Chapter Seven: The Ambush

A procession moved grandly from the port, passing through the Swordmaster Port’s main street and entering the old city. Ahead, the street narrowed, alleys branched in every direction, and everywhere peddlers and travelers mingled.

Carlos kept his head low, engaging in idle conversation with Koman. Augusta led the way with his own recruited retainers, clearing a path, while Grant and the apprentice knights followed behind at a measured pace on horseback.

Du Bu Yi was nowhere to be seen, but all had grown accustomed to the alchemy master, young Lord Carlos, always vanishing from sight.

The old city was densely populated, its streets filled with noise and bustle. In such chaos, it was impossible to observe one’s surroundings. Unnoticed, suddenly, Augusta at the front raised his head in alarm.

Carlos, too, sensed something amiss.

Three masked figures in black abruptly appeared at his side—assassins disguised as merchants. Turning swiftly, they brandished gleaming swords and lunged at him.

Carlos instinctively ducked, narrowly avoiding the first blade. Instantly, the second sword came within striking distance.

A knight behind him spotted the attack, forcefully spurred his horse, and raised his lance, intercepting the blow.

Augusta’s shield-bearing retainers hurried to his side, sheltering him behind their shields. Well-trained, they kept their sword points withdrawn behind the shields, taking small steps back until three shields completely protected Carlos.

But the ambush did not end so simply. Once the assassins disguised as merchants were dealt with, their true strength emerged.

Five knights clad in black steel armor and helmets appeared ahead, blocking the narrow street entirely.

Residents nearby, realizing trouble was afoot, erupted into panic, scattering like headless flies in search of refuge.

Augusta gazed coldly at the grim knights across from him.

“It’s the Black Armor Knights. You protect young Stevenson. The rest, follow me.”

The Black Armor Knights were a formidable mercenary company, famed for their outstanding individual prowess. It was said every knight in their ranks had been formally inducted as a true knight—their strength beyond question.

Carlos pressed his lips tightly, eyes fixed on the enemy.

He was not overly concerned about the frontal assault. With Augusta’s command-level abilities, dealing with five fully-armed knights would not pose much difficulty.

What worried Carlos more was the absence of other threats—those uneven clay homes nearby seemed to conceal something far more dangerous.

Even shielded, he could feel it.

Before he could utter a warning, the five Black Armor Knights raised their lances in unison, each three meters long, holding them upright. From several dozen meters away, atop a small slope, they charged down as one, lances flashing with deadly metallic gleam.

Though only five in number, their synchronized movements and the thundering hooves sounded as one. Mud from the melting snow splattered under their horses’ feet. They had clearly mastered the skills of coordinated assault—their unity not only increased their destructive power, but also exerted tremendous psychological pressure.

Augusta’s other steam guardians raised their shields, hastily forming two defensive lines ahead of him, evidently intent on blocking the knights’ charge.

In such a narrow street, it was their only option.

The hoofbeats thundered closer. At ten meters, the Black Armor Knights abruptly leveled their lances.

No time to react—the hearts of all present seemed to suffer a violent blow.

Boom! Boom!

The massive lances tore through the first shield line with ease, and the knights’ warhorses, like divine weapons descending, leaped and battered the second line.

The shield-bearers collapsed at the slightest touch.

Horses screamed and men wailed at the front of the group.

Augusta stood immovable as a tower, guarding the third line. With a mighty punch, he struck a warhorse encased in thick steel, causing it to rear and, with its rider, crash to the ground.

Battle raged up front, and meanwhile, chaos erupted behind.

The apprentice knights, trapped at the rear, were ambushed by a group of archers lying in wait.

Arrows rained down; the apprentices, lacking shields, were caught off guard—several fell wounded.

Carlos’s instructor, the dwarf Maclin, cursed under his breath, seized the arm of a dazed apprentice nearby, pulled him from his horse, and shouted, “Dismount, quickly! Do you want to be a sitting target? Groups of five—close in and break through the archers!”

With attacks at both ends, Carlos had barely time to react. Sheltered behind shields, peering through the gaps, he glimpsed a flash of green light, then dazzling brilliance.

He looked up. Dense clusters of magical spheres hovered overhead, then crashed down.

“Area magic attack!” someone shouted. “Move, quickly!”

The intimidation and destructive force of offensive area magic was all too apparent.

A green sphere struck within their ranks; an apprentice knight, unlucky enough to be hit on the arm, screamed as Carlos watched his armor dissolve, melting into a pool of green liquid under the magic’s corrosive touch.

The apprentice shrieked; his arm was ruined.

The enemy had come prepared—this ambush was no accident. A thousand thoughts flashed through Carlos’s mind as he scanned the tumultuous crowd around him.

Grant, the old groom, also searched the surroundings, and together the master and servant spotted a figure in a gray robe chanting atop a clay house—a black mage.

Grant acted first. Carlos, unwilling to wait passively, followed.

Luckily, they were in the center of the group, with room to maneuver. Dodging the incoming green magic spheres, they moved swiftly toward the mage.

The battle was now deadlocked.

At the front, Augusta, the steam guardian, and his son Koman, grappled with the well-equipped Black Armor Knights, locked in a contest of brute strength in the narrow street.

At the rear, the apprentice knights under Maclin’s command had just managed to regroup after the archers’ surprise attack, now engaging the archers at close quarters.

Yet, under the cover of the enemy’s black mage’s area magic, they remained at a disadvantage.

The ambushers had come specifically for Carlos, sparing no expense.

Carlos and Grant quickly broke from the group, advancing through a side alley toward the chanting black mage atop the clay house.

Grant’s triangular dagger protruded from his sleeve—just a few steps more and he would reach the gray-robed mage.

The old groom fixed his gaze on his prey, ready for a decisive strike.

Yet the black mage abruptly turned, flashing an eerie smile at Carlos and Grant, ceased his chanting, and drew his cloak about him, seemingly preparing to flee.

No time to think. The old groom rushed forward, dagger aimed directly at the black mage.