Chapter 403: A Difficult Journey

“Lord Anton, just ahead is Giant’s Keep. From here, it’ll take another three or four days to reach Red Plateau City,” said Strider.

“Three or four more days?!” Anton Charles, tax officer of the Barony of Eisfeld and future chief steward, felt his mental endurance reaching its limit.

As a half-elf trained from birth to be a personal attendant, Anton had certainly dreamed of one day escaping a life of servitude to wield real power on a fiefdom where he could act as he pleased. For the first thirty years of his life, he had worked tirelessly toward that goal.

But he never imagined that his master—Julian von Fantali of the Grand Duchy of Fantali—would be swayed by a bunch of bumpkins from the north, recklessly demanding a slice of borderland. And that his once-glorious dream would become this nightmare.

Why, oh why, had he agreed to introduce them to Lord Julian for a mere five hundred renals?

If time could be turned back, if everything could start over, Anton would’ve hurled their filthy money back in their faces, spat at them, and declared, “I’m not that kind of person!”

“Lord, this stretch of road is one of the better ones! Once we get to Red Plateau City and finish the formalities, just three more days and we’ll arrive at Nagrand. Then you can rest for good,” Beck said, looking perfectly innocent as he ruthlessly continued testing the poor tax officer’s already fragile nerves.

“Six more days?!” Anton couldn’t believe his ears.

They had set out from Fantali City by boat, cautiously bypassing the area affected by the Abyss Gate, and arrived at Mozhalik—the northernmost navigable city along the Benaris River. From there, the real nightmare began: traveling by horseback through mountainous paths.

To be fair, the roads weren’t bad. But Anton, who had always served as Julian’s personal attendant, had never ridden for such long stretches. His inner thighs were quickly chafed raw, blistering painfully.

If their destination had been some rich, temperate land with a thriving economy, he might have gritted his teeth and endured. But knowing that every step was taking him farther from the heart of the Empire, into savage wilderness—and that he might be stuck there for the rest of his life—made the pain all the more unbearable.

At his insistence, Wu Qingsong arranged for a carriage. But these unimproved vehicles weren’t much better on rough, unmaintained roads. The poor Lord Anton Charles felt like a rat trapped in a cage, tossed about endlessly. It seemed his life would end on this never-ending road.

He had only ever known two places: Fantali City and the capital. As Julian’s personal attendant, he had spent long periods with him in Padamia.

To him, Mozhalik already felt like a backwater. After three grueling days, they reached Heren, which was even worse. And now, heading further north to the Empire’s largest military fortress in the region—Giant’s Keep—Anton’s spirit was nearly broken.

Chaos, filth, feces, and trash everywhere. Outside the towering yet grimy fortress were lifeless soldiers who looked more like beggars, and vast slums. Not a single inn looked remotely clean. With the garrison commander having taken the army south to reinforce other fronts, there was no one to receive them.

Naturally, Wu Qingsong didn’t tell him this was because Giant’s Keep’s elite troops had all been dispatched to the Abyss Gate. What remained were second- or third-rate forces, unsupported for years. For Wu Qingsong’s purposes, this sorry sight was ideal. 

Anton could no longer imagine what those so-called “cities” ahead might look like.

“Is Red Plateau City like this too?” he asked in a trembling voice.

“Of course not!” Beck said loudly.

“That’s a relief…” Anton exhaled.

“Red Plateau is much smaller. Poorer too,” Beck added. “Hmm… about the same level of filth, after all, it can’t get more filthy than this. I’d say Red Plateau is maybe a bit livelier, since they’re under pressure from the beastkin.”

“My lord!” 

“My lord?!” 

Anton’s two aides cried out as he finally passed out.

In a flurry, the group pitched camp at a cleaner roadside spot. When Anton finally awoke, he grabbed Wu Qingsong’s hand weakly and said regretfully, “Lord Tagraedi… it seems I’ve failed Lord Julian’s expectations. Curse this frail, sickly body of mine.”

“Please don’t say that, my lord,” Wu Qingsong said with heartfelt concern. “Just focus on recovery. Leave everything else to me. If needed, I’ll go ahead to Nagrand and begin fundraising while you rest here.”

“Then I’ll leave it to you!” Anton said quickly. “Cough, cough, cough! Once I recover, I’ll catch up with you all in Nagrand.”

“In that case…” Wu Qingsong turned to Beck. “Make sure Lord Anton is well taken care of. The conditions here at Giant’s Keep are poor. Take the remaining money and find a proper place for him to rest and recuperate.”

“But—”

“Health is the priority. Lord Anton, don’t worry, leave everything to me.”

After exchanging another round of polite, performative words, Wu Qingsong finally succeeded in getting the transfer document for Red Plateau from Anton’s hands. Meanwhile, Anton successfully achieved his goal of faking an illness.

“This guy’s tougher than I thought,” Beck whispered. “I figured he’d start pretending to be sick back in Heren.”

If he’d kept pushing to go further north, they might have been forced to poison his water just to make him really sick.

“Keep a close eye on him,” Wu Qingsong said. “Do everything you can to keep him in Heren—or better yet, send him back to Mozhalik. Find out what they’re really thinking. If they start scheming, or something seems off, then when the time comes…”

“I understand,” Beck said.

“This job looks easy, but every detail matters. For Nagrand’s sake, you must stay sharp. There can be no slip-ups.”

“You can count on me, sir!”

Wu Qingsong led his group northward. After they vanished from sight, Anton suddenly jumped up from his bed.

“My lord? Are you feeling better?” Beck asked, feigning surprise.

“Cough, cough, cough! Of course not!” Anton said between coughs. “I feel awful! Can barely breathe. Must be allergic to the air here!”

“Then?”

“We’re heading south. Immediately!” Anton ordered. “And where’s the money Lord Tagraedi gave you? You think it’s proper for you to hold it? Hand it over now.”