CHAPTER 52: THE STORY’S HERO

Half a mile away from the village stood the barony’s graveyard, a small plot of land filled with graves, the final resting place of humans and the inevitable fate none had ever escaped.

In a slightly vacant spot free of tombstones, Arthur stood silently, a sorrowful expression on his face. His gaze was fixed on a fresh grave marked with the letters: R.I.P.

His sorrow wasn’t directed at his savior, but the scene, the grave, the stone marker, and the stance he took—evoked a painful memory: the day he had buried his own parents.

Despite the profound grief, his eyes remained dry. He couldn’t shed a single tear, yet his heart wept silently. He let the emotions rise without suppression. His mind quieted, his anxieties vanished. He didn’t think about anything else, he was simply sad and deeply calm. For the first time since coming to this world, he didn’t care about anything, only that moment.

After ten long minutes standing still like a statue, he let out a soft sigh. He was finally ready to rid himself of the last obstacle in his path.

"Thank you," he offered his final words of gratitude to the one in the grave, then turned and headed back to the castle. Several arrangements had to be made, and a number of things had to be crafted, he planned to leave for a short while.

Upon his return, the very first thing he did was order the soldiers to gather enough men and equipment and head to the forest to retrieve the items they had left behind the previous night.

While seated on his chair, Octavia approached and said, "My Lord, all the census staff have gathered. They await your permission to deliver their reports."

He had been expecting this. In fact, the census had taken longer than he anticipated.

After a few minutes of waiting, twenty-eight individuals entered, each carrying thick stacks of paper in their hands—everything had been recorded.

Arthur stared at them for a moment, specifically at Orin, with his cold features and mysterious gaze, then calmly said, "You’ve exceeded the deadline I gave you."

A man in his fifties stepped forward and spoke on behalf of the group. "My Lord, we deeply apologize for our delay, but we did our utmost to produce the best results possible. Everything has been properly recorded." He raised the bundle of papers in his hand and added, "This is the fruit of my efforts, and I’m proud of it."

"What confidence you have," Arthur remarked sarcastically.

The man’s face flushed red, and he stepped back, realizing he may have boasted a little too much.

"In any case—well done."

Hearing praise from Arthur was rare, and many present were visibly surprised. Still, they quickly and politely responded, "Thank you, my Lord, for your praise. But we merely followed your orders."

’But this is far too much.’ The amount of paper the census staff carried was excessive. Naturally, Arthur didn’t have the spare time to read it all, so he had already thought of a solution.

He turned and looked at Orin with a faint smile and said calmly, "The information you’ve gathered is too much and must be organized for easier access."

"Indeed, my Lord. You have an exceptional eye," the older man flattered him.

’This man is skilled at flattery,’ Arthur thought. Without dragging it out further, he pointed at Orin and the homeless man. "You, and you, collect all the documents."

"Yes, my Lord," Orin replied with a pleasant smile, but inwardly he was cursing in frustration. He had tried to stay unnoticed throughout the entire meeting, not out of fear, but because he simply didn’t want to clash with Arthur right now. Unfortunately, it seemed Arthur didn’t share that same mindset.

As for the homeless man, he simply nodded. Swiftly, the two of them began collecting the documents from everyone present.

Arthur turned to Octavia beside him and ordered, "Prepare a large room for them, and assign someone to monitor and serve them."

Then he turned to Orin again. "You’ll both spend the night here. Divide the gathered data, organize it into tables and percentages. Naturally, it’s too complicated to explain now, so I’ll send you a detailed instruction set later. Everyone else—leave."

Orin’s mouth dropped open in shock. He was well aware of the weight of the task he’d just been assigned. He found it annoying, but he couldn’t refuse, Arthur hadn’t even given him the chance to speak. In contrast, the homeless man showed a faint smile of contentment and accepted the task with open arms.

Arthur noticed and was puzzled. ’Is he actually enjoying this? That vagrant is an odd one. What’s his story, anyway?’

Despite his curiosity, he didn’t dig further and dismissed them quickly.

After issuing strict orders to his subordinates and leaving them with his key instructions, he retreated to his room, where he spent several hours preparing. As sunset approached, he mounted the familiar brown horse and set off toward the border of the barony.

Though his followers objected to him leaving alone, he paid them no mind. And since this was his second time departing solo, Octavia accepted it more easily. Even Chadwick, whom everyone expected to strongly oppose it, didn’t object—in truth, he knew Arthur was about to do something so insane it defied imagination.

...

In a particular part of the Thorndark Forest, near the border between Thornsreach Barony and the neighboring Thistledown Barony, the ground was littered with the dismembered corpses of dozens of beasts. Blood drenched the soil beneath them.

Amid this savage scene stood a calm, unbothered young man. As if he didn’t even see the massacre surrounding him, he held in his hand a silver sword dripping with blood. In a solid voice, he muttered:

"This isn’t enough. I need more."

That person was none other than Novarian Eirnos, the protagonist of the novel Rise of the Sovereign Sword.

Just as the story described, he was incredibly handsome, his features charming, with long, soft brown hair and sky-blue eyes filled with mystery. His body was slim and athletic, his skin radiant, as if he were a prince straight out of a fairy tale.

His clothes were strange, blending nobility with barbarism. He wore a fine, soft cotton outfit in a light blue hue, over which he donned a rough black leather armor protecting his vital areas—chest, shoulders, arms, and legs. Draped from his back was a long dark-blue cloak, distinct from the robes of mages.

With utter indifference, he swung his sword powerfully, scattering the blood from it in all directions. Then, as if nothing had happened, he returned the blade to the sheath strapped to his waist and began walking forward. His steps were light and completely silent—like a wandering ghost. After traveling quite a distance, he suddenly stopped, raising an eyebrow in suspicion as he stared at a specific part of the forest.

’What’s this?’ He thought he heard something, but it didn’t take long for his suspicions to be confirmed. A faint scream echoed from the distance—growing louder by the second. He immediately realized that the source of the scream was headed his way.

He stood firm and placed his hand on his sword. Within a minute, he saw a young man in noble clothing running toward him in a frenzy, followed closely by a horde of raging monkeys and frenzied wolves. The scene was utterly bizarre.

Novarian’s face showed surprise as he swiftly prepared for combat. Meanwhile, the young man running toward him also wore a shocked expression and shouted sternly, "Run, man!"

Hmph!

Novarian gave a faint, arrogant smile and ignored the youth’s warning. He drew his sword, and at that moment, his body radiated a powerful and lethal aura that made the charging beasts hesitate for a brief moment.