Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

Troschi Castle, Council Chamber.

The candles burning brightly on the lampstands illuminated the hall as if it were daytime.

Young Master Jan von Polgar sat in an ornate chair, one hand supporting his chin, the other holding a gold goblet, coldly sweeping his gaze over Sir Nebakov below.

"What did you say?"

The young master's voice wasn't loud, but it pierced like an ice pick into the bone marrow: "The 'elite' you sent out didn't even enter the camp before being turned away by Red-Haired Peter? And you even said you 'only recognize Istvan'?"

Sir Nebakov, his back hunched and his beard trembling slightly, said, "Yes...yes, young master. Peter said that Mr. Istvan is the only messenger he trusts, and he doesn't trust anyone else. He also said...and that the team we sent was 'suspicious,' possibly spies."

"ha!"

The young master abruptly stood up, smashing his wine glass on the ground with a loud bang. "Suspicious behavior? Didn't I send your most capable mercenaries? Tell me, what's suspicious about them? Were they dressed poorly enough? Were they limping enough? Or did their faces scream 'I'm a spy'?"

"this……"

Sir Nebakov blushed. "Perhaps... they are indeed too orderly, not like refugees..."

"Why don't you let them get covered in mud and eat some stale food before they set off?"

The young master, enraged, laughed coldly. "You spent a hundred Grossens and this is the result? You might as well have hired a bunch of beggars! At least they know how to feign pitifulness!"

"Young Master, please calm down!" Nebakov hurriedly bowed his head. "I'm willing to try again; this time, I'll make the disguise even more convincing..."

For some reason, after leaving Devil's Canyon, Jessica didn't return to his original base. Instead, he sent someone to report that he and his twenty mercenaries were hiding in an abandoned hunter's hut ten miles northeast of Devil's Canyon, eating hard bread and in a dilemma. The plan had been like a leaky bucket from the start; now not only was the water drained, but the bottom was almost falling off. If they were to go back again, they would look like beggars without even needing to disguise themselves.

"Save your breath!"

The young master waved his hand to interrupt, saying, "You've already proven that you're not just a piece of trash, but a double piece of trash—you can't beat the enemy, and you can't fool a fool!"

Sir Nebakov was both angry and furious. Even if Earl von Polgao were here, he would not humiliate an elderly vassal in this way! So he also put on a stern face and said, "I have spent my whole life building castles, but I have never trained in acting!"

"waste!"

The young master of Borgo, with his gaunt face, sunken eyes, and heaving chest, had ripped open the collar of his expensive silk shirt, revealing pale skin and a bulging vein. He paced around Nebakov, continuing his insults.

"I gave you armor, wheat, a wagon, and even a complete story! And what happened? All the supplies were swallowed up! But where's the inside man I wanted?! You and your men are utterly useless!"

The young master of Borgo didn't care about these supplies, but he couldn't tolerate failure, especially when he was in high spirits. Let alone a stumbling block, even a small pebble falling into his shoe would make him jump up and down in anger.

At this moment, the castle steward Ulrich slowly walked in and coughed twice: "Young master, actually... there is another way."

"explain."

"Please ask Mr. István Toth to make another trip."

"What?!"

The young master nearly jumped up and down. "That Hungarian? That guy I publicly called a pig-brain? You want me to go and invite him now?"

"Exactly."

Ulrich remained expressionless. "Although you reprimanded him, he didn't leave. Instead, he claimed to be unwell and stayed at the castle to recuperate. It's said that he was studying maps in his study last night, seemingly still fixated on Peter's camp."

"Obsession? I think he's just stubbornly clinging to his delusions!"

The young master gritted his teeth. "Last time he offered a plan, I called him stupid, and he just kept writing, then slipped a note under my door that said, 'History will prove who the idiots are!' Is this what a subordinate should do?"

Ulrich said calmly, "Young Master, he is not your vassal or subordinate. He is King Sigismund's advisor, sent by your father to help. You shouldn't treat him like a subordinate. Besides, he's useful; Red Peter only recognizes him. How about... we bow down this time? We can settle accounts after this is done."

Borga's face shifted rapidly, from angry red to ashamed purple, finally settling into a grimace like someone who had swallowed a fly. István Toss, that Hungarian with his insincere smile and shifty eyes, was someone the young lord had always looked down upon. He thought the man was like a slippery eel, utterly devoid of any chivalrous sense of honor.

"shame!"

Borgo slammed his fist on the makeshift wooden table, sending cups and plates flying. "Me, a scion of the Borgo family, an ally of King Sigismund, bowing down to a slippery fellow?"

"Young master, Istvan is a venomous snake, but at this moment, if the fangs of a venomous snake can bite our enemy, then it is a good snake."

Ulrich suggested, "Let him go, and with a generous 'goodwill' gift. Peter is greedy for supplies, so let's give them to him! As long as Eastman can get in and establish himself, the viper will find an opportunity to strike. As for us, we only need to endure the humiliation for now."

The young lord of Borgo closed his eyes, his chest heaving violently. After a long while, he opened his eyes, his gaze burning with nothing but the flames of humiliation.

"...Go find Istvan."

His voice was hoarse as he said, "Tell him we regret the 'misunderstanding' last time. The new cooperation needs a smart, wise, and trusted envoy like him to advance it. We'll provide the supplies. Make sure he goes deep into the camp and works hard for our common cause."

He spoke the last few words very slowly and with great effort.

Ulrich rose and said, "Yes, young master! I'll take care of it immediately!" He backed out of the hall. Sir Nebakov, who was not good with words and was focused on repairing the fortress, also followed him out.

Inside the tent, Borgo walked to the map and pressed his finger hard on the "Devil's Canyon" mark, as if he wanted to pierce through the map.

"Peter..." he muttered to himself, his voice filled with endless resentment, "Let's see how long you can keep laughing once the snake crawls into your bed."

He looked up at the ceiling and murmured, "God, if you truly exist, please let me win this battle... and then personally throw Peter and Istvan into the cesspool."

-----

In István Toth's room, candlelight flickered.

He was sitting at the table, writing in his diary with a quill pen dipped in ink, using Latin arias:

"Today I have once again been humiliated by the young master, like a dog barking in the courtyard. Yet my heart remains unchanged, my ambition soars a thousand miles. The world laughs at my flattery, but they know not my aspirations. If those cowards were willing to believe me, the disaster and war would have already ended..."

As I was writing, there was a knock on the door.

"Come in."

Eric, a burly guard at the door, pushed open the door and bowed, saying, "Lord Tors, the Steward has come to visit."

"Please come in quickly."

István closed his diary and rose to greet him.

Good evening, Mr. Tors.

Good evening, Steward.

The steward, Ulrich, entered, and after exchanging greetings, they sat down.

Ulrich relayed the young master of Borgo's "request" in a tone that was as tactful as possible, yet still revealed his embarrassment.

"Oh?"

István drew out his words, a silver coin twirling deftly between his fingers. "So, young master, you mean that Red-haired Peter... is only willing to talk to me, a nobody Hungarian? And won't even let the other noble envoys you sent in through the door?"

Ulrich's cheek muscles twitched slightly: "Although I'd like to say there are other reasons, yes, Red Peter said he only trusts you, perhaps because he's more used to dealing with acquaintances."

"acquaintance?"

Istvan laughed, the fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening, like a fox spotting its prey. "I've only met him once, and you're already an 'acquaintance'? Lord Peter is truly... sentimental."

He deliberately emphasized the word "nostalgic," with undisguised sarcasm.

Ulrich knew he was mocking the young master, but he could only pretend not to hear it and continued, "Therefore, the young master hopes that Mr. Toth can go again, this time with even greater sincerity. This time it is ten sets of armor, two carts of grain, ten barrels of fine wine, ten longswords, and some 'special' gifts. We hope this will help you infiltrate the enemy camp successfully."

"Help me?" Istvan sat up straight, slamming the silver coin onto the table with a "thud," his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Steward, please forgive my bluntness, but you've been too tactful. The young master wants me to be a nail, an eye, a dagger thrust into your back at the crucial moment, isn't that right? This isn't you helping me, it's me helping you!"

Ulrich was speechless at his blunt words. He opened his mouth but made no sound, which was taken as tacit agreement.

"So, are you going to refuse?"

"Of course not," he said slowly, a strange pleasure in his voice. "Red-haired Peter trusts me so much, and the young master is so generous, giving me so many supplies and the opportunity to use my talents. I, István Tos, a Hungarian wandering in a foreign land, am truly flattered to receive the 'favor' of two important figures at the same time."

He turned around, a bright smile on his face, but icy coldness in his eyes.

"Please inform the young master that the supplies are ready and I will depart immediately. This time, I will definitely go deep into Peter's camp and thoroughly 'understand' everything about him. I will make sure the young master is satisfied."

Ulrich's gloomy face finally broke into a smile: "With Mr. Istvan in charge, this operation is sure to be a success."

Ulrich left satisfied to report to his young master.

The door opened again, and a tall figure walked in. The man was in his early twenties, with brown hair and blue eyes, a face as rugged as if sculpted from stone, and wore a worn plate breastplate. His steps were steady and powerful. He nodded slightly to Istvan: "Father."

"Eric, my child."

Istvan's smile widened, and he beckoned him over. "You heard it outside too. Those arrogant fellows have finally bowed down to us."

“But Father,” Eric began, his voice low, “won’t this mission be dangerous? Why should we risk our lives for them?”

"I know, child." Istvan picked up the silver coin again, his fingertips tracing the patterns on it, his eyes deep and unfathomable. "That fool Yampolgao treated us like tools, like chamber pots, from beginning to end, discarding us after he was done with us. We are of humble birth, and we can only learn to endure and fight for our place. No one will easily hand over everything to people like us."

"Father, why didn't you report to the steward earlier that the Jessica mercenary group was disloyal and unreliable?" Eric asked, puzzled. "Peter's rejection of Jessica seemed rather strange."

"We are not loyal to anyone but ourselves. Whether or not we betrayed Jessica depended on what was in our best interest. As it turned out, our silence earned us their trust."

He was somewhat moved that the "trust" that allowed him to turn his life around actually came from his enemy.

He shook his head, dismissing the absurd thought.

"But none of that matters. What matters is the opportunity. Polgar gave us a legitimate excuse to go in, and a whole bunch of supplies as a stepping stone. As for Peter, whatever his plans are, once I'm in, with my eyes and your sword..." He looked at Eric, "no camp is impenetrable, and no person is unapproachable. A viper burrows into its hole to find an opportunity to kill its prey, not to actually visit."

Eric nodded silently.