A week had passed since leaving the City of Gath, and Alaric and Byron were about to enter the no-man's land that skirted the border between the human kingdom and the demon territories. A few days prior, Byron had warned Alaric that tails were following them, which Alaric had expected—no tails would have been more concerning.
Within Count Reed's jurisdiction, assaulting Alaric in the woods was risky; a sighting by villagers could increase the trackers' workload. Thus, throughout the week, there was an uneasy truce between them.
The merchants who had dispatched the tails had a plan: kill Alaric and take over if possible, or follow him to the drop-off point and then claim the route for themselves. Unfortunately for them, Byron didn't share that sentiment, having had enough of hiding beneath the black tarp.
Even a clay figure has its fire, let alone a skeleton. Even if Byron had a penchant for darkness, lying in a cramped wagon for a week was more than enough to grate on his nerves. He signaled to Alaric to slow down, letting their pursuers catch up.
Half an hour later, several riders gradually closed in from behind.
They hadn't intended to strike on the journey there, being adventurers unfamiliar with the ins and outs of smuggling operations. If possible, killing Alaric on his return trip would be ideal—as payment would be immediate, and the details of the smuggling exchange would be revealed.
But this slightly overweight middle-aged merchant seemed to be tired of living, arrogantly slowing down his carriage. The followers felt insulted, itching to give this fool a lesson.
As the distance shrunk to less than fifty meters, two riders charged forward, and the leading adventurer nocked an arrow, going for his practiced power shot aimed at Alaric’s back.
"Ding~"
Accompanied by the crisp sound of metal striking metal, the lethal iron arrow was deflected, much to the surprise of the lead adventurer, who saw the man rise from the wagon. His face was expressionless, yet it channeled a killing intent.
"I thought we had a real problem here, but it turns out you've chosen your muscle wisely. No wonder you were dragging your feet."
Another rider spoke up, "Boss, let's just finish him off and fulfill the contract."
Indeed, killing Alaric would fulfill the contract, albeit not perfectly.
The other merchants had a simple principle—I might not make a profit, or even take a loss, but you can't profit either. If I can't partake in this lucrative smuggling venture, then the table might as well be flipped—I don't get to eat, nobody does.
Alaric turned around with a cold sneer, hurling insults as if they were free, "Hah, I wondered who it could be. Turns out, it's just a couple of Ralf’s lapdogs. Is his crap that delicious? Or is he just scared of being outdone by me? Why doesn't he send Marcus and Helen over, huh?"
Marcus and Helen were among the top-ranked warriors and mages in the Count Reed dominion—one at level twenty-one, the other at twenty. Though not nobles, they were among the upper crust in the City of Gath—nobody declined to acknowledge their immense power. Aside from a few elites in the count's personal guard, they were the strongest individuals in the city.
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Two more riders approached, revealing their identities under their cloaks. The lead man spoke, "Seems like Mr. Alaric was wishing for our company at this little gathering."
Alaric's face, flush from shouting, went pale. "Impossible. Ralf couldn’t afford either of you! Not even with Nick's help!"
"Who said it's just the two of them, Mr. Alaric? Since you're about to die anyway, it won't hurt to tell you—ten merchants have pooled their resources to put a price on your head, and that's why we're here," a sultry female voice chimed in.
Byron stood in the wagon, calmly looking back at the ashen-faced Alaric and said, "Curb your tongue next time, jinx."
Alaric was lost in despair, whispering, "Is there really a 'next time'?"
Byron glanced at him scornfully, "You drive. I'll handle this."
Byron's confidence wasn't unfounded. Though his level was eighteen, below that of Marcus and Helen, after regaining his memories, he'd acquired a special talent called [Whole Soul], which allowed him to recall all the skills he knew in life, including his family's swordsmanship.
Skeletons were naturally stronger than humans at the same level, but on the battlefield, skeletons were fodder, mowed down en masse because they lacked technique, flailing like toddlers in a tiff.
But there wasn't that impending sense of a chaotic brawl on Byron. Instead, he possessed the poise of a martial arts master. He set aside his ordinary iron sword and slowly drew what was lauded as the finest in Little River Village, the sword v3.012, assuming his stance against the four adversaries.
With the skeleton physique, family sword technique, and Little River's finest sword v3.012, Byron believed he could take on Marcus and Helen.
And the other two no-name riders around levels thirteen? There was always the level sixteen Slime.
Byron instructed Alaric, "Drive on, don’t look back. I'll catch up."
The merchant's pallid complexion flashed with excitement, "So it's happening?"
"Yes," Byron affirmed, "Once they’re taken care of, I'll be right behind you."
Byron sheathed his sword, unstrapped the fastest horse from the three-horse cart, mounted it with grace—it was his favorite skeletal horse, after all.
Alaric pressed forward without looking back, while Byron, now on horseback, wheeled around to confront the four.
"You’ve got a fresh face. New here? You probably haven’t seen what we’re capable of, hahaha," taunted Marcus, spurring his horse faster.
"Planning a one-on-four, are you?" Helen called out, amused.
"Yes, myself alone," Byron replied.
After all, a skeleton knight needn’t adhere to chivalric codes. Deceive if necessary, ambush if beneficial.
The remaining two riders—Ralf’s hounds—were ignored by both parties. Lacking the levels of Marcus and Helen and riding inferior steeds, they simply followed behind.
Ahead, Marcus and Byron clanged swords in the first exchange.
"Clang!" The resounding metal echo spread across the desolate plains. Seizing on Byron's apparent distraction, Helen let loose a barrage of fireballs while Ralf's hounds shot arrows from afar.
"You have power, but you're still outclassed," Marcus bragged.
Byron brushed off the taunt. Behind him, fireballs and arrows whizzed closer. Pretending to falter, Byron reversed direction, dodging back and letting the assaults hit nothing but air.
Unfazed by their missed opportunity, the group didn't show disappointment; it would have been a joke if Byron couldn’t withstand even a single encounter.
Soon the second round commenced. Swords clashed frequently, with Marcus breathing steady and striking fiercely. At first, Byron held his own, parrying blow upon blow, but gradually he became harried, their mounts circling in place.
Distant fireballs, ice arrows, and regular arrows approached rapidly. Byron pushed Marcus away and struck several times, shattering the ice arrows while blocking standard arrows, sidestepping to send the fireballs astray.
Marcus’s sword came at him again, and Byron, momentarily overwhelmed, took a hit to the shoulder. Marcus then besieged Byron with a flurry of attacks, pinning him down. Another wave of ranged attacks neared, and the scales of victory seemed to tip towards Marcus.