Across the vast wilderness, winding among undulating mountains, lay a narrow, long road like a great serpent.
The Magur Trade Route.
This ancient trade route had been worn down by countless passing merchants over thousands of years. It had once been the vital artery connecting the Principality of Lakeman with the Principality of Bosque, an indispensable thoroughfare for goods and supplies, its surface scarred by the marks of passing ages.
"Tell the ones in front to pick up the pace!"
"If we can't deliver on time, the higher-ups will have our heads!"
A middle-aged man's gruff voice drifted out from the most luxurious passenger carriage, upon the front of which was an emblem of flame and a vertical-slit pupil.
A caravan of well over a hundred carriages rumbled hurriedly along the ancient road, piled high with goods from the Kingdom of Cinders. Flanking both sides were several hundred fully armored hobgoblin soldiers standing guard—this was the "Free Trade Caravan" led by Hart, a massive merchant convoy that officially represented the Kingdom of Cinders.
The caravan was infamous across the nations of the Northlands, yet countless commoners flocked to it eagerly. They dumped massive quantities of cheap wares onto the market, driving Scanians who had never laid eyes on decent goods to willingly hand over their gold and silver.
"Whoosh—"
A freezing gust howled past, fluttering the carriage curtains.
Inside the luxurious carriage, Count Hart could not help exhaling a puff of sulfurous hot air. As a noble coursing with searing dragon blood, he despised this biting, freezing weather.
"Damn northern squalls."
"Once His Majesty unites Anzeta, I must find a way to take my business south. The weather here is absolute misery."
Hart rubbed his scale-covered chin, murmuring to himself.
At the very front of the caravan, Old John guided his wagon along the road. The wind made his gaunt frame shiver, and he pulled his padded coat tightly around himself to shield his weather-beaten old bones.
"May the Lord of Cinders protect us..."
"Let everything go smoothly this time, too."
Looking toward the endless road ahead, Old John muttered under his breath.
Among the merchants, His Majesty the King was spoken of as if possessing divine power to bestow luck; how else could they have made fortunes in just a few short years while driving the merchants of other northern nations into utter despair?
Over time, drivers like Old John had grown accustomed to offering prayers whenever setting out. It was not out of deep devotion, but simply a habit to pray for safety.
Old John had been born a serf as well.
In his twenties, he had been sold into a caravan as a traveling merchant slave. Later, that caravan was captured by the kingdom's army, and its leader was publicly beheaded.
Yet Old John was fortunate: not only did he gain his freedom, but his familiarity with the trade routes also earned him work as a wagon driver.
"Old man, how much longer until we arrive?"
A girl's head suddenly popped out of the carriage. She looked about eight or nine years old, sporting the little braids that had recently become popular in the kingdom, and her eyes sparkled with mischievous energy.
"Misha, didn't I tell you to stay inside the wagon?"
John took on a stern expression, tapping the girl lightly on the head with the butt of his whip.
"Hmph, fine, don't tell me then."
Rubbing her head, the girl retreated back into the wagon in a huff.
She had originally been "merchandise" in a northern noble's slave caravan, rescued and adopted by John, who named her Misha. Having no children of his own, Old John treated the girl like his flesh-and-blood granddaughter, using every coin of his meager wages to send her to school.
Yet Misha was perpetually unruly. She had sneaked into the caravan by hiding among the cargo, giving Old John a massive headache.
Old John urged the horses onward, muttering under his breath, "I told you time and again, traveling trade isn't child's play! Bandits or monsters along the way could cost you your life!"
"We have the kingdom's elites protecting us, so what's there to worry about? Hehe, since I'm already here, just let me see the world a bit. Besides, I came to keep you company!"
"Sigh..."
Old John let out a long sigh and shook his head. This naughty girl always left him helpless, yet warmed his heart despite himself.
Looking at the road extending into the distance, he furrowed his brows slightly.
"Something seems off about the Magur Trade Route today..."
"It's far too quiet."
Experienced as he was, John noticed the abnormality at once. Magur was among the busiest trade routes in the Northlands. Normally, other merchant caravans would be traveling back and forth along it, but today there was only their own.
*Hopefully it's just a coincidence,*
Old John thought to himself.
He was merely a lowly wagon driver, with no authority to decide the caravan's course of action; everything had to follow Lord Hart's orders.
After all, across the Great Anzetta Waste, aside from mindless beasts, no one would be so blind as to provoke a caravan from the Kingdom of Cinders—and wild beasts posed no real threat anyway.
The horses in the caravan grew restless. Old John's brow tightened instantly, and his lips twitched.
"Wait, what is..."
The ground was trembling.
A rapid, thundering crescendo of hooves echoed across the waste.
Old John turned his head in panic—
Countless cavalry were plunging down from the ridge of the slopes, charging wildly across the land. Polished armor and gleaming lance tips formed an iron torrent across the wilderness, with lion banners billowing in the wind.
"For the Principality of Bosque!"
"For the order of the Northlands!"
Such battle cries echoed from the distance.
That was the most elite heavy cavalry in the Northlands—the household troops of House Bosque!
"Enemy attack!"
"It's the Principality of Bosque!"
"Where do they get the nerve? They're declaring war on the kingdom!"
"Damn it, this has to be premeditated!"
The caravan erupted into chaos instantly. Shouts and curses collided in a cacophony that left John dizzy.
Old John turned toward the wagon behind him. Though drenched in sweat, he strove to remain calm, speaking in a low, urgent voice into the carriage: "Misha, promise me, don't come out.
"Remember, no matter what happens, do not step outside!"
Before he could finish, a hobgoblin soldier dragged him roughly away.
After a moment of pandemonium, the caravan scrambled into defensive formation under Hart's command, and as part of the convoy, Old John was pulled into supporting the line as well.
Hart rushed to the front lines himself, pointing at the charging cavalry and shouting furiously, "Shoot them full of holes!"
*Bang! Bang! Bang!*
The hobgoblin soldiers leveled their long guns and unleashed volley after volley of lead shot, cutting down dozens of armored horsemen in an instant.
This tactic had previously proved invincible, allowing them to walk unchallenged across the Northlands, but now an unavoidable vulnerability showed itself.
The cavalry were simply too numerous, and nearly all were Bosque elites, while the hobgoblins lacked any cover. Charging fearlessly, the riders soon trampled over their comrades' bodies to close the distance, impaling hobgoblins through the chest with lances and lopping off their heads with sabers.
The hobgoblins, in turn, fixed bayonets and took up spears, hacking off horses' legs or skewering the riders atop them.
Cries of "For the Kingdom of Cinders!" and "For the Principality of Bosque!" rang out incessantly.
The brutal slaughter had begun.
The deafening crack of gunfire, the wet thud of spear points piercing flesh, the thunder of hooves, wails of agony, and bloodcurdling roars tore through the battlefield, weaving together into a grim melody drenched in blood.
Chapter 299