Chapter Fifty: The Apprentice Knights' Guard

“Corman?” Carlos greeted in surprise.

“What are you doing here, young master Carlos? I was just about to head to Alchemy Town to bid you farewell. You’re off to Swordmaster Port, I hear? Across the Western Strait.” The chubby boy, clearly uneasy on horseback, gripped his reins tightly and continued, “Otherwise, Charles has joined your Stevenson family’s Nightwatch Guard, and he asked me to say goodbye on his behalf.”

“Is that so? Where’s my father gone?” Carlos was astonished; it seemed much had happened lately.

“The Duke Mori left early this morning with the Nightwatch Guard for Xilin City. He left your elder brother here to organize the last of the migration. If you want to catch up with your father, you’re already too late.”

Carlos’s expression turned forlorn.

Corman, at a loss for words, pursed his lips and turned his horse around. “I heard you’ll be heading south in the spring. Make sure to visit Swordmaster City on the way.”

After Corman departed, Carlos stood there, uncertain whether to follow the migrating crowd forward.

Delicht arrived from behind with the Nightwatch Guard. Seeing Carlos standing in the middle of the road, he let out a sigh of relief—he had truly feared that Carlos would recklessly rush after them to Blackstone Fortress, and then their father, Duke Mori, would have been none too pleased with the brothers.

Delicht rode slowly to Carlos’s side.

“In times of war, Father would never want you to take such risks. To inherit the legacy of the Winter Moon and restore the Stevenson family—Father has only taken the first step. The road ahead depends on you. Old Grant will remain in Saltwell Town. Your company of knights—fifty men, all chosen from the local miners, reliable and skilled—have sworn allegiance to the Stevenson family. The dwarf paladin, Maclin, has agreed to serve as their instructor until he accompanies you to the Central Province. For this, Father generously paid an entire chest of gold coins as Maclin’s fee.”

Carlos nodded, remaining silent.

Delicht watched him and smiled. “I know what you’re feeling. The first time I left home for the wilds, I felt the same—afraid I’d die out there, or afraid I’d return to find you all gone. Afraid to lose my family. But all mortals must die in the end, mustn’t they?”

Just then, a Nightwatch Guard hurried over to report that a disturbance had broken out ahead in the migration column—people had begun to fight.

Delicht’s brow rose at the news. He patted Carlos on the back.

“Go and arrest the troublemakers,” he called out as he rode toward the commotion. “If they can’t follow the rules, throw them in with the prisoners.”

Duby sat in the parlor drinking wine. Seeing his student return in low spirits, he chuckled, “Your father left you quite a gift. The chest is full of fine rum and dried meat.”

Carlos managed a bitter smile. He had no idea what his old man was thinking—there was plenty of liquor, two full chests, but barely any jerky. Who knew how much salt had been used in the curing process? The dark dried meat was encrusted with white granules of salt. Carlos studied it closely and realized that the meat wasn’t from any common beast—it was from a low-grade magical creature. The flesh was tough and sinewy.

This was no delicacy, though mercenary companies prized it. It kept well, was hard to spoil, and was so tough it was filling—hard-to-chew food usually staved off hunger best.

The weight of worry in Carlos’s heart grew. Wanting to drown his sorrows like his teacher Duby, he grabbed a bottle of rum, tilted his head back, and took a long swig.

He wiped his lips, feeling his senses return a bit and a touch of warmth settle in his stomach. Though he rarely drank, his mouth tingled and a faint bitterness lingered on his tongue.

Rum that tastes bitter is a warning not to drink more. Too much bitter wine brings nothing good, and if it stings your nose, it’s easy to shed tears.

Carlos felt himself growing up—he didn’t want to cry. And if he must, he’d do it privately, never letting his teacher see. So he took the bottle and, lips pressed tight, headed upstairs.

Duby watched Carlos’s thin figure retreat upstairs. He said nothing but the corners of his lips curled in a slight smile.

Back in his room, Carlos suddenly heard the sound of a whistle from the hills behind the house.

Then, a chorus of synchronized voices rang out across the hillside.

“In the face of powerful foes, we do not fear. We are brave and loyal, true to the Lord. Righteous and merciful, courageous and just. Sacrifice, honor, soul! We protect the weak…”

Carlos, startled, pushed open his window and saw Grant climbing up below. The old stablemaster was nimble—climbing through the window even more deftly than Delicht.

Before Carlos could ask, Grant bowed respectfully. “The dwarf instructor, Maclin, said there’s an open space behind the hill—perfect for training these squire knights. Since Delicht left with the Duke, I’m filling in as Nightwatch Guard, protecting you, young master. Now that the estate is without its master, we might as well move everyone up to the back hills together.”

Standing on tiptoe, Carlos looked out over the wooded hillside. Amid the bushes, he could just make out gray tents scattered across the clearing.

“What are these squires shouting?” Carlos asked, excitement lighting his face. Was this to be his own knightly guard?

“Something that dwarf Maclin taught them—who knows what it means? In any case, they’ve all sworn allegiance to the Stevenson family in the name of the God of Light. Whatever they’re shouting, their lives belong to the Stevensons now. As long as that dwarf instructor trains them well, turning each into a loyal knight who can kill when needed, that’s what matters.”

Carlos smiled. There was truth in that—knights, in the end, must take up the sword. Still, learning the code of chivalry was good; at least when killing was required, there would be some guiding principle.

Grant departed, and Carlos found his gloom swept away as he gazed out the window.

The next morning, Carlos woke early. From the woods behind the house came the rousing shouts of men.

The forest air was crisp and fresh. Carlos followed the path up the back hill to the squire knights’ camp. On an open field, dozens of strong men stood in neat formation, each practicing basic swordplay—slashing, thrusting, and parrying.

Carlos’s sudden appearance spurred the men to train even harder. They were all locals from the town, and every one of them recognized this noble youth, once so distant from their daily lives.

Having been chosen for the company, from the moment they became squire knights, they knew for whom they served.

And who would bring honor and fortune to them and their families?

Their gazes burned with fervor as they trained, for the one who could one day bring them all they desired stood before them—a slender youth, Carlos Stevenson, the true master of the Squire Knights.