Chapter 44

Outside the tent, a servant stood patiently, awaiting permission to enter. His attire was plain yet well-kept. With a respectful bow, he called for Uril's attention.

"My liege, I have urgent matters to report."

"Enter," Uril's voice responded, firm and commanding.

The flap of the tent rustled as the servant entered, his expression solemn yet professional. He approached Uril with a sense of deference, bowing his head respectfully before delivering his report.

"My lord," the servant began, "I bring news of the casualties from the recent attack." He paused briefly, collecting his thoughts before continuing.

"We have lost approximately thirty-seven soldiers in the skirmish, with another twenty-eight wounded, some critically."

Uril's brow furrowed at the grim statistics, but he remained composed, silently absorbing the information.

The servant pressed on, his voice carrying a note of concern.

"Furthermore, we have identified a total of fifty-three soldiers who were exposed to the poisonous smoke during the raid. Their conditions vary, but several are in dire need of medical attention."

"Out of 110 recruits, all of them have-"

Before the servant could relay the next part of his report, Uril raised a hand to silence him.

The sudden interruption caught him off guard, his expression briefly reflecting confusion before he glanced around the tent, taking note of John, Alex, and the unconscious man.

Understanding then dawned on him as he realized the significance of Uril's gesture.

With a nod of comprehension, he swiftly moved on to the next segment of his report, his voice steady despite the weight of the information he bore.

"Regarding the current state of our garrisoned troops," the servant continued, his tone measured. "Out of the three hundred soldiers stationed within the campsite prior to the attack, only two hundred and sixty-three remain."

He paused, his gaze briefly meeting Uril's before continuing.

"Of those, eighty-one have sustained injuries from the skirmish or have been affected by the poisonous smoke, rendering them unable to fight."

Uril's jaw clenched visibly as he absorbed the grim reality of the situation.

The loss of nearly a third of their garrisoned troops was a heavy blow, one that would undoubtedly affect their ability to defend against potential future attacks.

"One hundred and eighty-two able men," Uril muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with frustration and resolve.

“What of Sir Kizinger?” he then asked.

The servant promptly relayed the information at hand. "Sir Kizinger has retired to his personal quarters following his assistance during the raid," he reported dutifully.

Uril nodded, acknowledging the update before posing his next question. "And what of his opinion regarding the poison cloud?" he inquired, his brow furrowing with concern.

The servant hesitated for a moment before responding, "His eminence has not made any statements regarding the matter. However, it appears that he, like the rest of us, is unable to counteract the effects of the poison."

"A pity," Uril muttered, his expression reflecting a mixture of disappointment and resignation. "See to it that the wounded are tended to immediately," he instructed, his voice firm with authority.

"Continue to explore potential solutions to neutralize the poison."

The servant nodded in acknowledgment, understanding the gravity of his lord's commands.

However, the servant had one more report to tell as he gestured for the other servants outside to bring in something. Uril watched intently, his curiosity piqued as he observed the others hauling in a dead body.

This body belonged to a soldier from the Byzantine side, still fully armored and adorned with a helmet that bore a conspicuous hole.

It was laid out before Uril's feet, the evidence of violence evident in the gruesome wound that marred the soldier's head. Uril's gaze narrowed as he examined the hole, his mind racing with questions about the nature of the injury.

But he wasn’t the only one observing the body, 621 still feigning ignorance at the side, was also watching. His gaze was palpable, suffused with an eerie curiosity wondering what the others might discover from his own handiwork.

"The scouts have discovered approximately 30 enemy bodies deep within the forest," the servant continued, his voice tinged with unease. "Each one bears similar wounds."

The servant gulped as he continued to relay a gruesome imagery, “Some had missing heads and limbs.”

Uril's brows furrowed in consternation as he pondered the implications of this discovery. "Who or what could have inflicted such injuries?" he mused aloud, directing his query at the servant who appeared equally perplexed.

The servant shook his head, his expression reflecting his lack of answers. "I cannot say, my lord," he admitted, his voice tinged with frustration. "It remains a mystery, those bodies were merely discovered after tracking the enemies escape route."

Uril's brow furrowed as he bent down to inspect the dead body's injury. "This is no ordinary wound," he commented, his voice tinged with concern. "It seems too precise, too deliberate."

The servant nodded in agreement, his expression reflecting a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. "Indeed, my lord," he agreed. "It suggests a methodical approach, a calculated strike."

Uril's gaze drifted, his mind racing with possibilities. "But who could have executed such precise attacks?" he wondered aloud, his tone laced with uncertainty.

"Could it be?" he murmured, his voice heavy with uncertainty. “A rogue cultivator?”

The moment those words were said, an amused expression seemed to cross 621’s hidden features as he listened intently with suppressed mockery. He found it truly fascinating how the others are perceiving his remnant tracks.

Meanwhile, the servant stood by in silence, his expression reflecting a mix of concern and intrigue as he awaited Uril's next command.

“Call Sir Kizinger immediately! We must get to the bottom of this” he ordered the servant who briefly nodded in understanding before swiftly departing to carry out the order.

Moments later, the tent flap rustled as 621 identified an elderly individual with a long grey beard entering with a lofty air.

"Old friend, you called?" the individual inquired, his voice rich with wisdom as he surveyed the scene before him.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Uril turned to face this man, his expression serious and contemplative. "Indeed, Sir Kizinger," he replied, his tone grave.

"We have a matter of grave importance to discuss, as you can see."

Kizinger's gaze followed Uril's, falling upon the dead body at their feet. His brows furrowed in concern as he took in the sight before him. "A troubling discovery, indeed," he remarked, his voice tinged with solemnity.

Uril nodded in agreement, his eyes fixed on the latter. "I fear we may be dealing with a rogue cultivator," he confessed, his voice laden with concern.

"Is that so?" Kizinger mused.

"It's only an assumption" Uril began, "the precision and peculiarity of the injury this body holds suggests a level of skill beyond that of an ordinary soldier.”

From the side, 621 instantly recognized this person named ‘Kizinger’ as the individual wielding the water arts during the attack, he couldn’t distinguish before due to distance but upon closer inspection he was now certain of his suspicions.

Kizinger nodded in understanding as his weathered hands hovered over the gaping hole in the soldier's helmet, his touch gentle yet deliberate. His fingers traced the edges of the wound, his brow furrowing in concentration as he closed his eyes, seeking to discern the subtle energies lingering within.

Uril patiently watched; his gaze fixed on Kizinger with uncertainty. The tent fell silent, the only sound was the soft rustle of fabric as the bearded scholar’s robes shifted with his movements.

After a moment of silent contemplation, Kizinger spoke, his voice barely above a whisper yet carrying the weight of revelation. "This...," he murmured, his words tinged with a degree of certainty, "is indeed the work of a cultivator."

Uril's breath caught in his throat at the confirmation, "Traces of Qi?" he questioned, his tone laced with concern.

Kizinger nodded solemnly, his expression intrigued. "Yes," he confirmed, "there are faint remnants of Qi surrounding the wound."

A furrow deepened on his brow as he continued his examination, his features etched with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. "But," he added, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the right words, "I am not familiar with this particular type of energy."

“Oh?”, 621 mused internally as he watched the tirade occurring in front of him.

"Energy? What do you mean?" Uril pressed, his voice tinged with apprehension.

Kizinger offered a simple explanation, his hand idly stroking his lengthy beard as he spoke. "Elemental affinity," he clarified, his tone measured. "It would seem that our mysterious cultivator possesses a rare aptitude."

His eyes sparkled with a hint of fascination. "How interesting…"

Despite that, Uril's concern only grew at Kizinger's nonchalant response. "Does that suggest danger?" he questioned, his voice betraying his unease.

Uril knew all too well the destructive potential of those with mastery over Qi, and the thought of such power being unleashed on their battlefield filled him with dread. In fact, the only reason as to why he remained confident despite the heavy loss at hand was due to the presence of the individual in front of him.

Kizinger remained impassive, his gaze steady as he considered Uril's question. "Possibly," he conceded, his tone neutral. It was clear that his concern for the safety of the camp was secondary to his fascination with the enigmatic cultivator.

Rising to his feet, Kizinger regarded Uril with a calm demeanor, a faint smile playing at his lips. "To my understanding, old friend, cultivators are rarely concerned with the mundane battles of ordinary humans," he remarked, his voice reassuring.

"Aside from the empire’s emissaries, it is unlikely that such a foe would deign to involve themselves in such affairs." His words carried an air of confidence, as if to assure Uril of his safety. "Rest assured, dear friend," he added, his smile widening. "And remember, I am still here."

Kizinger then glanced around the tent, his gaze landing on the injured recruit, to Alex and finally onto 621 before shifting towards Uril. With a final nod, he took his leave, his departure leaving Uril to wrestle with his doubts.

But Uril wasn't one to be easily convinced as he turned to the servant with a steely gaze. "Investigate the forest," he ordered, his voice firm.

"Find this rogue cultivator's tracks."

….

621 and Alex followed after a soldier under the considerations of Uril. They were currently in the process of getting assigned a station. His mind, however, was preoccupied with thoughts and questions.

Kizinger's words echoed in his mind.

The soldier's voice faded into the background as he delved deeper into his thoughts. The idea that cultivators rarely involved themselves in the affairs of ordinary humans seemed both plausible and paradoxical to him.

On one hand, 621 understood that the cultivation world operated on a different plane of existence, governed by its own rules and hierarchies. But on the other hand, he also understood that the lines between the mundane and the extraordinary were often blurred, especially in times of conflict and chaos.

As he pondered this, 621 couldn't help but feel a sense of irony. Here he was, a cultivator, masquerading as a recruit and involving himself in the affairs of ordinary soldiers. It was a circumstance that directly contradicted Kizinger’s words.

“Here you are.”

The soldier's announcement snapped 621 out of his thoughts, bringing him back to the present moment. He surveyed their surroundings, noting the white tent before them and the ragged men within. These soldiers seemed weathered and worn, each clad in dirtied armour and engrossed in various activities.

Some were sharpening their dulled blades causing the sound of metal against stone to fill the air with a rhythmic cadence. Others were seated on makeshift stools, hunched over bowls of broth or gnawing on scraps of bread.

A couple of them were tending to their gear, adjusting straps and buckles or inspecting their weapons for any signs of damage. And in one corner, two of the men were slumped over, fast asleep, their snores blending with the ambient noise of the camp.

As the trio entered, the men glanced up briefly, casting curious or indifferent looks at the newcomers before returning to their tasks.

One of the men, a middle-aged fellow with a bushy mustache sporting a buzzcut, glanced up and regarded them with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.

"Who are these two?" he inquired the soldier, his voice gruff and blunt.

The soldier, seemingly amused by the man's reaction, introduced with a hint of mischief in his tone. "Your new members," he declared, gesturing towards 621 and Alex.

This caused the mustached man's eyebrows to shoot up in disbelief. "You can't be serious," he protested, his tone incredulous.

"I recall asking for men and certainly not two twigs."

The soldier, unfazed by the man's outburst, reiterated his statement. "I'm serious," he insisted, his voice firm. "They're survivors from the slaughtered recruits. Baron Uril's orders."

The mustached man's expression shifted, a mixture of surprise and resignation crossing his features. He glanced between 621 and Alex before sighing heavily. "To Hell with management," he muttered under his breath.

"Fine, bring them in."

With that, the soldier ushered 621 and Alex further into the tent, where the ragged soldiers continued their various tasks.

"Alright, you two," the mustached man addressed 621 and Alex, his voice gruff yet commanding. "Go on, introduce yourselves."

Alex glanced at 621, seemingly seeking reassurance, before tentatively speaking up. "I'm Alex... Grant," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

On the other hand, 621, still adopting his alias, stepped forward confidently. "I'm John Smith, from Ingla," he declared, offering a polite nod.

“Good men”, the man nodded in acknowledgment before gesturing towards the other members in the tent. "My name’s Barnes and these are the boys," he said, introducing each of them in turn.

"You've got Bull over there," he said, pointing to a burly man with weathered features and a scar across his cheek. Bull merely glanced in response, acknowledging the newcomers with a curt nod.

"Next to him is Rook," Barnes continued, indicating a wiry individual with keen eyes and a quick, darting gaze. Rook gave a brief nod of greeting before returning his attention to the whetstone in his hand.

"Then we have Mouse," Barnes said, gesturing towards a slender figure huddled in the corner, seemingly lost in thought. Mouse offered a shy smile in return, his demeanor cautious yet friendly.

"Over there's Hawk," Barnes went on, pointing to a lean man with sharp features and a predatory air about him. Hawk regarded the newcomers with a calculating gaze, his eyes flickering with a hint of curiosity.

"And finally, that's Sarge," Barnes concluded, indicating a grizzled veteran with a stern countenance and a no-nonsense demeanor. Sarge merely grunted in acknowledgment, his attention focused on the task of sharpening his blade.

"Well, that’s everyone," Barnes said, turning back to John and Alex. “Welcome to the 20th Contubernium of the 3rd Centuria, C3C20 in short” he said with a big smile.

“What’s that?” John asked.

“Oh, I almost forgot that you’re a recruit” Barnes sighed in understanding.

“It’s simply our squad code, Contubernium is a tent group and a Centuria consists of ten tent groups, do you follow?” Barnes deliberated.

John nodded in response.

“Good, and just for reference kid, there’s about 24 contuberniums and 3 Centurias in this camp site” Barnes paused as if thinking of something, “Actually, scrap that, I doubt there’s that many now.”

“Just our luck…” the man named Hawk grumbled silently at the side, though it was loud enough for them to hear.

“Don’t mind ‘im” Barnes mused, “He’s a chatty fool” he then remarked, prompting Sarge to grunt as if agreeing with that statement.

“Anyways, if you’re curious,” Barnes continued, “there’s usually eight or ten men in a tent group and with you two added to the ranks, our contubernium is now complete once again.”

“We had two casualties during the raid you see” Barnes mentioned with some degree of grief. “May Adam and Eve bless their souls,” the mustached man prayed.

“Oh please," Hawk muttered, "they died a pitiful death, the cheap bastards, all Bull’s fault” he chimed in sneakily causing the burly man to look at him with underlying intensity.

“Hey! Hawk, can’t you be quiet for once?” Barnes complained with a mean look before he regarded the bulky individual with an equal glance, “And Bull stand down man, don’t start shit again.”

Barnes heaved a deep sigh in an effort to calm himself before he glanced back to John and Alex with a contemplative look,

“You two any good at hunting?”