Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

No one had the courage to fight to the death in such a no-win battle.

One swordsman turned to flee, followed promptly by the other swordsmen sprinting in different directions without hesitation.

Winters and Caman didn't exchange a word as they chased after the escapees separately. Caman was swift as a falcon, taking down two fleeing enemies in succession.

"Can you use spells now?" Winters roared.

Caman roared back: "Yes, now I can!"

The enemies were already beyond the casting radius of the shattering spell, and Winters did not hesitate; he tore off two buttons and cast the Arrow Flying Spell twice in quick succession towards the back of the nearest foe, who stumbled and fell face down.

Following that, he hurled his wand-sword towards another fleeing enemy. The swordsman, already dozen steps away, got pinned to the ground.

While Baron His Excellency and his personal priest were struggling with the unknown swordsmen, old Schmid dragged Fuller and ran desperately toward the small, light-filled lakehouse.

However, old Schmid's once-robust strength was no more, and Fuller, being rather heavyset, was caught up after just a few steps.

The plump Fuller, hearing the footsteps closing in, knew he couldn't escape, violently broke free from "Uncle Schmid's" arms, and wept bitterly as he threw himself at the swordsman—still under the influence of alcohol.

"The forge is gone," Fuller howled. "Damn it, I don't want to live either!"

The swordsman, caught off guard, was bowled over, tumbling to the ground. The Swift Sword in his hand plunged into Fuller's thigh, piercing through the fatty flesh.

Fuller immediately screamed like a pig being slaughtered.

The swordsman tried to push the heavy man off his body when suddenly his head took a heavy blow, inciting a pain-filled groan.

Old Schmid raised a triangular stone he had found on the lakeshore and struck the swordsman's head hard again, cracking his skull open.

Then the old blacksmith helped Fuller's boy up and staggered towards the stone lakehouse.

Footsteps approached once more but this time not from the pursuing swordsmen, but Winters coming to protect the two of them.

Seeing the Baron approaching, old Schmid seemed to lose all his strength, gasping for air as he collapsed to the ground. His fall inadvertently tugged on Fuller's wound, causing the latter to scream in agony once again.

"Be quiet!" Winters shouted sternly at Fuller. He cut open Fuller's pants, inspecting the wound under the dim light: "You're in luck, Mr. Fuller, it seems the artery wasn't hit."

Fuller was sniffling and weeping: "What do you mean… seems?"

Winters didn't waste words with Fuller and turned to old Schmid: "Sir, are you alright?"

The somewhat dazed old Schmid shook his head blankly, then suddenly seemed to snap back to reality and pointed at Winters' left hand: "You're hurt?"

Winters shook the blood off his left hand and casually wrapped his wrist with shreds of Fuller's pants: "It's nothing."

Faint groans could be heard from a short distance away; the swordsman whose skull had been cracked open by old Schmid was not yet dead, making feeble noises.

Winters went over, saw the swordsman's brain matter had spilled out, and judged him beyond saving. He mercifully used the shattering spell on the man.

He controlled it with precision, not causing any excessive damage. The swordsman's body twitched, his eyes went dull. Winters sighed, closed the dead man's eyelids, and stood up to walk towards old Schmid and Fuller.

Fuller, seeing the "Baron Granashi" half-covered in blood, his left hand stained red up to his forearm, finally understood what that guard had said: "No one is my lord's match within five steps".

Old Schmid shakily stood up, his Adam's apple bobbing, trying to say something.

Meanwhile, having confirmed all the bodies were dead, Caman walked over with his sword in hand.

Caman stopped by the swordsman that Winters had just "relieved". Although it was obvious that the man was dead, Caman still plunged his sword into the corpse's chest before walking towards Winters.

Winters looked at Caman, having many questions to ask, but it was inappropriate to speak in front of others. In the end, he just nodded to Caman: "I am lucky to have you today."

Yet, this simple expression of gratitude ignited something in Caman.

Caman dropped his sword, stepped in front of Winters, his right hand fiercely grabbing Winters' throat while his left hand quickly seized Winters' wrist.

His shoulders trembled uncontrollably, his eyes spit fire as he stared down Winters, his voice seething through clenched teeth: "Do you know who they are?"

That familiar feeling was back, that inexplicable sense of oppression and pricking pain.

The last time he felt this was on a mountain outside the fort. On that occasion, Caman also gripped Winters' throat and wrist, compelling Winters to answer his questions.

Caman had personally admitted—he had no Divine Arts to discern truth from lies.

But Winters had no doubt, if he spoke any falsehoods, Caman would crush his windpipe on the spot.

"I can probably guess who they are," Winters responded honestly and as briefly as possible. "But I haven't seen them before."

A suffocating silence ensued.

Caman almost bit through his lip, yet he made no move.

Then he asked a second question: "Did you use me to go against His Majesty's people?"

"No," Winters met Caman's gaze squarely: "Never have."

Caman kept his fierce gaze on Winters for a long while, then suddenly let go.

The oppression and pricking sensation vanished; Winters was freed from the immediate threat of death.

Yet, in Caman's eyes surged endless regret and frustration, as though a child, after wreaking havoc, finally realized the enormity of his deeds. He staggered back a few steps, collapsed powerlessly, gasping for breath, staring blankly at his blood-stained hands.