Chapter 264: Disturbing Guesses

Within this social structure, minor lords were typically vassals of greater lords, their relationship existing in a form akin to a contract.

In exchange for fiefs, authority, and protection from their overlord, minor lords were expected to pledge loyalty.

Their bond was often woven from intricate alliances, conflicting interests, and power struggles.

Unlike knights, minor lords possessed greater autonomy and independence; when entangled in complex conflicts over politics, rights, territory, or personal ambition, betrayal was never unthinkable.

Though betrayal carried immense risk—if mishandled, it could cost them their lands, their power, even the lives of their entire lineage.

Yet all things were governed by interest; when the stakes were high enough, daring the unthinkable became justifiable.

“From the initial transmission of intelligence to Castle Wushan to now, with troops arrayed on the front lines, every piece of information we’ve received has come solely from Corien. If he truly concealed anything, we’d have no way of knowing.”

As the seed of suspicion took root, Ronin grew increasingly convinced Corien was untrustworthy—the fall of Chi Mountain Town had been far too sudden.

“If he has indeed betrayed us, what is his motive?”

“What does he hope to gain by luring the noble alliance of Wushan here?”

Ronin stepped into the shoes of the Lord of Giantrock, imagining how he himself would act if he intended to betray Castle Wushan.

Soon, a clear thread emerged.

If Corien had betrayed, he must be colluding with the Polant Raiders.

Rulans had long said the Polant Raiders’ origins were murky—most likely backed by the Count of Moonvale.

If Corien partnered with the Polant Raiders, he was inevitably tied to Count Jesus.

Recall: at the end of last year, during Rulans’s birthday banquet, Count Jesus and Count Osen had grown conspicuously close. And now, warfare erupted simultaneously along the southeast and southwest borders of Wushan.

Put together, everything seemed to connect.

With the backing of Moonvale and Black Serpent City, Corien now had the courage to betray.

“If we view these three forces as one, what is their true objective?”

Ronin’s first thought was himself—had they conspired to eliminate him, the thorn threatening Breton’s succession?

But he quickly dismissed the notion.

Chi Mountain Town had fallen too early. At that time, there was no noble alliance, he was no commander, and even if war had broken out, how could Corien have been certain Ronin would come to the front?

Eliminating Ronin could not be their goal.

Ronin fell into deep thought, his gaze suddenly sharpening: “It’s the noble alliance—more precisely, the knight squads of Castle Wushan!”

If the commander had not been Ronin, but Toru or Marven, they would have rashly charged toward Chi Mountain Town upon Corien’s assurance of “the advantage is ours.”

Once battle commenced, Corien would turn his forces against them—plunging the noble alliance into chaos.

Enemies ahead, traitors behind—caught in a pincer, the alliance would have no escape.

Of the noble alliance’s forces, half of Wushan’s First and Fourth Knight Squads had been dispatched to Giantrock, together equaling a full knightly regiment, plus the Fifth Knight Squad already stationed at the border.

If annihilated, Castle Wushan would lose two of its five knightly regiments at once—a devastating blow.

And the deaths of powerful knights like Toru, Philip, Solstan, and Marven—absolute loyalists of Wushan—would be incalculable.

This was only the western front. What of the eastern?

If the same scenario unfolded there, Wushan’s five knightly regiments might be reduced to a single one—its deterrent power collapsing.

Such a crushing blow would inevitably strike Rulans, hastening the end of the old man’s already shortened life.

Then, though Viggins still lived, he would be forced to remain a puppet marquis.

Corien, the traitor, would find his chance to cleanse his name, ascending beyond his title as Baron of Giantrock.

“Hssss!”

Ronin drew a sharp breath.

Even he was stunned by his own deductions.

“I hope I’m overthinking this.”

He tried to reassure himself—but the more he reassured, the heavier the suspicion grew.

What Ronin needed now was evidence: either proof of Corien’s innocence—or proof of his treachery.

“The key is finding witnesses—or participants—from that night, and interrogating them relentlessly.”

The witnesses were the villagers of Chi Mountain Town—but they had likely been dragged off to the iron mines.

Still, Ronin knew: those peasants probably knew nothing. In the chaos of that night, all they could do was cower in their homes, trembling.

Ronin turned his attention to the participants.

Two groups: the Polant Raiders, and the five knight squads still under Corien’s command—now, technically, transferred to Toru’s authority.

Ronin frowned. “Could those five knight squads have turned?”

The knight squads belonged to Castle Wushan, not Corien’s private retainers. Knights had less motive to betray than lords.

But for years, these squads had served under Corien’s command—could there not be traitors among them?

“I must subtly warn Toru—to keep a close eye on the commanders of those squads.”

“And better still, we must capture someone from Chi Mountain Town for interrogation.”

The one who knew the truth of that night would not be an ordinary man. Ronin needed someone of status.

Carlo hovered above Chi Mountain Town, scanning the terrain, while Ronin observed the enemy knight squads’ deployments.

Most were stationed to the north—the side facing Giantrock.

Corien’s claim that defenses had not yet been erected was clearly false.

Arrow towers, ditches, even rudimentary earthen ramparts had been constructed.

Ronin fixed his gaze on several targets—but each was surrounded by guards. Snatching one would draw attention.

After repeated searches, his eyes settled on the “overseer” of the Chi Mountain Iron Mine.

Though he had “subordinates,” they carried whips, scattered across the mine, driving the miners to labor.

He, however, sat comfortably beneath a shaded pavilion outside the mine, sipping water, eating fruit.

When patrolling cavalry passed, they greeted him, bowed to him—he clearly held some rank.

“Carlo, see that man beneath the pavilion below? Can you snatch him without him noticing?”

Carlo’s massive eyes fixed on the figure. “A frail human. Master, I have no trouble.”

Ronin glanced at the sky. Hours had passed in reconnaissance. Dusk was near.

“We wait until after dark. Time it precisely—I’ll use magic to aid you.”

Ronin warned: “If he escapes, we retreat at once.”

With twilight’s cover, combined with illusion and dragon-speed, the man would not see clearly.

At that moment, Warwick, sipping water beneath the pavilion, suddenly felt a chill crawl over his skin.

“What’s this? Why do I feel so uneasy?”

He set down his cup, stepped out of the pavilion, paced several circles, then looked up at the sky.

“Hmm. It’s already late.”

He turned back toward the mine. The miners, ground down by relentless toil, had produced even less today.

But there was no help for it—whip a little harder, and you’d send a man to his grave; better to let them dig as much as they can, and only kill one or two when absolutely necessary, to scare the rest.

“The night has fallen. I’m done playing with you today.”

Warwick stretched lazily. Compared to Kirbalt and Lanivisa leading patrols, he preferred this job—after all, it was peaceful, unhurried.

“Huh? He’s leaving?”

Above, Ronin noticed with surprise that the man had mounted his horse and was riding away along the mountain path, leaving the iron mine behind.

“Perfect chance, Carlos!” Ronin whispered.

Carlos made no roar; he descended slowly, steadily, waiting until the target vanished from the miners’ sight—then surged forward in a flash.

Whoosh~

Warwick felt the wind grow louder, and a sudden alarm rang in his chest—he sensed danger drawing near.

The Silver Knight was still alert.

But before he could turn to scan his surroundings, several streaks of azure light wrapped tightly around his limbs.

“Attack?”

Before Warwick could react, Carlos opened his massive jaws and seized the horse’s head, clamping it in his mouth, then gripped Warwick—bound by the wind-tendrils—with his talons and soared upward.

In the space of a breath, they were high above.

“What… what is this thing!”

Warwick’s heart and liver seemed to shatter; his face turned ashen, and he dared not move a muscle. (End of chapter)