Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

Lone Wolf and Black Lion moved at the same time.

Black Bartosh twirled his slender knight's sword in a gleaming silver flourish, his leather boots crunching the pebbles beneath his feet. "Conrad, two years ago you fell like a trapped beast, do you want to add another scar today?"

Conrad gripped his two-handed greatsword with both hands, the tip pointing steadily at the ground. The sword was simpler than the one he used years ago, lacking the knightly order's ornate embellishments. "Back then, I was defeated by my own blindness, Bartosh. Today is different."

"I'll see what's different!"

Black Bartosh launched the first attack, his longsword lashing out like a viper's tongue—the signature opening move of the Fiore school. Conrad didn't rush to parry as he had two years ago; he merely shifted slightly to the side, the blade grazing the collar of his chainmail.

"Well done!" Black Bartosh took a step back, raising his eyebrows. "Looks like you haven't wasted your training these past two years."

"I swing my sword a thousand times a day," Conrad said calmly, as if stating the weather. "Under the eaves when it rains, in the stable when it snows."

Black Bartosh chuckled and attacked again. This time it was a series of three thrusts, aiming for the wrist, shoulder, and knee—a technique specifically designed to deal with heavily armored enemies. Conrad finally moved, his longsword drawing a heavy arc, not to parry, but to strike the knight's longsword with the middle of the blade.

"clang!"

The clanging of metal made the nearest onlookers cover their ears. Black Bartosh felt a tingling sensation in his hand, and the rapier nearly slipped from his grasp. "Brute force tactics? Conrad, you still don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." Conrad launched his first attack, a simple, unadorned vertical slash.

Black Bartosh easily dodged, his rapier slicing towards his opponent's ribs. The tip pierced the outer robe but slid off the chainmail. "Your master only gave you a set of old armor?" he sneered.

"No," Conrad replied as he stepped back, "what Lord Peter gave me was honor and responsibility."

The battle entered a stalemate. Knights' longswords rained down, but Conrad mostly dodged or deflected them with minimal movement. The onlookers began to whisper among themselves.

"He's conserving his energy," said a soldier who knew swords, "waiting for Bartosh to tire."

"Italian swordsmanship is exquisite, but flashy moves are exhausting," another chimed in. "Conrad's style... is very clever."

Black Bartosh felt uneasy. Two years ago, Conrad was like a raging bear, each swing of his sword full of power yet lacking control. Now, however, the man was as steady as a mountain, his breathing even, his eyes terrifyingly focused.

"Your armor," Black Bartosh said after yet another exchange, trying to confuse his opponent, "I sold it to a Venetian merchant. He hangs it in his tavern as a decoration."

Conrad paused for a moment.

Now! Black Bartosh unleashes his killing move—"Half-Sword of the Flower"—a feint aimed at the face, followed by a right-hand flip, his left hand gripping half the blade, the tip truly aimed at his heart. If executed flawlessly, this move could easily pierce armor.

But Conrad's sword was already waiting there.

It wasn't a parry, but a precise strike that hit the knight's sword at its weakest point, about a third of the way down. The longsword snapped in two, the front half spinning and embedding itself in the earth.

The onlookers gasped.

Black Bartosh stared at the broken hilt of his sword, his face filled with disbelief. "This is impossible..."

After receiving Peter's blessing, Conrad's strength attribute has reached 30 points and agility has reached 25 points. His physical attributes have long surpassed his opponent's and will not decrease with age.

"Perhaps." Conrad's longsword was already pressed against his throat, "because I no longer fight for that armor."

Black Bartosh knelt on one knee. Sunlight shone on both of them, and Conrad's shadow completely enveloped the loser.

When Black Bartosh's hands were bound, he couldn't help but ask, "You really don't care about that armor anymore? The symbol of the Knights?"

Conrad tightened the knot. "Truth carried on your shoulders?" He shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I understand now. Truth isn't on your armor. It reveals itself in what you fight for."

A cheer erupted from the Red Griffin Guard. A young soldier clapped excitedly, "See that? Lord Conrad barely broke a sweat!"

The veteran rubbed his eyes: "That's strange, there seemed to be light on his sword just now... Was it the sun shining on it?"

Conrad led the prisoners back, and Blackbatoch suddenly whispered, "Your swordsmanship... is not purely ecclesiastical."

"Well," Conrad admitted, "I've learned some Italian footwork, German chops, and even French techniques. Peter said that truth knows no nationality."

Black Bartosh paused for a moment, then gave a bitter laugh: "So that's why I lost? Because you became...practical?"

"Because I've found a reason to wield my sword." Conrad gazed at the red griffin banner fluttering in the center of the camp, "a reason more real than armor."

The tomcat excitedly waved the griffin banner, and the griffin guard cheered for their victory. The surrounding villagers whispered and smiled. In the tavern, Hans and Henry high-fived in celebration.

The lord's heavily armored guards were all dejected, and the cavalrymen around them avoided eye contact.

Count von Borgh's face was ashen. He looked at his guards who were beginning to retreat, and then at the villagers around him—the fear in their eyes was fading, and something else was growing.

Only the "loyal" captain of the guard, Thomas, glanced at Peter, his expression suddenly changed, his eyes widened in anger, he drew his longsword from his waist, and roared: "You bunch of cowards, do you want to watch the lord be locked up in the city by bandits? I, Thomas, will never allow it!"

"For the sake of our lord, kill these bandits!"

"For the Lord's sake, rescue the Black Bartosh Knight!"

Captain Thomas suddenly brandished his sword, and the castle guards around him instinctively followed suit. The two sides, who had been locked in a standoff, suddenly found themselves in battle. The surrounding villagers scattered in a flurry, with the bolder ones peeking over their courtyard walls.

The unexpected situation caught Feng Boergao off guard.

Having just exhausted their momentum and lost a key general, how could they rashly start a war? Feng Boer was furious and wanted to curse, but remembering Thomas's loyalty, he held back. Looking at the two sides already embroiled in battle, he also harbored a sliver of hope; his side had the numbers, what if they won?

The result almost made him spit out a mouthful of blood.

Fifteen Griffin Guards formed a shield wall, blocking Thomas and his men's attack. Peter, Martin, Carter, Conrad, Tom, and Jerry, on horseback, brandishing their banners, charged at the cavalrymen beside them, unhorsing six of their riders with a single charge. They then surrounded and attacked him.

The difference in combat power is really that huge?!

The old count himself was quite capable in combat. He had always thought that the country bandits were nothing special, but now he realized that Red-haired Peter had gathered a group of formidable experts around him.

"Retreat!" the count roared through gritted teeth, turned his horse and fled, becoming the first to charge towards the castle.

"What?"

The signal that the lord was fleeing spread like wildfire. The lord's guard collapsed instantly, and the soldiers rushed toward the castle, completely disregarding formation and their comrades.

Peter had been waiting for this moment.

"Pursue! Capture prisoners!" Peter commanded.

Fifteen red griffin soldiers and six knights pounced like a pack of wolves. This was not a battle, but a hunt. The fleeing guards, their backs to the enemy, were tackled, disarmed, and captured one after another.

The few remaining cavalrymen escorted the old count into the castle. The drawbridge began to rise, and only a dozen or so guards led by Thomas, who had abandoned their weapons and shields and were fast enough to escape inside; the rest were left outside.

"Put down your weapons!" Klaus roared. "Surrender and you will not be killed!"

The sound of metal hitting the ground rang out one after another. These elite guards of Borgo, who had once run rampant on this land, now knelt on the ground, their hands covering their heads.

Carter the tomcat rode his horse around the prisoners, beaming with pride: "Look at them, these are the 'elite' of the Borgo family? They run faster than startled rabbits!"

Brother Martin sighed: "Humble in victory, Carter."

"Humility? Monk, we just defeated fifty men with only twenty-one, capturing twenty-three! That's something to boast about for a month!"

Peter did not participate in the celebration. He rode his horse to the drawbridge and looked up at the city walls.

Ulrich's panicked figure flashed past behind the battlements.

"Lord Otto!" Peter shouted, his voice echoing through the city walls. "I don't mind your shameless act of breaking the agreement just now, but don't let it happen again. Remember our agreement—seven days! If I see any of Borgo's soldiers step out of the castle within seven days, I will kill your heir and then attack the city directly!"

There was no response from the city wall.

But Peter knew that the old wolf was listening.

When Peter and his party returned to the village square of Troschi with the prisoners, the villagers emerged from their homes as if in a dream. They looked at the kneeling guards of Borgo, at the fluttering red griffin banner, and at the legendary bandit baron and his string of prisoners on the execution platform.

Then someone started clapping.

At first it was one person, then ten, then a hundred. The applause grew louder and louder, eventually turning into deafening cheers.

"Victory belongs to Peter!"

"Glory to Griffin!"

Klaus and the other members of the Griffin Guard's Fourth Squad once again stood tall, having been scorned as "lackeys" before, now they were back as victors.

Peter stood on the execution platform again. As he raised his hand, the cheers gradually subsided.

"The people of Trostsky," he said, "there was just a trivial little incident. Now, we continue the trial. Gules will pay for his crimes. But not in the name of Polgao, but in your name—in the name of every victim. Convicted in a public trial, sentenced to hanging, to be carried out immediately!"

"Buzz!" The crowd below cheered again.

Gullus was dragged to the gallows. When the noose was placed around his neck, the notorious bandit baron finally broke down. He cried out, begged for mercy, and cursed, but to no avail.

The pedal is released.

The body swayed in the air.