Chapter 46: Departure
The next day.
Reinhard woke early. The sun had yet to pierce the window, leaving the room in a heavy, charcoal gloom. He didn't light a lamp; instead, he worked by the faint, silver slivers of moonlight trickling through the glass.
He carefully wrapped the magnificent blade in strips of cloth, layer by layer. The Holy Sword. This object had to be returned to the Imperial Capital—placed in the hands of someone truly worthy of its weight. As the heir to the House of Andrew, this was the only duty he had left to perform.
Before departing, he had to bid farewell to Count Barton. Regardless of the circumstances, the Lord had taken him in during his most wretched hour. He could not, in good conscience, vanish without expressing his gratitude.
With the wrapped blade slung across his back, Reinhard pushed open the door.
Something was wrong.
The atmosphere within the castle had shifted. It was too quiet. Usually, at this hour, the corridors hummed with the soft rhythm of servants starting their day—the patter of footsteps, hushed murmurs, the distant clink of porcelain. Today, there was only a chilling, hollow silence.
Reinhard walked down the corridor toward the main keep. At a corner, two maids carrying trays approached from the opposite direction. The moment they spotted him, they ducked their heads, pressing their bodies tight against the stone wall. They practically crawled along the wainscoting, scurrying past him at a frantic pace. Not once did they look up; it was as if they were terrified to even acknowledge his existence.
Reinhard stopped and looked back. They had already vanished around the bend. He frowned and continued forward.
A squad of patrolling guards appeared. Their demeanor had changed as well. Gone was the relaxed, routine air of a morning patrol. Every man had his hand clamped onto his sword hilt. As they passed Reinhard, their gazes locked onto him in unison—not with respect, but with a naked, piercing scrutiny. He could feel the tension; if he made a single sudden movement, their blades would clear their scabbards in a heartbeat.
It wasn't until Reinhard was far down the hall that the feeling of needles pricking his back finally subsided.
"Hey, did you hear? The Count has been locked in his study since last night."
"He won't see anyone. The Knight Commander went to report on the city defenses and was screamed at through the door."
"I brought breakfast this morning... the door cracked open for a second. I saw the Count's eyes... gods, they were bloodshot, red as a demon's."
"Keep your voice down! Do you want to lose your head? Old John from the cleaning crew is sitting in the dungeon right now just for lingering in the hallway!"
The whispered fragments of conversation drifted from a half-open storage room. Reinhard paused. Everyone in the castle was acting like a cornered animal.
He quickened his pace, heading straight for the top floor of the keep—the Count's study.
Two fully armed "Shadow Guards" stood at the entrance. Their armor was of far higher quality than the standard infantry, and their halberds gleamed with a cold, predatory light. They were the Count's personal shadows, answering only to him.
As Reinhard approached, one guard stepped forward. The butt of his halberd slammed onto the stone with a resonant thud, barring the way.
"Halt," the guard said. His voice was devoid of human warmth, flat and hard as a paving stone.
Reinhard looked him in the eye. "I have matters to discuss with the Count."
The guard's response was immediate and final. "By the Count's order: he sees no one today."
"Not even for a minute?" Reinhard pressed, his tone hardening.
"Nothing until tomorrow. Leave."
The air between them grew taut with friction. Just then, a voice drifted from behind the heavy oak doors.
"Let him in."
It was Count Barton.
The guard blinked, seemingly surprised by the command, but he didn't hesitate. He pulled back his halberd and stepped aside with his companion, leaving a narrow gap just wide enough for one person to pass.
Reinhard entered. The door clicked shut behind him instantly.
The study was a tomb. The curtains were drawn tight, sealing out every ray of morning sun. The hearth had long since gone cold, leaving nothing but grey ash. The only light came from the thin, meager slivers bleeding through the gaps in the drapes, barely sketching the outlines of the furniture. The air was thick with the acrid, lingering scent of burnt parchment.
Count Barton wasn't sitting behind his desk, the seat of his power. He stood by the window, his back turned to the door, as motionless as a statue. Reinhard noticed that the Count's right hand was resting on a small, pre-loaded hand-crossbow on the windowsill. The bolt was aimed directly toward the entrance.
"Speak," Barton said. He didn't turn around. His voice carried a jagged edge of paranoia and cold defensiveness.
Reinhard walked to the center of the room, stopping five paces from the desk. He offered a perfect, courtly bow to the Count's back.
"My Lord Count, I intend to depart for the Imperial Capital immediately. I have come to bid you farewell and to thank you for the refuge and care you have provided me these past weeks."
Barton's body visibly jolted. Reinhard saw the Count's grip on the crossbow loosen slightly.
Slowly, the Count turned. In the gloom, Reinhard finally saw his face. The man who had always radiated majesty and composure was now a wreck of exhaustion, his eyes indeed burning a frantic, bloodshot red. Barton's gaze traveled over Reinhard inch by inch, from his hair to the soles of his boots, as if searching for a hidden dagger.
"To the Capital?" Barton asked slowly. "Why?"
Reinhard answered without hesitation. "The Holy Sword must be returned. Only there can its true value be realized for the sake of the Empire."
"Is this your own thought?" Barton narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping to a suspicious hiss. "Or did someone... suggest this course of action to you?"
"It is my decision alone," Reinhard said, meeting the Count's gaze squarely. "The Hero Leon entrusted the blade to me. As the heir of the House of Andrew, it is a duty I must fulfill."
The Count fell silent. For a full minute, the only sound was the jagged breathing of two people in a dark room. It felt as though Barton was using that minute to weigh the very soul behind Reinhard's words.
Finally, the Count let out a long, shuddering exhale. The tension drained from his shoulders. He stepped away from the window, circling the desk to collapse into his wide chair.
"Go, then," Barton said, his voice saturated with a hollow sense of powerlessness. "Jade Territory is no longer safe."
Reinhard's heart sank. "Is the undead legion coming?"
"No." Barton shook his head, glancing toward the door. "Something far more troublesome than a siege has already arrived."
At those words, a cold spike of anxiety pierced Reinhard's chest. The letters his mother had left behind—they were still in the hidden basement.
As if reading the boy's mind, Barton raised a weary hand. He pulled a drawer open and tossed a small, grey cloth bag embroidered with complex silver runes across the desk.
"Take it."
Reinhard caught it instinctively. The fabric felt strange—cool and humming with a faint vibration.
"A Spatial Pouch. It responds to your Mana. The capacity isn't massive, but it's enough to hold your 'treasures.' Whatever you haven't packed, put it in there."
Reinhard gripped the pouch tight.
"Go. As fast as you can. And do not come back."
Barton closed his eyes, leaning back as if he lacked the strength to utter another syllable. The words sounded like an expulsion—cold and heartless—but Reinhard heard the underlying truth. This wasn't a command from a Lord; it was a final act of protection from an elder using the last of his strength to shield a youth.
Reinhard tucked the pouch into his tunic and offered one last deep bow to the silent Count. "I will return."
Barton's eyes remained closed, but the corner of his mouth quirked into a ghost of a smile. "You and your stubborn father... you truly are two of a kind."
The same obstinacy. The same naivety. And just as... impossible to truly dislike.
By noon, Reinhard had returned to his room in the guest wing. He wasted no time. He activated the Spatial Pouch with a thread of his newly awakened Mana and hurried to the small courtyard where his mother had lived.
Inside the basement, he worked with meticulous care. He took the thick stack of envelopes and gifts—each one carrying the weight of his mother's love and foresight—and placed them one by one into the pouch. Only when the shelves were bare did he allow himself a breath of relief.
He returned to his room, packing a few changes of clothes, his remaining dried meat, and a waterskin. Finally, he stowed his old training sword and the cloth-wrapped Holy Sword into the spatial dimensions of the bag.
Everything was ready.
Following Count Barton's instructions, he avoided the main gates and the guarded side entrances. He crossed the courtyard, circling to the northern side where the castle's architecture was most labyrinthine. Relying on his familiarity with the grounds, he ghosted past the patrols.
Beneath the northern watchtower sat a nondescript, weathered door. It was short and old, usually reserved for kitchen waste and heavy debris—a door no one looked at twice.
In the shadows beside it stood a guard Reinhard had never seen before. The man wore a standard uniform, but his posture was perfect, his eyes sharp and analytical. He was clearly no ordinary sentry.
The man saw Reinhard approach. He didn't interrogate him. He didn't even speak. He simply gave a microscopic, almost imperceptible nod as Reinhard reached the door. Then, he reached out and slid back the heavy iron bolt.
Creaaak—
Reinhard stepped out, finally leaving the stifling atmosphere of the castle behind. The door clicked shut behind him instantly.
He consulted his map, found the road leading to the Imperial Capital, and began to walk.
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