Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

Chapter 147 Last Hope

Peter stood in the command room of the Griffin Camp, his gaze piercing through the winding lines and traces of dye on the parchment map, as if he could see the traces of countless lives intertwining, colliding, and breaking within it.

He has been in this world for two and a half months. From having nothing and pretending to be a knight, to defeating powerful enemies and becoming strong, and finally seizing a castle and becoming a lord of a place.

He once thought that time travel was a game, and that everyone here was an NPC. He even enjoyed the thrill of slitting his own throat with a dagger when killing bandits in the middle of the night, until he personally buried the first militiaman who died because of his decision.

He once thought power was a shortcut, until he witnessed the trembling fingers of a starving mother feeding her child the last bite of rye porridge, and saw the numb eyes of countless workers forced into slavery by exorbitant taxes.

There is no save button in this world. Every choice leaves its mark on real flesh and blood, just like the land outside the window washed by the summer rain, every inch of soil is soaked with the smell of sweat and blood.

Only then did he understand that power is not a crown, but shackles; mercy is not weakness, but the courage to choose to protect even after calculating the risks. His fingers unconsciously traced the griffin emblem on the hilt of his sword, the cold touch reminding him that strength, courage, and protection coexist.

Rumble~

Summer rains come suddenly, and soon it was pouring rain outside.

Meanwhile, in a prisoner-of-war camp in Lion Village, a muddy area was enclosed by a simple wooden fence, containing a row of prisoner huts. Rainwater seeped in through holes in the thatched roofs, forming puddles of murky water on the muddy ground. Many prisoners huddled in these huts, the air thick with the damp smell of mildew, sweat, and a faint, almost imperceptible stench of blood.

Istvan the snake was curled up on a pile of grass in the corner, raindrops dripping down his forehead, sliding over his high nose, and finally disappearing between his chapped lips.

This former Hungarian court nobleman, the sharpest dagger and most ruthless strategist in the hands of King Sigismund, is now trapped in this filthy cage like a stray dog. His fingers—the hands that once penned intrigues and concocted poisons—are now covered with thick calluses and cracks, with indelible black grime embedded under his fingernails.

Every time he bent down to move timber, every time he swung his axe under the scorching sun and in the rain, it felt like he was slowly torturing his remaining pride with a dull knife.

"Father—" Eric whispered beside him.

The young man leaned against the fence, several new whip marks on his muscular arms—souvenirs of his attempt to rebel against the overseer the day before. Eric's eyes were like those of a trapped wolf cub, a mixture of lingering wildness and bewilderment. "They're mobilizing troops again. Even the militia are equipped with new crossbows. Do you think there's going to be another war? Is there a chance we can become soldiers? I heard from the prisoners that almost all the combat team soldiers came from the POW camps."

"It's difficult. I've observed that the Griffin Guard has expanded, but the personnel are drawn from the militia, with almost no one being selected from the prisoner-of-war camps."

Istvan had no intention of shattering his adopted son's illusions, but he also didn't want him to spend his life in disappointment.

And aren't I the same?

His gaze pierced the rain, landing on the leaping figures on the distant training ground. How long ago was it that he too could so calmly strategize, making all of Bohemia tremble at his calculations? When Skalitz was destroyed, he watched the flames soar into the sky from the shadows; when the raid on Talmuburg was planned, he savored the enemy's unprepared terror. But now? Even the most basic dignity had become a luxury for him.

An inner storm raged within him.

Why? Why was that thief baron able to see through my plans time and time again? Was it luck? Or—did he truly possess some kind of extraordinary insight?

No, how could I, István Toth, be defeated by a bastard? But—those drudgeries, those mocking glances, those days when even the lowest peasant could order me around—his fingertips dug deep into his palms, the stinging pain bringing him to his senses. Sigismund had abandoned me, the Borgo family had treated me like trash. Was my remaining life's value merely to rot in this mud?

Eric's voice interrupted his thoughts: "Why not choose from among us? We soldiers have far more combat experience! Eating moldy bread every day, doing the work of animals—" The young man's Adam's apple bobbed, his voice filled with suppressed anger, "I'd rather be stabbed through the heart on the battlefield!"

Since his defeat at the execution ground by Henry, Eric had been depressed for a long time, feeling both remorse for his defeat and despair for his current life. The details of his duel with Henry had replayed countless times in his mind; he felt that if he were given another chance, perhaps he could… But when would this endless life of slave labor end? He hadn't even had the chance to challenge a warrior from the prisoner-of-war camp anymore?

"Don't speak lightly of life and death!" Istvan hissed, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping. "Remember—even when a viper is trampled into the mud, it must wait for its chance to strike back."

Even he himself felt that this resolve was crumbling with the passage of time. Countless nights, he dreamt of the vineyards of his Balkan homeland, of the blood splattering as his parents were felled by Ottoman cavalry, of himself kneeling before Sigismund, swearing an oath of revenge. Those memories haunted him like ghosts, reminding him:

Everything he lost was far more precious than freedom.

"I need to see Lord Peter! I have important information to report!"

István decided to take the initiative. Since Peter wouldn't release him but also wouldn't kill him, it meant he still had some value in Peter's eyes. Since Peter wouldn't try to recruit him, he would take the initiative to "defect"! He didn't believe he couldn't impress Peter with his knowledge, abilities, and wisdom!

The guards came and went.

More than an hour passed.

The rain intensified, large raindrops pounding against the thatched roof with a rapid, drum-like sound. A series of hurried footsteps, treading through the mud, approached, and the guard's rough voice rang out from outside the fence: "Lord Istvan and Lord Eric-Peter wish to see you!"

István's heart skipped a beat. He slowly rose to his feet, his movements deliberately elegant—his last act of defiance as a nobleman. He straightened his tattered collar, though it was pointless; he tried to smooth the stains from his hair, though his fingers would only make them dirtier.

At that moment, he realized: it was either grasp at this straw or sink into eternal damnation. He turned to look at Eric and saw the same resolute determination in the young man's eyes.

"Remember," Istvan said in a low voice, "this is our only chance. Either win freedom and dignity, or—" He didn't finish, but Eric understood.

The two walked out of the cell one after the other, their thin clothes immediately soaked by the rain. Istvan looked up in the direction of the command room, his eyes flashing with a complex light—resentment, longing, fear, and a glimmer of hope that even he himself was unwilling to admit.