Chapter Twelve: Is That All It Takes?

Anderson Morey believed that the young master from the Stevenson family, Carlos, had truly gone to fetch reinforcements.

He found nothing amusing in it; he was merely reflecting on how he had come here to investigate a case where someone had impersonated him to commit violence. He hadn’t even begun interrogations when that youth seemed to confess without being pressed, and then, inexplicably, fled right before his eyes.

Anderson wanted to say this was childish, yet events had unfolded just so absurdly.

Carlos ran toward the far side of the bridge, shouting loudly, “Help! Someone’s here causing trouble!”

His voice was not actually very loud, but its timbre was strikingly clear and penetrating—enough to disturb several patrollers resting in the gentle sunlight on the far bank.

Soon, a group of men hurried to meet the running Carlos on the bridge.

Seeing this, Anderson’s face flushed dark with anger.

After a brief exchange between Carlos and the men at the far end of Bearwood Bridge, some pointed toward Anderson’s side, quickly gathering four or five people to advance toward him, while two others led Carlos and hurried off toward the manor across the bridge.

Anderson’s face darkened as he regained his composure.

He spoke slowly to Grant, who blocked his path, “A spoiled brat who discards his servants at will isn’t worth risking your life for. Put away the weapon hidden in your sleeve. This is not a threat, but a final, kindly warning as we part ways. Step aside now, or die.”

As a member of the Sword Pavilion, Anderson possessed unshakable confidence.

Even as a mere disciple, he was a figure ordinary swordsmen could only look up to. Since Grant knew of his background, he should also understand the vast gulf between their stations.

Retreating in the face of such odds was the smart choice.

Anderson drew this final line for Grant not out of mercy, but out of a desire not to waste his time.

But Grant, his face dark and expressionless, seemed unmoved, not even responding with pride or humility. It was as if he was listening to the ramblings of an old tortoise, neither understanding nor caring, and most of all, not interested.

All he did was guard the bridgehead, maintaining his vigilance.

As a former assassin of exceptional skill, Grant never found it daunting to face a disciple of the Sword Pavilion.

Especially not after his illustrious history of assassinating a black magician.

When boasting of his past, Carlos had once summarized Grant’s earlier life with a single, swaggering phrase:

“To destroy you—what business is it of yours?”

Now, as a horse groom and stable hand, Grant secretly thought that phrase had an irresistible flair.

Remembering this, Grant could not help but grin, revealing a mouth full of yellowed teeth—a smile that was not quite a smile.

Suddenly, Anderson sensed something strange. The simple, honest servant standing before him now radiated a sharp, dangerous aura.

Anderson had always prided himself on his keen perception.

And now, what he sensed was danger and conspiracy.

More frightening still, at some unknown point, he felt as though he were wading through mud; his limbs, especially his legs, grew heavy.

Anderson dared not be careless.

He glanced at the black cat on his shoulder, and, with slow deliberation, drew a broad yet lightweight greatsword from his back, his eyes wary of his surroundings.

The blade was a deep gray-black, gleaming with a lustrous sheen. A peculiar aura shimmered over it in iridescent flashes—Obsidian Steel, the hallmark of a five-star swordsman.

Grant eyed the obsidian greatsword with mild surprise, but his indifference quickly returned.

Anderson hesitated no longer. He stepped forward.

Swinging the greatsword, its razor-sharp edge came crashing down toward Grant’s head.

Grant’s trident-shaped daggers were nothing fancy, but having been used in countless killings, they felt perfectly balanced and familiar in his hands.

Of course, compared to the obsidian greatsword with its shifting luster, his blades seemed inferior. But if wreathed in a shroud of black energy, that was another matter.

Clang!

The now-black dagger angled upward, absorbing the tremendous force of the descending greatsword with a jarring metallic screech.

With a deft sidestep, Grant’s other dagger darted swiftly toward Anderson’s elbow.

In a duel with a formidable foe, Grant knew exactly what he was doing—this strike was meant to render Anderson’s arm useless.

“Hmph!”

Anderson, perceiving the ruse, let out a shout. The obsidian greatsword, blocked by a single dagger, suddenly flared with yellow light, its power and momentum surging.

Grant’s face tightened with pain as numbness shot through his right arm.

Unable to hold the sword with one hand any longer, he withdrew his left hand from the thrust, braced the greatsword with both, and abruptly shoved it upward, using the opportunity to roll nimbly aside.

“Hmph!” Anderson pressed the attack, sneering coldly.

His sword swept after Grant’s retreating back. As it gleamed, a layer of silver-gray sword energy shimmered along its edge. Having lost patience, Anderson was clearly going for the kill.

Yet something strange occurred.

As the greatsword closed in, its tip mere inches from its target, the groom stood rooted to the spot, making no attempt to dodge, a mocking smile playing on his dark, honest face.

Anderson barely had time to process this before he realized something was wrong.

His sword could go no further; he could not drive it into Grant’s jeering chest.

His feet felt as heavy as if filled with lead. At some unknown moment, the solid earth beneath him had turned to mire.

A pair of inky black, muddy hands reached up from the swamp, clutching his legs.

“Mire Scroll!”

Anderson’s face turned ugly. Unable to thrust forward, he swung his sword down in frustration, smashing it into the ground. The blade pierced the earth, unleashing a surge of force that swept over the wasteland like a storm, sending dust swirling around the bridgehead.

He could not fathom how such a high-tier trap scroll could exist in so remote a town.

The mire gripped his legs with the weight of a thousand pounds—a masterpiece of a high-level trap scroll.

Without a knight who could dispel such magic, any struggle was futile.

Grant grinned foolishly, “Heh, I told you, my young master has lots of private funds. You could have named your price much higher just now, and I think he’d have agreed—he’s always been kind.”

“Despicable!” Anderson hung his head, face flushed, gripping his sword planted beside him.

He was defeated, yet unwilling to accept it.

His opponent was strong, but not as strong as he was—neither in strength nor skill. But the mire scroll, set at some unknown point, had caught him completely unawares.

Damn it—could it have been in the instant that boy fled, just a fleeting glance over his shoulder?

How could that be possible?

As Anderson brooded, a bright, youthful voice came from behind, across the bridge.

“Mister, is it over already?”

Carlos grinned broadly, craning his neck to peer this way. Several nervous patrollers surrounded him protectively, brandishing swords, spears, and even short-barreled shotguns.