Before stepping onto the main road that symbolized his return to the world of men, Murphy paused at the edge of the forest.
He stroked the Knight's Longsword in his hand, its cold, solid touch spreading through his fingertips.
The sword was exquisitely crafted and incredibly valuable, worth at least thirty gleaming Henry Gold Coins.
That was almost a Groom's entire wages for over ten years, assuming he didn't eat or drink.
To say he didn't feel a pang of reluctance would be lying to himself.
But he was also keenly aware that for a low-status Groom to be carrying a standard-issue longsword clearly belonging to a Knight's Attendant was like having the word "trouble" carved on his forehead.
No matter what seemingly plausible excuse he concocted—for instance, that he had stumbled upon the remains of the fallen Tommy Han in the mountains—it would inevitably lead to severe and relentless questioning.
The higher-ups would never easily believe the word of a Groom.
Compared to dealing with endless interrogations and the potentially more dangerous suspicions that would follow, the best solution was to not let anyone see it in the first place.
Weighing his options calmly, Murphy turned back. He found a spot far enough from the road where the trees were dense and selected an ancient, gnarled pine with a unique shape as a marker.
He used the tip of the sword to dig a deep pit in the earth, then carefully wiped the longsword clean with a piece of his clothing.
After that, he unfastened the scabbard, slowly sheathed the longsword, and only then buried it in the pit.
He covered it with soil, tamped it down, and then carefully scattered surrounding fallen leaves, dead branches, and small stones over the top, doing his best to make the spot indistinguishable from its surroundings.
Once he finished, he stood up and took one last look at the flawless patch of ground.
'I hope it doesn't rust too quickly...'
The thought was fleeting. Murphy knew all too well that eliminating a potential, and fatal, hidden danger was undoubtedly a wiser choice than holding onto a treasure he couldn't currently bring into the light.
'No!'
'There's something even more suspicious—me.'
Although his clothes had been torn by branches during his first night of escape, and he had sustained some scrapes, after receiving the reward of [Horse Selection and Training: Glimpse of the Path], his body and spirit had undergone a transformation. As a result, his condition upon emerging from the forest was far too good.
A common Groom could never have walked out of the perilous Twilight Mountain Range so easily.
Murphy immediately took action.
He deliberately tore a few more holes in his clothes where they were already damaged, making them look even more tattered.
He grabbed a handful of wet mud and smeared it on his face, neck, arms, and lower legs, covering the minor scratches to make them look more severe and grimy.
He intentionally made his eyes look weary and terrified, and slouched his body slightly.
After applying this disguise, he looked at his blurry reflection in a nearby puddle.
The reflection was no longer that of a Cultivator full of Essence, Qi, and Spirit, but a pitiful Groom who looked terrified, disheveled, and had barely escaped with his life.
Only then did he nod in satisfaction. He used [Breathing and Guiding] to adjust his breathing, making it seem short and unsteady.
Then he turned back toward the main road.
This time, Murphy carried nothing suspicious that could attract attention.
...
Two days later, Baron Duval's Castle was shrouded in a solemn, sorrowful atmosphere.
A solemn mass was being held in the great hall of the castle.
The circular hall had a high, vaulted dome, upon which was painted a crescent moon embracing a star—the Holy Emblem of Oriane, the God of Stars and Truth.
Soft, colored light filtered through the long, narrow windows inlaid with stained glass, casting mottled patterns on the stone floor, which was covered with black velvet.
In the center of the hall, ten coffins were arranged in neat rows, each draped with the Duval Clan's crest: a mountain and a river.
Bishop Alberto, wearing a Silver Crown set with a Moonlight Stone and clad in a snow-white robe, stood solemnly before the coffins, holding a Holy Scripture.
His deep, magnetic voice echoed under the dome. "We gather under the gaze of the stars and mourn before the guidance of truth. May the starlight of Oriane guide these lost souls through the valley of death to eternal peace."
"We mourn for young Moby Duval. He, who carried noble blood and was meant to inherit the glory and responsibility of his family, has withered in the darkness. May the stars receive his soul, and may his sacrifice not be forgotten."
"We remember the Shield of Glen. His courage was like an unmoving mountain, his sacrifice an undying star in the skies above this land. May his warrior soul find rest in the sea of stars."
"We remember these battle-hardened Warriors, Calvin, Brand..."
"Their blades once protected our lands, and their lives were ultimately sacrificed to duty. May their valor echo in the starry heavens."
"We lament for these budding flowers, Walter and Jimmy. Their futures should have been full of hope, yet they were cruelly cut short. May the stars soothe their unfulfilled regrets and guide them to a land of peace."
At this point, Bishop Alberto's voice rose sharply, filled with anger. "All of this disaster and death stems from the Witch Othilia, who forsook the stars and embraced the darkness! Her crimes are too numerous to count; her very existence is blasphemy!"
"May the light of Truth ultimately judge her soul, and may she suffer the burning of the stars and the scourge of order for all eternity!"
As for the dead Grooms, their names were not worthy of being mentioned in this hallowed hall.
Baron Duval stood at the very front, his black mourning clothes making his sturdy frame look like a stone statue.
The knuckles of his clenched fists were white, his nails digging deep into his palms.
The pain of losing his son and the fury over his lost forces burned and churned within his chest.
Thirty Knight's Attendants: nine dead, one missing. A full third of them, gone!
And on top of that, Glen, an Official Knight!
He had only suffered comparable losses during the war in the Northern Territory three years ago.
'With things like this, the Northern Trade Route, the fief's finances...'
'Damn that Othilia!'
'And that damn Viscount Hans!'
'If it weren't for his trade route...'
The Baron's Eldest Son stood in the shadows behind his father, his gravely injured face an unhealthy pale.
He looked at the familiar faces in the coffins: Walter, Jimmy, Brand...
...and his dear brother Moby, all of them now cold and lifeless.
Yet, beneath his grief and indignation, a sliver of relief quietly grew.
'Thank goodness...'
'Thank goodness I was seriously injured during the two previous explorations of the Twilight Mountain Range and couldn't take part in this expedition...'
'Otherwise, the one lying where Moby is now could very well have been me...'
The follower Yor sat in a wheelchair in the front row. 'Calvin, Brand, Walter, Jimmy...'
'...and Little Murphy, who inherited George's talent...'
'It's over...'
'...along with my path to becoming a Knight...'
'It's all over...'
Leo, the Mill Master's son, stood among the ranks of the followers, his head lowered and his shoulders trembling slightly.
He had played with Walter and Jimmy, grown up with them, passed the test with them, and been named a follower with them.
He had even been jealous that his two friends were chosen for this mission because of their talent.
Even though Sylvan had recommended him, he still wasn't chosen due to his lack of talent.
Now, however, he found himself grateful for his own mediocrity.
'If my talent had been any better, I might be resting here for eternity, just like my friends.'
The Lady Baron wept silently, leaning on her Maid's shoulder, nearly broken by the pain of losing her son.
Not far away, the blacksmith's broad shoulders shook as he stifled sobs for the loss of his son, Walter.
Jimmy's father, Old Jimmy—a follower who had also fought the Witch and was lucky enough to survive—clenched his jaw, his face flushed with rage.
"Iron Wall" Rotton, the only other Official Knight in the fiefdom besides the Baron, stroked the deep scar on his face—a memento from his fight with Guy.
'The Witch, the Northern Trade Route, Viscount Hans...'
'It seems it's my turn to demonstrate my loyalty to Baron Duval.'
The other followers, both those who had survived the battle and those who had not participated, mostly wore grim expressions. Some felt relief, some felt a shared sorrow for the fallen, and others were thinking about the Northern Trade Route.
The entire Baron Duval's Castle was enveloped in a suffocating grief.
The servants kept their heads bowed and their eyes downcast, their steps heavy. They didn't dare show the slightest inappropriate emotion.
After all, it wasn't just ordinary servants who had died, but the high and mighty noble lords as well.
By the stables, Bart washed a water trough alone, his gaze sweeping over the warhorse in Tommy Han's stall that would never see its master return.
The brutish-looking man mused to himself, 'That punk Carter was arrogant and deserved to die on that mountain. But Murphy... that kid really knew horses.'
He recalled how, before the arrival of that "important person"—Othilia, now called the Witch, who was also one of them—he had even asked the young man for advice on caring for Lord Tommy Han's mount.
And at the thought of Lord Tommy Han, Bart couldn't help but howl in silent agony.
'Lord Tommy Han is missing now. Though he hasn't been confirmed dead, he's been gone so long he's almost certainly not coming back.'
'This cushy job of tending to the followers' warhorses is probably coming to an end.'
'Tending to those nags in the public stables, how many copper plates can you earn in a month?'
At this thought, Bart made the sign of the crescent moon embracing the star and began to pray for Tommy Han, whose fate was unknown.
His attitude was more devout than ever before.
Hundreds, even thousands of times more devout than on his usual prayer days.
In the fodder room, Hank was taking stock of the hay. Yor's warhorse hadn't returned either.
He secretly congratulated himself. 'It's a good thing my aunt used to be the Steward in the laundry room, and I made a point of giving the Stable Master some fresh lavender...'
He remembered seeing Lord Walter and Lord Jimmy preparing to set off, and how he had been reluctant to give the task to Murphy. Now, a chill ran down his spine.
'If I hadn't been cautious and decided not to go in the end...'
'...I'd probably have been killed by the Witch...'
'It's a shame...'
'That young man, Murphy, tamed Lord Yor's warhorse in just a year. If he'd made it back, he might have really become Stable Master one day.'
'But then again, who knows. Lord Yor is gravely injured and can't get up; his future doesn't look too bright...'
By the washing pool in the backyard, three servants were hunched over, scrubbing clothes.
Will scrubbed hard at a piece of damaged Leather Armor and said in a low voice to the other two, "That punk Murphy was thin as a twig when he first got here. Fitting that he's been left in the mountains like a piece of firewood."
Jack glanced warily toward the corridor and added in a whisper, "That peasant, after he became a Groom, he wouldn't even give us the time of day."
Tom slammed a wrung-out piece of clothing into a wooden bucket. "Isn't that the truth? Last time, I was nice enough to offer to help him carry hay, and he actually said, 'No need, just worry about yourself.' He deserved to be turned into firewood and left in the Twilight Mountain Range. That's the Witch's punishment for an ungrateful person like him."
At the mention of the Witch, the three of them fell silent in unison, but the movements of their hands quickened slightly.
But soon, Tom suddenly straightened his back, then deliberately slouched again and lowered his voice. "Everyone, watch your expressions."
They exchanged a look and put on somber expressions again, their hands slowing down.
In this castle, any inopportune emotion could lead to disaster.
They could secretly rejoice that the companion they once had to look up to would never return, but they absolutely could not let a trace of happiness show on their faces.
Especially during a solemn moment like the mass for the nobles.
If the Steward found them showing any "inappropriate" emotion at a time like this, a whipping—or an even more terrible punishment—would be waiting for them.