Azure Scepter

Page 166

Saint-Sel's tone grew increasingly playful: "Are you sure you want to ask me?"

The crowd's hasty attitude froze instantly. A few seconds later, it threatened coldly, "You must give me a way, or I will expose your entire plan to Trier! If I am going to die anyway, then you won't get away either."

Saint-Sel remained unmoved: "If Trier really wanted to deal with you, he wouldn't question you—I don't know if you've studied our ally, but he always prepares silently and then launches an overwhelming attack when the time is right—since he chose to talk to you, it proves that there's still room for negotiation."

At this point, he paused for a moment, gazing intently at his reflection in the water. After a while, he said in a deep voice, "His purpose in contacting you is probably to keep you calm, and the purpose of keeping you calm is to eliminate you after dealing with Loseweg. No matter what Trier says, as long as you grasp these two points, he will not be able to persuade you."

"But even if you can't convince me, what can I do?"

"We'll stall for time. As long as Trier doesn't kill you immediately, once our plan is launched after the Carnival of Masks, you'll naturally have a way out."

—At that moment, Trier gently tapped the table with his index finger.

Admittedly, Saint-Sel's analysis was quite accurate; he did intend to keep the others in check and deal with it when he had the time.

Although the analysis is reliable, Saint-Sel's advice is undoubtedly misleading those who are already at a loss.

The only option for survival for all of them now is to quickly flee to other planes, try to establish a religious order, and regain their faith—this may be dangerous, but it is by no means a certain death.

Saint Seir persuaded it to remain in the chaos, and its purpose was ultimately the same as his own: he too was plotting for the divinity of the multitude.

The current behavior of the masses indicates that it has lost the ability to make its own choices.

In other words, in this battle royale where everyone is both hunter and prey, those with weak wills and indecisiveness have been eliminated; they have become a dead man in the futures market.

"It seems I don't need to take the initiative to appease everyone anymore; Saint Seir has already done it for me," the transmigrator muttered to himself. "Then I don't need to talk to everyone anymore—all I need to do next is chase them to the underground throne room, destroy Losevie's life box, and the entire blood plague crisis will be completely over."

With this thought in mind, he slowly lowered the Faceless Rider statue.

As the shockwaves from the Duke's sudden death gradually subsided, it was already the end of July.

As time passed, the blood plague, which had been considered an apocalyptic disaster, gradually began to subside. Some speculated that the decline of the blood plague was due to effective prevention; while some secret rumors circulating in the streets claimed that the culprit who ordered the spread of the blood plague was the highly respected Bishop Vercingetorius, and that with the bishop's death, the blood plague naturally disappeared.

In short, the southern duchy, which was on the verge of collapse due to the rampant blood plague, has slowly begun to recover some vitality over time.

However, just when everything seemed to be progressing smoothly, a piece of news from Wilt stirred up tensions again, like a boulder thrown into a still lake—rumored that a member of the Roland family was demanding that the vassals fulfill their obligations and form an army to deal with the mastermind behind the blood plague.

The problem is that the title of duke is still undecided, so most nobles are taking a wait-and-see approach to the summons. The traditionally closed-off Count of Bortard even publicly refused the summons and made it clear that the order was illegal.

Therefore, within days of the conscription order being issued, the entire political climate in the Southern Duchy changed dramatically once again. Even the least informed people realized that a storm was brewing.

Those with better access to information believed that the truth behind the matter was far more complex than it appeared, and that it was not advisable to act rashly. King Calvin, who was always ambitious, ruthless, and dedicated to weakening the power of the nobility and promoting centralization, strangely chose to remain silent in the face of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

As for those with the best connections, they had already begun trying to escape at all costs. From the slightest clues, they had vaguely deduced that behind this incident lay a terrifying vortex that was too dangerous to touch, or even something they should never know about.

The Holy See is paying close attention to what is happening in the Southern Duchy, to an abnormal degree. With a new pope yet to be elected, the cardinals with decision-making power are meeting, debating, and voting day and night, and all their arguments revolve around the Southern Duchy.

Those familiar with the Holy See may be confused, but the blasphemous heretics understand the meaning behind it—the cardinals' stalemate itself signifies the attention and attitude of the saints behind the Vatican.

As everyone knows, the only things that can attract such attention from the saints of the Papacy are news of other saints.

Dark, gray clouds gathered on the horizon, and a stifling, humid heat permeated the air.

"Ding-dong, ding-dong..."

The horse-drawn carriage was fully loaded with goods. With each step the thin old horse took, the metal parts under the tarpaulin would collide with each other, making a crisp sound.

Suddenly, a loud voice came from ahead.

“Sir, hold on!” Hult, who had been promoted to knight, called out loudly. “By order of Lord Trier, we need to inspect the cargo.”

The driver obediently and gently pulled the reins, but the hooded man beside him frowned slightly.

The old horse neighed and slowly came to a stop.

Hult first expressed his gratitude, then he gestured behind him, and a soldier holding a spear walked forward with practiced ease.

But the next moment, the whip lashed out with a sharp crack as it struck the soldier in front of him!

"Thud!" Dust flew up, and a piece of stone hit the soldier's helmet.

The soldier paused for a moment, then suddenly looked up and glared angrily at the hooded man holding the whip.

The hooded man snorted coldly, then removed his hood, revealing a haggard and pale face.

He looked down at Hult with a cold gaze.

“I am Mored of Bortard. Excuse my rudeness, but sir, who are you? I have never seen you before.”

Although the words were polite, the hooded man's tone was quite cold.

“I am Hult.” Hult raised his head and answered neither humbly nor arrogantly. “I was recently promoted for my military achievements, and there are many others like me who have been promoted recently.”

The hooded man sensed a threat in Hult's words and sneered, "Sir, you are not qualified to inspect this shipment. I serve directly under the esteemed Earl Bortard."

"Ahem." The coachman coughed twice, glared at the hooded man, and then jumped off the carriage.

"Sir, may we speak in private?" the coachman asked with a smile.

Hult noticed that the coachman's face was also frighteningly pale, and he immediately recalled the vampire servant he had seen when he dined with Bishop Vercingetorius.

Neither of them seemed human. Hult secretly became more vigilant and shook his head bluntly.

“Alright.” The coachman shrugged, then pulled back the tarpaulin. “This carriage is full of silver wolves. Count Bortard deeply regrets his inability to fulfill his vassal obligations, so he hopes to use these silver wolves as a shield tax to offset it.”

Hult instinctively sensed something was wrong, but the next moment, the moneylender, who had temporarily taken up the post of soldier and was holding a short sword, patted him on the back.

"Sir, let them pass."

The driver smiled with satisfaction: "Ah, insightful—this is for you."

As he spoke, he took out a heavy bag and tossed it to the lender.

The lender quickly took it, untied the rope at the top of the bag, glanced inside, and his pupils immediately contracted.

The hooded man chuckled, then asked, "So, can we get across now?"

Hult took a deep breath and nodded, trusting the lender.

The coachman turned around and covered the cart full of silver coins with a tarpaulin, then turned back to the cart.

Soon, the carriage drove away.

"Why are you stopping me from inspecting?" Hult asked coldly.

The lender shook his head and said, "Look at the ruts, they're too deep. I've transported carts full of silver coins before, and on this kind of road, the ruts would only be half as deep as they are now—that cart definitely wasn't carrying silver coins, there's something seriously wrong with it."

As the lender spoke, he deftly dumped the gold coins from the bag onto the ground. The crisp sound of the coins jingling filled the air, and the surrounding soldiers all stared wide-eyed.

The reason is simple: the bag is full of gold dragons! There are ten gold dragons in total! These ten gold dragons are enough for everyone to have one.

"In terms of the amount of bribe, this is far too much," the lender continued. "According to our tradition, the custom for giving each checkpoint officer is a copper deer, or a bottle of strong liquor—but now, with the war going on, the exchange rate between the gold dragon and the copper deer has been rising recently, so from any perspective, the amount he's giving is far too much."

"So, this is money to buy your life?" the soldier with the spear asked.

The lender nodded: "Yes, this is money to buy your life. If it is money to buy your life, this amount is just right. The usual amount for money to buy your life is one gold coin per person."

“Then we should have acted just now.” The soldier’s voice trembled slightly. “By the light above, we will be hanged for dereliction of duty.”

“We probably can’t beat them.” Hult realized at this moment, “That Mored from Bortard is very strong.”

The lender nodded approvingly: "Well said. We can't just rely on brute force. We need to use our brains to deal with powerful enemies."

When Hult was serving as a guard in Beaver Town, he respected the moneylender—although the gaunt, tall old man's moral character was quite questionable, as he always bought low and sold high to collect debts, the moneylender was also very knowledgeable and worldly-wise—in Hult's memory, the moneylender could even have a pleasant conversation with the old dragon disguised as a tailor.

Therefore, even though he had been promoted to knight, Hult still respected his opponent quite a bit.

"So what should we do next?" Hult asked.

The lender glanced at Hult and said with considerable surprise, "Of course, the golden dragon should be divided first, Sir. What do you think is the proper way to divide it?"

Hult stared wide-eyed in disbelief.

This is stolen money! Shouldn't it be turned over?

He initially intended to reprimand them, but upon seeing the soldiers' excited and expectant expressions, he hesitated.

After a moment, Hult sighed and said, "One for each of you, I won't take it. I'll save the last one for drinking later."

After the golden dragons were distributed, the soldiers' morale soared to its peak, and even the spearmen who were usually frowning were all smiles.

“Next, we should split into three groups,” the moneylender said. “One group will continue to guard the checkpoint, another will go to track the carriage at a distance, and the last group will go to Lord Trier to report it.”

Chapter 319 Eavesdropping

As arranged by the lender, the strongest fighter, Hult, and several veterans were tasked with tracking the wagons; he went to report to Trier; the rest of the team continued to guard the outposts—the tracking team would leave one person behind every so often to give directions, in order to facilitate the pursuit by the main force.

Although the plan was crude, it was reasonable, so no one objected.

However, this reasonable plan was thwarted from the very beginning—when the lender rushed to the Golden Palace, he was shocked to learn that Trier was not there at all, and even the guards did not know where he had gone.

Left with no other choice, he reported the situation to the guards and then hurriedly returned to find Hurt to discuss countermeasures.

Then something even more unexpected happened—Hult and the veteran, who were in charge of tracking them, both disappeared.

He tried to find them by following the footprints and tire tracks, but when they reached an intersection, even the footprints and tire tracks on the ground had been magically concealed.

"This is bad," the lender thought bitterly.

The firelight flickered, and the air was filled with the stench of decay. In the dim shadows, Trir was intently drawing up the ritual for teleportation.

This is the deepest part of Wilt's old sewers.

Over the course of a thousand years, the city of Wirth has been destroyed three times and rebuilt four times.

Each time the city was destroyed, it was rebuilt on the original ruins. Over time, present-day Wirth is like a mille-feuille cake with layers upon layers of walls. Beneath its bustling streetscape, the ancient city ruins linger like haunting ghosts, forming a labyrinthine network of sewers that resembles blood vessels.

This may also explain why the underground mirror city of Wirth exists deep within dreams—beneath the whispers of a heavy history, the dark and chaotic network of underground passages has long been an unconscious memory deep within the hearts of the people of the Southern Duchy.

In order to counter Saint Seir's scheme, Trier decided to prepare dozens of spellcasting sites in advance, and then set up necromancers from the City of Nightless City, as well as his own illusions, in most of the spellcasting sites. He himself hid in a spellcasting site deep in the sewers, waiting for the enemy to launch an attack, and then teleported there to kill the other side with a Holy Slash.

Suddenly, Trier stopped moving.

In the dull darkness, faint, crisp metallic clanging could be heard, seemingly mixed with angry, heavy breathing.

"Who would come to this godforsaken place?!" Trier found it unbelievable.

He put down his paintbrush, walked along the already rotten drainage hole wall to the corner, held onto the corner of the wall, and peered out.

In the darkness in the distance, figures could be seen moving about. On the passageways on both sides of the deep drainage ditch, several people were panting as they carefully carried wooden buckets forward. Although the sewer was pitch black, they seemed unaffected.

Behind the group of people working, three people remained stationary.

"What should we do with these people?" A thin man asked from behind the crowd, pointing to the people tied up on the ground.

Another person with a hoarse voice asked, "Have they seen your faces?"

“He hasn’t seen our true faces; we’ve concealed them with magic—but my esteemed partner, Mored of Bortard, insists on introducing himself,” the thin man complained. “Why would you do that, you fool?”

Was this a plan to kill him to silence him? Trillen suddenly became interested. He silently drew his sword, bent down, and slowly moved towards that direction.

As they drew closer, a pungent, sour smell grew stronger, and even the air seemed to become increasingly sticky and heavy, while the other person's voice became clearer and clearer.

Despite wearing heavy armor, Trier's stealth skills are now quite advanced. His movements are silent, and even without using magic, he seems to blend into the shadows.

"Why would I do that?" The third man's tone suddenly sharpened, as if a cat had been stepped on. "By the light of heaven, how can such a peasant become a knight? He even threatened me, saying he was acting on the orders of Lord Trier. To hell with Trier! That beast killed my only son!"

"Your son? Vampires have sons?" the hoarse-voiced man sneered. "So, that's why you did something as stupid as self-destructing your family? Now look what's happened, we have to silence you—there's a knight inside, damn trouble."

“I became a vampire for revenge,” Morred said glumly. “My son was serving Sir Harlan, but that shameless bastard Trier got involved in Beavertown…”

Trier blinked, thought for a moment, and then realized that the other person was talking about Hod.

"Shut up," the thin man interrupted coldly. "If you dare to utter another word, there will be another corpse in the ditch."

“I bought this powder!” Morey complained. “So what are we going to do with this powder?”

“You wouldn’t understand even if I explained, so don’t bother asking.” The hoarse-voiced man sighed, drawing his dagger. “Honorable Sir Morred, if you have the time, could you condescend to kill these men and throw them into the ditch?”

PS: There will be another update later.

Chapter 320 Explosive Barrel

My heartbeat quickened, and the hilt of the sword in my hand seemed to grow lighter.

Although he has experienced many bloody battles since his transmigration, he still feels a surge of restlessness in his chest before each close-quarters combat.

In the darkness, Trier silently observed the furtive crowd. With his extraordinary senses, he could discern the details of each person in the crowd with just a glance.

The burly man carrying the wooden buckets had beads of sweat cracking on his forehead; Morey's thumb gripped the dagger, causing a subtle deformation in his skin; the gaunt vampire's sunken eyes gleamed with a faint red light...

12 people in total.

Trier took a deep breath through his nose, temporarily suppressing his killing urge. He didn't rush to make a move because, to be honest, he was also curious about what these people were up to.

He had intended to check the powder's composition, but the next moment, Mored, who was holding a dagger, suddenly spoke up.

“You must tell me, or I won’t kill anyone,” Morey said, sweating profusely as he looked up.