Chapter Fifty-One: Farewell

The knight appeared to be around thirty years old, his features sharply defined, his skin fair, and his looks handsome. A meticulously trimmed mustache adorned his lips. The moment he caught sight of the Poor Wretch, his eyes lit up with joy; he cheered aloud and leapt from his horse.

His dismount was agile and graceful, and he strode forward, arms outstretched, intent on embracing the Poor Wretch. But the Poor Wretch smiled, lips pressed together, and pointed at his armor. “Uncle Chip, are you planning to strangle me?”

The knight laughed at this, lowering his arms, then took the Poor Wretch’s hand and lifted it to his lips in a courteous gesture, performing a kiss on the hand. He said, “You call me uncle again—my heart is about to break. By the gods, I am one of the most eligible bachelors in Osgiliath!”

His manner and tone bespoke noble birth, and his speech carried the accent of the southern Byzantine Empire’s official tongue.

Nearby, Shaya felt his scalp tingle. To his provincial sensibilities, this knight seemed effeminate—he immediately classified Chip among the ranks of the grotesque.

The Poor Wretch and the knight named Chip exchanged a few words in low voices. Chip’s expression changed abruptly, and he strode forward, surveying the scene—the ground littered with corpses and wounded of the Night Watch Cavalry. His face twisted in rage, and when he saw Sim sitting on the ground, fury blazed in Chip’s eyes. “Sim, it was you who led them! Do you realize this is naked murder?”

Sim responded with a cold laugh. “Is this your first day knowing us Night Watchmen? Spare me your speech. If you truly had the guts, you’d direct those words to whoever gave the order. But, honorable Sir Chip, do you dare?”

Chip’s expression shifted. He snorted, narrowed his eyes at Sim, then suddenly stepped forward, drew his sword, and thrust it into Sim’s heart.

The Poor Wretch startled, clapping a hand over her mouth with a shriek, but Sim seemed unsurprised. A deep mockery flashed in his eyes before he closed them and died.

With a dull sound, blood splattered from the blade. Chip, his face calm, took a silk handkerchief from his trousers and wiped the sword clean. He commanded, “Search the area. Any Night Watch survivors—finish them off. Bury the bodies on the spot.”

Seeing this effeminate man act so decisively, even ruthlessly, Shaya couldn’t help but reassess him.

Noticing Shaya’s gaze, Chip turned and glared at him twice before ignoring him, taking the Poor Wretch aside. “Actually, I did not come on your brother’s orders to find you.”

“Oh? Then you are…”

Chip sighed. “I received two commands—both instructing me to bring you back alive. One was from your brother, the other from your uncle.”

The Poor Wretch’s face changed, disbelief written plainly. “My uncle? He wants you to bring me back alive? Impossible! He was the one who ordered the Night Watchmen to kill me…”

“The situation has changed,” Chip replied calmly. “The new order reached me eight days ago. Your uncle now not only wishes you to live, he will go to great lengths to protect you.”

“Why…” The Poor Wretch frowned.

“Can’t you guess?” Chip sneered. “The reason is simple—war has begun!”

“War? Between whom?”

“Us and Odin.” Chip sighed. “On my way here I passed through Wildfire Town—it’s now under our army’s control. Everything within a hundred miles to the south is under military administration.”

The Poor Wretch’s expression grew exceedingly complex. Chip glanced at her, then turned to Shaya. “Who is that fellow?”

Shaya was standing with his hands behind his back. Cavalrymen moved around, hauling corpses away; any surviving Night Watchmen were efficiently dispatched with a sword thrust.

No one spared Shaya a glance, but Dodoro, seeing the murderous efficiency, edged closer to Shaya in nervousness.

Once all the bodies were gathered, the cavalrymen surveyed the corpses of the Night Watchmen. The clean, sharp wounds caught their experienced eyes—they knew such injuries were not easily inflicted.

Their gazes toward Shaya now carried a hint of awe.

After all… Shaya’s group was only three: the Poor Wretch and Dodoro didn’t look like fighters. It was clear Shaya alone had dispatched a squad of Night Watchmen, even slaying a mid-level warrior captain. He was no weakling.

Someone promptly reported this to Chip. Upon hearing it, Chip’s eyes gleamed with interest as he observed Shaya more keenly.

He and the Poor Wretch spoke quietly in the distance for some time. The Poor Wretch was initially resolute, shaking her head, but Chip’s words gradually softened her stance; she hesitated, then finally nodded in reluctant agreement. They spoke a little more; the Poor Wretch smiled, then wept bitterly. Chip sighed, patted her shoulder, and turned away.

Shaya watched curiously from afar, wondering what had happened.

It seemed the Poor Wretch’s background was anything but ordinary…

Lost in thought, he noticed the Poor Wretch approaching. From afar, her eyes were brimming with tears, her expression mournful.

An uneasy feeling stirred in Shaya’s heart; he couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but seeing her so, he felt unsettled. He started toward her, but a smiling voice stopped him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Shaya.” Chip stood before him, smiling, blocking Shaya’s view of the Poor Wretch. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Chip. I’m a relative of Ed—oh, Ed is him. Thank you for saving his life.”

Chip smiled at Shaya, thinking: If what Adeline said is true, this fellow must be the most oblivious man alive, mistaking Adeline for a boy…

“No thanks necessary…” Shaya waved his hand in a hearty manner, but his next words betrayed his true nature. “Words are cheap. Since you all seem important, if you wish to thank me, gold or gems would do nicely.”

Chip was momentarily taken aback, then smiled. With impeccable manners, he produced a small leather pouch and shook it lightly, producing Shaya’s favorite sound—the clink of coins.

“I didn’t bring much money with me; here are two hundred gold coins, a token of gratitude.” Chip tossed the pouch to Shaya, who caught it with delight and quickly tucked it away, laughing. “No problem! Actually, the Poor Wretch eats little and drinks little—apart from being a bit lazy, he’s rather easy to provide for.”

Chip felt disappointed; he’d hoped that such a young and capable man—able to defeat a squad of Night Watchmen single-handedly—would be worth recruiting. But this uncouth attitude proved otherwise. Osgiliath had plenty of experts; one more or less made no difference, and such vulgarity would never catch the crown prince’s eye.

He lost interest in Shaya and turned to Dodoro. “And who might this be?”

“Honorable Sir Chip, it is my privilege to stand before the renowned ‘Silver Sky Swordsman.’ I am a mage, please call me Dodoro.”

Chip was slightly startled, his noble upbringing recoiling at Dodoro’s appearance—one glance and he looked away. “Ah, a respected mage. You know me?”

“In Osgiliath, who does not know your illustrious name?” Dodoro smiled humbly, but his sly expression only deepened Chip’s distaste.

Still, Chip showed proper respect to mages. “Forgive my intrusion; I didn't recognize your status, as you wear no badge on your robe… Otherwise, I would have greeted you sooner. Honorable mage, may I ask your name? Forgive my curiosity—it sounds familiar, as if I’ve heard it somewhere…”

Dodoro’s face turned awkward, and he laughed nervously. “Well… I am a first-level earth mage. The badge, ah… I lost it.”

First-level…

Chip’s disappointment grew—he was even less worth recruiting.

Wait—

Suddenly, Chip remembered the name Dodoro. He had indeed heard it recently—a bankrupt mage in Osgiliath, fleeing creditors and becoming the laughingstock of the guild. For days, the capital had gossiped about this unprecedented disgrace to the mage profession.

Could it be this very man?

To become a bankrupt mage—truly remarkable!

One was strong but uncouth, the other weak and a joke in the capital. Neither was worth recruiting; Chip quickly made an excuse and left.

Only then did the Poor Wretch approach.

Her eyes were red from recent tears.

“Hey, Shaya.” She stood before him, voice tinged with sadness. “I… I can’t go with you.”

“Mm… ah?” Shaya looked at her. “You’re going back with your relative?”

“Yes… I must return.” She sighed, her expression sorrowful. “I really wanted to go with you, but I must go back.”

She paused, drew a breath, fighting back tears as she looked at Shaya. She spoke softly, “I had planned to cross Wildfire Plains and escape to Odin, but I met you… Meeting you has been my good fortune. Shaya… I’m leaving now. Please, don’t forget me.”

Seeing her tear-filled eyes, Shaya felt a strange emotion stir within him. He sighed, patting her shoulder.

He raised his head, gazing at her with unprecedented clarity and sincerity. Such a look made the Poor Wretch’s heart beat wildly. He… did he know? Was he about to say something?

(In truth, I have always known you are a beautiful girl.

Rest assured, I will strive to rise above all, and someday I will come for you!

Wait for me—one day, I will wear armor of five colors and ride on clouds of seven hues to fetch you!

I will work hard to become a peerless hero, and when I am worthy of you, I will come for you!

Beautiful princess, to win you, I would cross all thorns…

Once, there was a sincere love before me—I did not cherish it, and only after losing it did I regret…)

The Poor Wretch’s heart raced, her mind swirling with fantasies, conjuring countless tender scenes…

At last, Shaya spoke.

He sighed softly, gazed at her with deep feeling, and whispered:

“Hey, when you get back, don’t forget to get a gold tooth.”

The Poor Wretch: “…………”