

“Daughter of Rondoran, and the ghost knight who conquered death.” Old Duke raised his right hand, placed it on his left chest, and nodded to Talia and Samael. “If there is anything we can do to help you, please don’t hesitate to ask. We, the exiled tribe, always repay kindness. Please don’t refuse, or we will feel uneasy.”

The demon exiles' wagons had been speeding along the main road for dozens of kilometers. The Imperial Foundry had become a blurry dot on the horizon.

It's safe here now, the convoy has stopped for a short rest.

Talia and Samael were warmly received by the exiles along the way. Samael was unable to eat, so they wove two huge wreaths to place around his neck and shoulders, while Talia wore a crown woven from flower vines and grass leaves, and was fed food the whole way. She still had two pieces of pastry in her mouth and a cup of sweet and sour wine made by the demon exiles in her hand.

“Uh…we need to get to the Skeleton Plains in the center of the continent.” Samael fiddled with the large, colorful wreath around his neck and answered awkwardly, “If you could help us get there, that would be great.”

“Oh, it’s nothing! We also plan to collect another batch of materials in the Skeleton Heart Plains after we sell the goods.” Old Duke smiled. “There are many exiles on the outskirts of the Skeleton Heart Plains. Because other demons often disdain to disguise themselves as humans to cross the habitable zone’s defenses, this large and rich demon realm has become a paradise for exiles.”

"Such a good thing?" Talia and Samael exchanged a glance. This was an unexpected bonus.

"But what are you two going to the Skeleton Heart Plains for?" Old Duke asked. "The Skeleton Heart Plains is different from other demon realms; it's filled with uncontrollable, organized undead legions. Even for demon exiles, the Skeleton Heart Plains is far from safe. We only dare to operate on the outer perimeter, otherwise we'll disturb the dangerous high-level undead in the inner region..."

He paused, then suddenly realized that a top-tier high-level undead was standing in front of him, and couldn't help but laugh again.

“Samael’s necromantic aura can suppress other undead, and he also has ways to command large undead legions, so there’s no need to worry,” Talia replied. “We are preparing to go to the Plains of Bones to build a new dungeon.”

“To be precise, it’s a dungeon similar in style to Rondoran,” Samael added.

Talia glanced at him, and he nodded.

"If any of you happen to pass through the Plains of Bones in the future, you are welcome to rest in our newly built dungeon—just like you did in Rondoran," Talia said.

“However, we lack expertise in building dungeons. If you exiles could join us and become part of the new dungeon, laying a solid foundation for it, we would be honored!” Samael placed his hand on his chest and nodded to the exiles around him.

Old Duke pondered. The surrounding exiles stirred slightly, whispering amongst themselves.

“Uh…you don’t mind that we’re weak?” Archie poked his head out from Old Duke’s shoulder. “We’re not warriors. If we don’t control magical beasts, our individual strength is only about the same as a level three or four adventurer.”

"Knowledge is power—that's a saying from my hometown. I believe professional knowledge is another level of power, perhaps even more important than individual combat ability, my friend Yachi." Samael greeted him. "I have witnessed your clean, efficient, and swift modification of harvesting vehicles and handling of flamethrower bolts. That is undeniable power."

"I believe that each of you here has your own strength, but it has not been appreciated, discovered, or understood, or it has been obscured by the past. In the underground city we are about to build, you can all give full play to your strength."

Archie and the other exiles looked toward old Duke.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you two, it’s just that we have personally experienced the destruction of Rondoland,” Duke said gently. “The destruction of something beautiful is the saddest thing in the world. We don’t want to experience such a grand heartbreak and sorrow a second time.”

“Past sorrows are not a reason to reject a bright future,” Samael replied. “All fortresses will collapse, all great achievements will eventually perish, but new fortresses will always be built, and new great achievements will always be accomplished—we must stop yearning for a better past and try to create a better future.”

“You are a knight full of wisdom and courage, Lord Samael.” Old Duke smiled. “If I were to hesitate and be afraid of this and that, it would only spoil the fun.”

“My esteemed elder, I understand your concerns—the exiles were originally a neutral force, and if they rashly choose sides, they might face retaliation from monarchs like Sitika and Marna.” Samael removed a wreath from his own neck and placed it around Old Duke’s neck. “Regarding this, please rest assured. We will keep it a secret, and if any of you find our dungeon unsatisfactory, you are welcome to leave at any time.”

“Samael and I promise you, our exiled friends, that you are free to leave our dungeon at any time. You are not our slaves, but our respected allies. This is not a matter of being bound by positions of power or taking sides. If Sitika and Marna, the monarchs, return, we will take responsibility and will never implicate you,” Talia added.

Old Duke pondered for a moment.

"Go ask them and see what they think," he finally said. "Since things have come to this point, I can't say any more."

“I did it.” Yachi raised his hand. “God, do you know how strong the demon race’s desire for self-actualization is? Our race’s traditional culture and natural instincts dictate that we must create, explore, achieve, and live a valuable life. Otherwise, what’s the difference between us and salted fish?”

A chorus of hands shot up, and amidst the chaotic yet enthusiastic cheers, old Duke counted the number of people and smiled helplessly.

“Very well, you two.” He sighed. “The future Lord of the Skeleton Heart, and the future Lord of New Rondoran, I, on behalf of the Duke Exiles, offer my allegiance to you both.”

……

The Fifth Foundry of the Erdrik Empire, a garrison fortress.

The fortress was only a few hundred meters away from the Imperial Foundry. The clanging of metal echoed between the buildings, repeating at the fixed frequency characteristic of mechanical forging hammers. It sounded monotonous and rigid, with a buzzing overtone, like a tuning fork.

Bert recalled a time when he was young and in a class at the Imperial Polytechnic and Military Academy, a scholar and court musician from the Kingdom of Florence had demonstrated in the lecture hall, striking a small iron Y-shaped tuning fork and telling them that the pitch of this thing was fixed, and therefore it was often used to tune out-of-tune instruments.

Anything that doesn't match the tone is wrong, just like a disciplined army. The room was dimly lit because the tall, dark building of the foundry blocked out the sunlight, and the flames of the oil lamps on the walls trembled slightly from the clanging of the surrounding metal, causing the light inside to flicker as well.

In the dim light, Bert gazed at the heavy copper-inlaid oak table in front of him and the figure behind it, then reached out and placed the broken razor blade with its strange rusted copper plating on the desk piled with documents, quills, and ink bottles.

The figure in military uniform behind the table reached out and picked up a small razor blade. The cold, rusty copper made him pause slightly. With his back to the window and the scarlet tapestry with sword crowns and iron cloaks flanking it, he peered out from the shadows, scrutinizing it closely.

“Report,” he said in the shadow of the sword-crowned tapestry.

"We heard fighting around dawn and immediately led a team to the scene. Upon arrival, we found six corpses in the wheat field, belonging to a high-ranking demon and five demonized beings. All of them had brown skin and amber eyes, and were suspected to be from the Supar Empire," Bert replied.

"Fresh wheel tracks and campfire ashes were found at the scene, suggesting that someone had been stationed there but left about two or three minutes before we arrived, leaving behind fresh wheel tracks. We tried to track them, but the tracks quickly merged into the main road and became mixed with the tracks of hundreds of other merchant wagons, making it impossible to continue the investigation."

“We questioned nearby farmers, who claimed to have heard shouting at night, with two keywords: ‘Ronoway’ and ‘Ghost Rider’.”

"This blade fragment was found among the wreckage at the battle site. It came from the blade of a broken harvester wheel, which was damaged and appears to have been used as a weapon. However, the other wheel blades do not have a copper plating, only a light white heating mark on the steel surface, suggesting that they were once there but were cleverly peeled off and recovered."

The figure behind the table remained silent, while the clanging of metal still echoed outside the window.

"Your conclusion?" he asked.

Bert took a deep breath.

"The Supar Empire dispatched high-ranking demon spies to the vicinity of the Imperial Foundry in an attempt to gather information or sabotage the forging of Bloodsteel weapons. Meanwhile, the ancient spirits of the Ronoway family, the [Cedar Knights], transformed into ghost knights and once again loyally protected the Empire."

The figure behind the table remained silent.

Bert remained silent.

The centurion behind the table slowly rose, moved behind Bert, raised his heavy military boot, and kicked Bert hard in the buttocks, making him stagger.

"Don't you want to think about what you're saying, you stupid ass?" the centurion yelled. "Have you been reading too many chivalric romances, Bert?"

He lifted his boot and stomped down hard again, leaving another shoe print on the back of Bert's cavalry coat.

"Damn it, what kind of professional soldier are you? You're always daydreaming and spacing out, and now you're giving me this chivalrous novel plot as a work report?"

"What do you mean by the Ghost Knight of Ronoway? Tell me, what is Ronoway? The Cedar Knights are located thousands of kilometers to the north! You mean one of the Four Knights was resurrected as a heroic spirit, and yet he went to the trouble of traveling thousands of miles to interfere in this kind of thing in the heart of the Empire?"

“It’s true, sir. You can go ask those farmers now. They all say they heard it clearly. It was definitely Ronoway!” Bert defended himself.

"And what is this?" The centurion held up the rusty copper blade fragment in his hand. "Some kind of enchanted metal that maintains a low temperature?"

“I don’t know, sir,” Bert replied.

"This involves the four great knightly families, and it's happening near the vital Imperial Foundry... What Ghost Knights... This is absurd." The centurion snorted. "I'll write to His Majesty to report this. You can get lost, Bert."

"Yes, sir." Bert, with two boot prints on his backside, saluted and turned to push open the door to leave.

"And Bert, stop reading those stupid novels!" His boss's voice came from behind him, and he stopped in his tracks.

"You've always been a strange sergeant, ever since Imperial College and its military academy. You daydream in class, daydream during training, daydream during meals. When it rains, everyone else seeks shelter, but you run around in the rain in your uniform, jumping and shouting. After training, you sit alone on the hillside, staring blankly at the sunset and wheat fields in the distance," the centurion said. "What's wrong with you?"

"You've consistently performed well in official duties, which is why I promoted you to platoon leader, but—stop having these delusions!"

“This isn’t hysteria, it’s romanticism, sir,” Bert replied. “I once hoped to become a writer, but my father required me to become a professional sergeant.”

"Then stop with the romanticism, Bert." The centurion waved his hand. "Be a practical man, go on."

Bert left the centurion's room, walked down the corridor, and slowly returned to his simple barracks room—after becoming a platoon leader, he was finally able to have his own single room, a privilege reserved for officers.

He pushed open the door and sat down at a narrow table by the window. The sunlight outside was just right, warm and gentle. On the windowsill, a pale blue pansy that was about to wither was growing in a broken terracotta pot he had picked up. On the table, there was a small stack of books, as well as fallen leaves as bookmarks, acorn shells, pine cones, and oddly shaped pebbles that he had collected in his spare time.

The nuts and stones stood in a neat row in front of him, like a line of toy soldiers.

He stared blankly for a moment at the books and stones scattered on the table, along with the rows of nut balls, and then reluctantly hummed.

“I will become a writer.” He pushed aside a small stack of books in front of him, picked up a small notebook and a quill pen. “This Ghost Rider story is a good idea. I will start writing it in my spare time from today, and when I finish it, I will send it to a bookseller. When I become a great writer, and all the literate young people in the empire are reading my works, my father and superiors will no longer say that I am hysterical.”

"Don't you think so, Sebastian?" He reached out and fiddled with a white stone at the head of the line on the table.

“Yes, Bert! You will succeed, believe in yourself!” He gestured for the stone to nod, spoke with the corner of his mouth, and contentedly began to write at his desk.

This is a story about a ghost knight...

(End of this chapter)