Chapter 122: 122 Provocation

Chapter 122: Provocation

Following Rhonin's recent departure from Ash Village, which brought an end to his continuous assaults on the savage tribes, Rydal had remained behind as the garrison commander.

Aside from the occasional scouting expedition to the southeast, his days were consumed either by rigorously drilling Tom, Jwitt, and the guards, or by strolling northward along the kaolin mine; to be quite frank, life had grown rather tedious.

On this particular day, he was on horseback near the periphery of the kaolin vein, supervising the carpenters and masons as they erected structures that, according to the instructions left by the Lord, would one day become a complex for extracting kaolin and manufacturing porcelain.

Though Rydal had no inkling of what porcelain actually was, the Lord held it in such high regard that he naturally treated the enterprise with equal gravity.

"Commander!"

As Rydal patrolled the area, Jwitt came galloping toward him at a frantic pace.

Rydal caught the undercurrent of anxiety in the man's voice, wondering if those troublesome serfs had embroiled themselves in yet another dispute, or if wild beasts had once again descended from the mountains.

Over the past weeks, the serfs had indeed bickered and even come to blows, though it was mostly Slane’s kinsmen or mistresses, resentful of the grueling labor, who instigated the unrest; a couple of stern thrashings from Rydal, however, had swiftly restored order.

There had also been a solitary incident involving a wild boar ravaging the vegetable plots, though Rydal had not needed to lift a finger before Babulin led the guards to dispatch the beast.

Ordinarily, such trifles required no intervention from the commander, which made him wonder if Jwitt's sudden approach meant the Lord himself had returned to Ash Village.

"What is the matter?"

Reining in his mount as he drew near, Jwitt spoke with visible trepidation, "My Lord, the men of the Black-Collar Tribe are actually erecting a watchtower right before our village! Tom and Babulin just took a detachment to halt them, and it looks as though blood is about to spill!"

This unexpected intelligence caught Rydal off guard, prompting an incredulous inquiry, "Are you telling me the Black-Collar Tribe is raising a tower at our very gates?"

"Indeed they are!" Jwitt confirmed with absolute certainty.

Rydal’s countenance turned ice-cold; for the Black-Collar Tribe to push their watchtower to the very threshold of Ash Village was nothing short of madness.

"Come, lead the way!"

He had just been lamenting the utter lack of diversion, and now trouble had obligingly delivered itself to his doorstep.

Their warhorses thundered through the village, quickly reaching the southeastern ingress.

"Commander, we shall see them just around that bend in the path ahead,"

Jwitt said, pointing toward the sharp turn where the mountain shoulder jutted out.

Rydal glanced back to gauge the distance; though that position lay some five or six hundred meters from the village entrance—not quite close enough to be literally at their gates—it was perilously near nonetheless.

As the pair rounded the bend, they came upon the two factions locked in a tense standoff upon the narrow trail.

On the side of Ash Village stood Tom, Babulin, Thim, and a handful of guards.

The opposing force was considerably larger, boasting five mounted men alone, flanked by seven or eight laborers who were actively felling local timber with tools and axes to construct the watchtower.

There was no telling when they had commenced their labors, but the foundation of the tower was already taking shape.

His expression frozen in a chilly mask, Rydal spurred his horse closer, "What is the meaning of this?"

Babulin offered a slight bow, "Commander, Fenris, the deputy chief of the Black-Collar Tribe, has brought these men to erect a watchtower here. He claims it is to protect the serfs clearing the nearby wasteland from the depredations of mountain beasts."

The pretext was utter nonsense.

Rydal had patrolled this sector numerous times and had never seen a single soul from either Ash Village or the Black-Collar Tribe cultivating the surrounding wilds.

"Which one of you is Fenris?"

A man within the opposing ranks nudged his mount forward two paces.

He was powerfully built, the contours of his muscles clearly defined beneath a suit of chainmail, complete with pauldrons; his armor was of commendable quality.

"So, you are the one Baron Rhonin left in charge of the Ash Tribe? Heh, 'Commander'—what a grand title..."

Fenris’s mockery immediately elicited a chorus of derisive laughter from his men.

While the men of Ash Village bristled with fury, Rydal remained entirely unperturbed.

Seeing that his provocations had failed to incite an immediate attack, Fenris demanded in a freezing tone:

"I am well aware that the Ash Tribe has been subjugated by the Baron of Forest Town, which means the noble accords of non-aggression regarding territories must be observed. By obstructing our watchtower, are you seeking to ignite a war between Forest Town and the Sien Fief?"

Fenris possessed reasonably comprehensive intelligence regarding Forest Town and the savage tribes; he recognized Babulin as a mid-tier knight, and he knew that McCain, Rhonin’s subordinate, possessed a mane of golden hair.

As for the crimson-haired commander before him, he lacked specific data, but reasoned that even at his strongest, the man could be no more than a peak mid-tier knight, perhaps slightly superior to Babulin.

Rydal was deep in thought.

Clearly, the Lord’s conquest of the three tribes had become common knowledge to the outside world. For the enemy to deliberately construct a watchtower here despite knowing this fact indicated an altogether different agenda.

With a humorless smile, Rydal remarked, "This land does not appear to fall within the domain of the Black-Collar Tribe."

Fenris refused to yield an inch, "To my knowledge, this very soil belongs to the Black-Collar Tribe. Furthermore, everything extending north and south from this line is our sovereign territory!"

"Bullshit!"

Babulin spat curses; having lived here for nearly two decades, how could he possibly be ignorant of such a claim?

"Your Black-Collar Tribe has always expanded to the southeast. Since when did this place become yours?"

Following Babulin’s outburst, Tom and the surrounding guards unleashed a torrent of abuse.

Though these fellows were customarily deferential in the presence of Rhonin, when it came to trading insults, they possessed a formidable vocabulary of profanity.

Silently astride his mount, Rydal grasped the reality of the situation: the enemy had come strictly to usurp territory, and judging by their demeanor, they harbored absolutely no dread of inciting a conflict.

'Perhaps the struggle between the Lord and the Sien Fief is finally being brought into the open.'

The aura surrounding Rydal grew perilous. He raised his hand, and at the gesture, Tom and the others instantly stifled their shouting.

The opposing forces, however, lacked such discipline; they threw out several more jeers before realizing the responses had ceased, bringing their own clamor to a ragged, disorganized halt.

"Fenris, was it?"

Rydal’s tone carried a ominous weight: "To prevent any discord between our respective Barons, I command you to withdraw fifteen li. Otherwise..."

"Otherwise what?"

Fenris burst into a loud guffaw. Acting under the explicit directives of Baron Leeson, he had come this day precisely to incite trouble, intending to show Rhonin that the Sien Fief was not to be trifled with.

He rested his hand upon the hilt of his sword, "I warn you, if you dare interfere with our construction again, do not blame me for showing no mercy!"

Rydal let out a cold snort and answered with a sudden punch. Douqi coalesced into a massive, radiant fist that slammed into the completed foundation of the watchtower, instantly blasting the assembled timber into splintered fragments.

"Fuck!"

Astounded that the opposing commander had dared strike the first blow, Fenris yanked his reins and dug his spurs into his mount, charging directly at Rydal.

Unmoved by fear, Rydal surged forward to meet him.

Their longswords clashed in a violent collision. The previously insufferable Fenris suffered an immediate shift in countenance as an appalling wave of force ripped through him, sending both man and blade flying backward through the air.

"Worthless trash!"

Rydal vaulted from his saddle, soaring directly over the heads of the crowd as he pressed his assault upon the falling Fenris.

Witnessing their commander's magnificent display of prowess, Tom and the guards felt a surge of adrenaline and charged like madmen into the opposing ranks.

In an instant, the two factions dissolved into a chaotic melee.

Panic seized Fenris; he had never anticipated the red-haired man would possess such overwhelming strength.

Was it not said that the entirety of Forest Town possessed but a single high-tier peak knight? How could this man best him with such effortless ease?

"No... no, this is impossible!"

Fenris’s battle aura formed a chilling armor over his body, surging violently as it coalesced along the length of his sword, as if preparing some devastating technique.

But then, Riedal descended from the sky, a long blade of flame slicing through the air and crashing into Fenris’s chest—ripping open his battle armor and hurling him to the ground.

Fenris felt his chest explode; blood gushed from his mouth. He tried to rise, but found a cold blade pressed against his throat.

“Everyone—stop!”

Riedal roared, and both sides slowly pulled apart.

He swept his gaze across the scene. Though the fight had ended swiftly, both sides bore wounds—thankfully, no one had died.

“If you don’t want to die, drop your swords and lie flat on the ground!”

Riedal shifted his sword slightly, locking Fenris with a merciless stare.

Terrified, Fenris cried out: “Quick—do as he says!”

“Good. You’ve got some sense, Knight Fenris.”

Riedal chuckled. “Sim, go to the village and bring the guards with ropes. Tom, come here and strip him.”

“Got it!”

Tom sprinted over. Fighting under a powerful commander was exhilarating—hardly any effort at all, and they’d already won.

“You’re provoking a war between two noble houses!”

Fenris panicked, thrashing wildly—no trace left of his earlier arrogance—but the blade at his throat was razor-sharp. A single twitch sent warmth trickling down his neck.

He was bleeding…

Riedal looked down with contempt. “You were the one who provoked.”

Soon, the guards stationed in Ash Soil Village poured out en masse, binding every member of the Black Collar tribe from head to toe in thick ropes, leaving them utterly immobilized, powerless to rise or struggle.

“Post guards to watch them day and night,” Riedal ordered. “If anyone tries to escape, stab them.”

Then he turned to the lone Black Collar craftsman still unbound, kneeling trembling on the ground.

“Go back and tell your chieftain to convey this to Baron Sein: if he wants his man back, come with proper sincerity to redeem him in three days. Now go.”

The craftsman, as if released from a nightmare, scrambled to his feet and bolted toward the Black Collar territory like a man possessed.

“Lord, what if Baron Rayson refuses to ransom him and just brings an army to attack us?” Bablin asked, uneasy.

“There’s a possibility,” Riedal nodded. “Increase patrols these next few days. Also, Tom—return to Timber Ridge at once. Inform the Lord of what happened here and seek his orders.”

He could have chosen to yield for now, retreat with his men to Ash Soil Village, and consult Ronin on how to proceed.

But since Ronin had appointed Riedal as commander, Riedal held the authority to act independently.

In his view, territorial disputes were simple: the stronger fist held the truth.

Riedal knew Fenris’s strength—and he was certain his own fist was stronger. So he acted.

As for negotiations afterward? That was the Lord’s domain.

They held the advantage. They would not be outmaneuvered in talks.

Who struck first? Who was in the wrong? Who could say?

(End of Chapter)