Chapter Sixty-Six: The Birth of Two Heroes

On Seaside Avenue in the Dunkirk harbor district, Baron Milor stood hunched amid chaos, his face as mournful as if he'd lost his parents. Several loyal knights in heavy armor guarded him closely, and even a sorcerer in a black cloak, with mysterious hexagonal symbols embroidered on his sleeves, stood silently by.

Countless torches lit this stretch of the avenue. Four black chargers, blown to pieces, lay scattered, their flesh and blood strewn across a hundred meters. Snow and blood had mingled and, under the biting wind, had frozen into crimson ice. The carriage was reduced to ashes—black cinders and bits of charred wood littered the ground, mingling black, red, and white, making the place resemble a slaughterhouse.

The body of the middle-aged bodyguard who had protected Yahalyn lay nearby, his upper half almost blasted away, his legs twisted grotesquely after being trampled by Black Tiger clan thugs. On the breakwater, the giant black man who had rescued Yahalyn from Baal lay motionless—a goose-egg sized hole pierced clean through his temple, clearly slain by a powerful arrow. Even more shocking, his massive arms had been torn away, each flung over ten meters apart, thrust into the snow like gravestones pointing to the sky.

Besides this fallen warrior, seven more bodies, burned nearly to a shapeless mass, stood in a row at the mouth of a nearby alley. Their surfaces, like melted glass, shimmered with a strange rainbow luster. Even in such a state, they remained upright, exuding an aura of dread and menace that kept all at bay—the very wind seemed to carry a murderous chill.

Baron Milor pressed a spotless handkerchief to his nose, leaned on his cane, and roared in exasperation.

The new year was just around the corner; with the coming of spring, he would retire from his post as Mayor of Dunkirk. He could finally take his wife, children, grandchildren, and the whole family back to Blackstone City to enjoy a comfortable old age. With the wealth he had scraped together as mayor, not only would his twilight years be luxurious, but his children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren would live in comfort.

Just three more months, and he could retire in peace!

But now, only three months short, why had such a heinous crime burst forth? So many dead, such chaos—there was no hiding it, especially since that massive explosion had been heard by tens of thousands across Dunkirk.

Officials from the Yasen Province would surely dispatch investigators. They would nitpick and meddle in Dunkirk’s administration, perhaps even audit the city’s tax and expenditure records from recent years.

Of course, Baron Milor didn’t fear an audit—what terrified him was the price he’d have to pay to silence those damned investigators. Perhaps a few of his future great-grandson’s purebred horses, or his great-granddaughter’s jewelry would have to sprout wings and fly away! Worse still, if he crossed paths with someone as greedy as himself, the losses could be even greater!

“Can anyone tell me what exactly happened here?” Baron Milor shouted, waving his cane in fury. The ivory cane struck a lamppost with a sharp crack, but he cared little for the damage.

A force of imperial soldiers, fully armed, surrounded a tall, imposing man in silver armor. This was Colonel Snow Wolf Votu, commander of Dunkirk’s garrison and the thousand-strong infantry regiment stationed there.

Seeing Baron Milor’s hysteria, Snow Wolf Votu crossed his arms with a worried frown, gazing at the devastation and scattered corpses. What had happened here? Who attacked these people? And where had the assailants gone?

Had the killers already slipped into the city under cover of night? If so, and if more civilians were harmed, Votu’s responsibility would be dire indeed. The thought of the cold, iron faces of the Empire’s military tribunal sent a shiver down his spine.

While Votu brooded and Baron Milor raged, Blackbeard emerged from a dark alley, stumbling, clutching Lin Qi in his arms. As he walked, he wailed in desperation, “Doctor! Doctor! Colonel, where is your military physician? Save my son! The fool—how could he fight those savage orcs?”

Tears and snot streamed down Blackbeard’s swollen, reddened face as he howled, “And Enzo, that brave young man—he fought a berserk orc to protect my foolish boy! Dear heavens, save them!”

Blackbeard’s performance was flawless—barefoot in the dirty snow, his expensive silk nightgown soaked in blood and filth, ruined beyond repair. He was the very image of a heartbroken, anxious father.

Behind him, several family enforcers in Dunkirk militia uniforms carried Enzo out. These “valiant warriors,” wounded and bloodied, bellowed in anguish, demanding the military physician save their young master’s friend, comrade, and brother at once.

The port district blazed with torchlight. A thousand garrison soldiers, hundreds of dragoons and copper-caps, and countless militiamen were converging. Under the glaring light, Blackbeard stumbled and fell, dropping to his knees and raising Lin Qi’s “unconscious” and “frail” body high in his powerful arms.

A gasp swept the crowd. Lin Qi’s body was slashed with more than twenty wounds, his once-fine clothes hacked to rags. His flesh gaped open, revealing red muscle beneath, and as the snow-laden wind blew, his skin turned deathly pale.

Lin Qi convulsed in agony, apparently still suffering even in “unconsciousness.”

“Medic, quickly, save him!” Colonel Votu cried out in shock, mingled with excitement—a clue at last!

Listen: Lin Qi battled orcs? Then this was an orc attack, without a doubt!

Blackbeard’s wailing sounded once more across the harbor.