After the baron recounted the preceding events to the group, the halted convoy resumed its journey. Freya silently returned to her carriage, closed her eyes, and lost herself in thought. Dispatching a band of ordinary bandits with ease did not trouble her in the least. She no longer regarded the marauders of the Western Plains as human beings.
Perhaps it was the multitude of experiences she had undergone since her arrival; her character and demeanor had changed significantly, rendering her almost unrecognizable from her former self. Once, the notion of taking a life was unimaginable to her, but now she maintained a calm detachment toward everything, even human lives.
As the acts of killing multiplied, this sense of indifference deepened within her. Yet, for Freya, this transformation was not entirely negative, as survival in this world demanded such changes. She was, however, uncertain about what kind of person these changes would eventually mold her into.
The carriage rocked gently. Freya found a comfortable position, half-closed her eyes, and watched the occasional glowing seeds crushed by the wheels. No one approached her for conversation; since the incident at Green Castle, she preferred solitude for contemplation. Unless she was familiar with someone, she seldom initiated contact.
Over time, everyone grew accustomed to the second miss's newfound quietness, regarding her with a mix of reverence and awe. Soon, the convoy caught up with the two white carriages that had been waiting. The previously unconscious third miss had regained consciousness and, after expressing gratitude to the baron, they decided that his party would lead, with Chabrol's carriage following for protection.
After two more hours on the road, night fell completely. Despite the blue seeds' illumination, the path became increasingly difficult to see. Insisting on continuing could risk straying from the route.
"Let's set up camp," the baron ordered, and the convoy pulled over. No one objected to his decision. Everyone disembarked and began clearing an area with their weapons. Guards spread out on watch, while most people retrieved tents and cooking equipment, preparing to camp and cook.
The six carriages formed a semicircle, a strategic position against potential threats. Within ten minutes, two campfires blazed, casting a warm, yellow glow. People began preparing food, creating a lively atmosphere.
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Howard, sitting nearby, gently swallowed the medicine handed to him. His body was gradually recovering; although his face remained pale, he was now capable of light exercise, suggesting he would soon regain his peak strength. On the other side, the baron, wielding a cross sword, demonstrated basic moves to Erik, who watched attentively, indicating a lesson in swordsmanship.
Nick and Damstein patrolled the perimeter. Freya, cradling her cross sword, sat by the fire, watching the pot cook. Her blue eyes reflected the red flames, a hauntingly beautiful sight. Meanwhile, Chabrol's group kept to themselves, huddling around their own fire, their only sounds coming from a babbling child, contrasting with Freya's lively side.
A bowl of soup and bread was brought to Freya. The baron and Erik approached as she blew on the hot soup, savoring its aroma. Despite the lack of special seasoning, the meat's natural flavor permeated the broth, making it exceptionally delicious. The occasional breeze from the plains added to the relaxing atmosphere.
After finishing her meal, Freya stood, brushing off the dirt. Her tent, as the convoy's sole woman, was set up separately. Though night had fallen, it was not yet time for sleep. After some essential exercises in the clearing, she returned to her carriage.
In the distance, Chabrol's group also ate, but the young miss among them, holding her child, gazed curiously at Freya. She seemed torn between wanting to approach and hesitating, likely having heard of Freya's prowess. Ultimately, she retreated to her carriage without summoning the courage to engage.
Leaning against her carriage, Freya gazed at the stars twinkling in the sky and the blue glimmers in the grass, feeling an unexpected serenity. Her cross sword hung at her side, a constant companion, her body instinctively ready to draw it at a moment's notice. Since attaining knighthood, she felt her body transforming daily, her inner energy continuously unlocking her potential.
By her reckoning, she was a mid-level knight, excelling in all areas except for strength. The baron, at the peak of knighthood, surpassed her, with Howard slightly below, between mid and high levels. Given her youth, Freya knew she had much potential to harness, whereas the baron and Howard approached the twilight of their peak years.
In conversations with the baron, Freya learned that if he did not advance to a grand knight, he might remain at his current peak forever. Grand knights, she heard, viewed knights as knights viewed ordinary soldiers. She had yet to encounter a grand knight, so the difference remained abstract.
It's said that upon reaching grand knighthood, one's lifespan extends, and strength does not wane with age. "They must understand their bodies perfectly to achieve that," Freya mused, yearning for such mastery.