Building a Kingdom and Conquering the World - Chapter 229

Chapter 229: Oben
Agusa’s sharp gaze flicked toward the furious coachman, and in that instant, everything clicked into place. This man, this wild-eyed, red-faced old ghost, must have been the owner of the Winter Eagle. The very same bird that Leier had beheaded without a second thought. The scent of its blood, dried and clinging to Agusa’s armor, must have reached him. Perhaps through some kind of magic, perhaps through nothing more than a heightened sense honed by years of training. Either way, it didn’t matter.

“Do you have any idea how much money I spent on that eagle?! You soulless mongrel!” – The old man screamed. His frail body trembled with rage, veins bulging across his wrinkled forehead. His bony hands clenched around the reins even tighter, making the horses’s hooves hit the ground.

For a moment, it seemed as if he might have a heart attack from sheer fury. But instead, he turned toward the armored soldiers standing by the ornate red carriage.

“Seize them!” – he spat – “I will have them sold as slaves when we return to the kingdom! A share will be yours!”

His words were met with silence.

The soldiers didn’t move.

Their hands remained steady on the hilts of their weapons, but none stepped forward. Instead, they exchanged glances, exhausted, indifferent. They had spent weeks enduring this old man’s barking commands, watching him pretend to be something he was not. And they were done with it.

At last, one of them spoke.

“Mister Oben.”- The voice was steady, emotionless, yet firm. A bearded knight, clad in plated armor, who carried himself with a quiet confidence, like a mountain fighting against the relentless winds. His name was Zolun – “I will repeat myself only once.”

His hand rested on the hilt of his sheathed sword, unmoving. “We are here to protect the young princess. That is our only duty. As long as she remains unharmed, we will not engage. If you wish to fight, you have your mercenaries, do you not?”

Oben’s lips curled into a snarl. “Zolun… I have served the young princess all her life! I raised her, cared for her, protected her before you ever came along! And you—you—” – His voice cracked, his trembling hand pointing at the knight, shaking with either age or anger.

Zolun remained silent. He did not look away, did not so much as flinch. He simply stood, an unwavering presence at the side of the carriage.

Seeing no hope in swaying the knights, Oben turned back to his mercenaries. His blood boiled as he surveyed the remaining fighters, no more than a dozen still standing. The others lay scattered across the rocky path, lifeless, their blood darkening the cold stone.

Before them stood Zahra, her sword dripping red, her brown hair smeared with sweat and blood. Beside her, Agusa kept his bow drawn, like a silent owl ready to prey on his victims. Though they had known each other for only a few months, they fought as on, two warriors moving in seamless rhythm, one striking, the other covering.

And despite their numbers, the mercenaries hesitated. The number of comrades lying dead on the floor was like a sign, a sign of the underworld. Oben saw it in their stances, their shuffling feet, the nervous twitches of their fingers around their weapons. Fear had already crept into their bones, settling there like a deadly illness.

His patience finally snapped.

“What are you waiting for?! Attack!” he roared, his voice shaking the cold mountain air, not like an old man.

Driven by either desperation or greed for the gold, the mercenaries let out a chorus of war cries and surged forward, their weapons raised.

Zahra reacted first.

“Cover me!” she called, already moving.

At her actions, Agusa shook her head, but raised his bow – “Always so bold.” – he was ready to cover for her.

Zahra darted low, her body a blur as she closed the gap between herself and the first attacker. The mountain pass was narrow, wide enough for only six men to stand side by side, but that played to her advantage. They couldn’t easily surround her.

A mercenary swung his sword in a heavy downward arc, but she sidestepped effortlessly, letting the steel pass just inches from her shoulder. Before he could recover, her short sword lashed out, sinking deep into his throat. His eyes widened in shock before she kicked him off her blade, sending him tumbling backward.

A sharp whistle cut through the air.

Zahra turned just in time to see an arrow bury itself between a mercenary’s eyes. One that was about to attack her. He collapsed instantly, his body twitching as blood pooled beneath him.

Agusa.

She had no time to thank him. More were coming.

Three mercenaries rushed toward her, their movements less hesitant now, sensing an opening. She wasn’t on a defensive position.

Zahra acted fast.

She twirled her sword once, then threw it. The blade spun through the air and plunged into the chest of the first man, stopping him dead in his tracks. He only had enough strength to look down and see his impaled chest.

Another arrow whistled through the air, striking the second one in the forehead, an impressive feat, but not for the most talented archer in the kingdom.

The last mercenary, too blinded by his emotions to process what had just happened, kept charging forward, unable to stop. His sword was raised, close enough to cut Zahra’s head. However, she didn’t hesitate. The moment the mercenary lunged, she pivoted on her heel, twisting her entire body into a spinning kick. Her boot slammed into the man’s face with force, caving it.

A sharp, sickening crack echoed through the narrow mountain pass, bouncing off the mountain walls. Even from their position, Henry and Leier could hear the snap of breaking bone.

The rest of the mercenaries stopped on their tracks, faltering. The number of bodies were too much to ignore. This wasn’t a fight. It was a slaughter. It was an execution ground. The will to fight drained from them like air from a punctured lung.

It was enough time for Zahra to take a deep breath. Her muscles ached, and her arms burned from exertion. She could already feel the creeping weight of fatigue slowing her movements. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep going at this pace.

She only hoped the king would arrive soon. But Oben was far from done. Still atop the carriage, the old coachman trembled with rage, twisting into something primal.

“You useless fools!” he spat. “They are just two! Kill them already!”

But the mercenaries remained frozen.

None of them moved.

Oben’s patience snapped. With a furious growl, he jerked to his feet, seizing the black leather whip at his waist. The long, coiled weapon unfurled with a sharp crack as he flicked it through the air.

“Useless!” he howled. “I will take care of it myself!”

At those words, Henry finally moved. Leier looked at him with curiosity as if asking – “You are only moving now?”

Henry rolled his shoulders, as if shaking off stiffness, his fingers tapping lightly against the hilt of his sword. A slow smirk spread across his lips.

“That old man,” he murmured, his tone amused, “is as strong as Luther.”