Translator: CinderTL
Marianna grew increasingly convinced that the Aldor Royal Family had finally revealed the blade they'd kept hidden for years: the Royal Knights, their long-held trump card.
She remained unaware of the Alden Town armory's ceaseless production of cannonballs, the widespread adoption of new firearms by the New Army, or the fact that Alden's military system had long surpassed traditional armies.
In her eyes, the aura of victory still shrouded the Royal Family's curtain.
When the person next to her again mentioned "Prince Yuriko leading the Royal Knights into Windbreath Fortress," "subjugating the Orc Centurion," and "triumphantly returning to the capital, cheered by the masses," a strange feeling suddenly surged through her.
Yuriko Rodney? The name didn't evoke respect in her mind, but rather the memory of the Arcane Order's assessment file.
She had personally reviewed the intelligence brief on members of the Aldor Royal Family—a long-term file maintained by the Arcane Order to assess potential threats from various nations. The description of Yuriko was strikingly clear:
"Flamboyant personality, obsessed with fame, impulsive actions, lacking strategic patience. While possessing basic knightly skills, his command abilities are mediocre, with no outstanding military achievements. His influence stems primarily from his royal status, not his personal talent."
To the members of the Arcane Order, Prince Yuriko of Aldor was nothing more than a spoiled prince, obsessed with pomp and glory, but lacking the true qualifications to bear the weight of responsibility.
Yet now, rumors claimed he had not only personally led elite troops into battle but also spearheaded the integration of Orc captives, even earning the fervent adoration of the populace after the war—a stark contrast to the Arcane Order's long-standing assessment.
Her fingers tightened slightly. Had their intelligence become outdated? Or had Yuriko been concealing his true self all along?
She was reluctant to overturn the Arcane Order's conclusions lightly, but if even a shred of truth lay in these rumors, it meant Yuriko was far from ordinary. He was a dangerous figure, skilled at deception and manipulating the hearts of men.
She slowly closed her eyes, her mind already made up. She had to record this shift and immediately alert Gabella upon her return:
Prince Yuriko of Aldor may no longer be the man we once knew. If he truly gains control of the Royal Knights, subdues foreign warriors, and wins the hearts of the people, he could become a formidable enemy to both Gabella and the Arcane Order in the future.
Just then, the tavern's boisterous clamor abruptly froze.
A violent thump shattered the night's stillness as the wooden door was kicked open with brutal force. The door panel slammed against the wall, rebounded, and sent a cloud of dust swirling through the air.
All conversation ceased abruptly. Wine glasses froze mid-air, pipes went out, and people instinctively hunched their shoulders, their eyes fixed on the doorway.
A tall Orc officer strode in.
He wore leather armor dyed a deep crimson, his shoulder guards emblazoned with a wolf's head emblem, signifying his direct allegiance to the Grassland Chieftain's Tent. His face was rugged, with high cheekbones and a nose crooked from a broken and poorly healed fracture. A deep scar across his right eye gave his gaze an even more sinister cast.
A curved battleaxe hung at his waist, and his heavy footsteps seemed to pound on everyone's hearts.
Two human soldiers followed close behind, clad in mixed-weave armor and carrying spears. They were soldiers of the local ruler, but since the city-state had submitted to the Chieftain's Tent, they had become mere vassals to the Orc garrison.
The Chieftain's Tent maintained armed detachments in all its vassal states, ranging from a dozen to a hundred men. Though small in number, they held absolute authority, representing the Great Chieftain Abal himself.
The tavern fell silent.
The Orc officer slowly scanned the room, his nostrils flaring as if sniffing the air. A grin stretched across his face, revealing a row of yellow-brown teeth. His voice was low and gravelly:
"My ears are very sharp!"
He spoke slowly, his Common tongue thick with the accent of the Grassland, yet every word was clear:
"Just now outside, I heard you talking... about the Orcs being defeated and driven back to the Grassland?"
The Orc Centurion sneered and took a step forward, his leather boots thudding heavily on the floor.
"Who said that? Step forward."
No one moved.
The Boss of the tavern hurried out from behind the counter, his hands clasped together, a fawning smile plastered on his face, his back bent almost ninety degrees.
"My lord, please calm yourself! My lord, please calm yourself!" His voice trembled, but he forced out a respectful tone. "Those words were just rumors that spread in from outside. We wouldn't dare take them seriously! It was just idle chatter after drinking, to pass the time. No one took it seriously, truly no one did!"
As he spoke, he surreptitiously scanned the tavern, his eyes warning everyone to avoid trouble.
The Orc Centurion slowly turned, his lips still curled in a sneer, but his gaze locked onto the Boss like an iron clamp.
"Idle chatter?" he murmured, his voice low but chilling the air in the tavern. "On land protected by Great Chieftain Abal, who gave you permission to speak of such things?"
Cold sweat beaded on the Boss's forehead. He bowed repeatedly. "Yes, yes, we shouldn't have spoken of it! We'll shut our mouths immediately and never mention it again!"
"Good." The Orc Centurion nodded slowly, as if satisfied.
Just as the Boss was about to breathe a sigh of relief, the Orc Centurion suddenly raised his hand and shoved him backward with a palm strike, sending him stumbling.
"But the rumors have already spread," he said, his gaze sweeping across the room with a fierce intensity. "Since no one has come forward voluntarily, the solution is simple—"
His voice suddenly rose, echoing through the deathly silent tavern:
"Everyone here today will spend a few days in jail with me. We'll release you once you figure out who started the rumors."
The crowd erupted into chaos.
Several merchants turned pale, whispering pleas. An old woman clutched her grandson tightly, her body trembling. The caravan workers nearly collapsed to the floor.
"My lord! This isn't fair!" the Boss cried, dropping to his knees. "Why punish everyone for one person's mistake?"
The Orc Centurion merely sneered. With a wave of his hand, two human soldiers stepped forward, drawing iron chains from their belts and preparing to start arresting people.
"I'll count to ten!" the Orc Centurion leaned against the doorframe, raising his thick fingers one by one. "If no one comes forward, everyone goes."
He began counting, each number cold and clear:
"...six...seven...eight..."
The tavern fell silent as a tomb. People lowered their heads, holding their breath, even their breathing barely audible.
Just then, a low, yet remarkably clear voice suddenly cut through the stillness.
"Abal is nothing more than a stray dog!"
The voice wasn't loud, but it struck everyone like thunder.
Everyone snapped their heads up, staring in shock at the source of the voice.
It was the Orc officer himself!
He stood frozen, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes suddenly widening, his pupils contracting violently as if he'd witnessed the most terrifying sight imaginable.
He seemed utterly stunned that the words had come from his own mouth, his face contorted with disbelief and horror.
In the next instant, he raised a hand and clamped it over his mouth, his knuckles turning white from the force. A muffled "wuh-wuh" escaped his throat, as if he were trying to force the words back down.
(End of the Chapter)
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