Ch60 The Truth

Baylen roared in anger as he rushed forward, swinging his sword in a wide arc.

The Wanderer met the strike cleanly, deflecting the blade with his, then drove his boot straight into the back of Baylen’s knee.

The joint buckled. Baylen gritted his teeth, letting out a gasp of pain as he took a few limping steps backward.

The Wanderer lowered his blade slightly, casually gesturing for the boy to come at him again.

Stung by the effortless counter, Baylen violently kicked his leg out, shaking off the pain, and lunged forward again. This time, he unleashed a rapid series of slashes. The Wanderer moved like a fluid monk, gracefully stepping aside from the first strike, blocking the second, the third was a horizontal cut, but he crouched as the blade whistled over his head.

Before Baylen could recover his posture, the Wanderer lunged from below, smashing his head into Baylen’s chin.

In a Draemiran combo, the Wanderer spun on his heel, delivering a back kick straight into the young man’s abdomen.

The sheer force dented the plate, as Baylen grunted loudly, falling onto the dirt.

Out of the corner of his eye, the Wanderer noticed Jericho, watching in silence. The Wanderer acted as if he hadn't noticed the patriarch's presence. He looked down at the panting noble. "You fight like an idiot."

Baylen rolled over, spitting blood onto the ground. "And you fight like a common thug!"

Baylen scrambled to his feet, gripped his hilt with both hands, and lunged one more time, putting all his weight into a direct stab aimed straight for the Wanderer’s chest.

The Wanderer stepped towards the blade and tucked Baylen’s sword arm under his mechanical limb, then began smashing the hilt of his own sword into the side of Baylen’s head until the boy lost his balance.

Baylen’s legs went out from under him, and he fell face-first into the dirt.

The Wanderer straddled his back, pinning the heavy armor to the earth, and pressed the edge of his guard sword against Baylen’s throat.

"That's enough!"

Jericho’s commanding voice finally boomed across the courtyard as the old lord slowly stepped closer, his face tight with controlled fury.

The Wanderer looked up at him grinning. "I thought formal duels only ended in blood or a yielding, lord Jericho. And I certainly didn't hear your little brat surrender."

Baylen desperately grabbed at the Wanderer’s wrist. "Never! I will never-"

The Wanderer lightly smacked the side of Baylen’s head with his hilt. "Shut up, kid. The men are talking."

Jericho stood mere inches away now, looking down coldly at his humiliated son. "Formal duels end in blood, yes. But this... this was merely a friendly spar between cousins, don't you think?"

The Wanderer stared at Jericho for a second, and without breaking eye contact with the lord, the Wanderer brought his hilt one final time against the back of Baylen’s neck, knocking the boy unconscious.

The Wanderer stood up, dusting off his uniform and offering a mocking smile. "How nice of you to finally admit our shared bloodline... uncle."

Jericho ignored the blatant sarcasm, turning his back and waving his hand to call for the citadel guards. "Remove him. Get him to the medics," he commanded coldly.

As a pair of armored sentries hurried over to drag the unconscious Baylen away, the Wanderer sheathed his sword back. He took a few steps toward the outer gate, pausing beside Jericho.

"You know, that council seat might still be on the table after all, don't you think?" the Wanderer whispered. "I am, after all, your beloved cousin now."

Jericho gritted his teeth so hard that blood came out. He remained frozen, as he watched the Wanderer walk out of the Red Citadel.

The Wanderer sighed as he stepped past the outer gatehouse, the arrogant grin on his face fading. He was disgusted by everything he did in Hosar, but kept convincing himself it's a necessary evil. He rubbed his head, murmuring to himself, "Let's hope they at least believed the act."

He navigated the dusty paths of the slums until he arrived back at Vincent’s house. He pushed it open and stepped over the threshold, but the second his foot touched the dirt floor, he sensed a presence hiding in the blind spot behind the door frame.

Before he could process the threat, Harith charged out from the shadows roaring, as he swung the iron shovel at the Wanderer's head.

The Wanderer instinctively leaped backward, the edge of the shovel missing his nose by inches. "Have you completely gone mad, old man?!" the Wanderer yelled, stepping into a defensive stance.

Harith raised the shovel again, his eyes wild in rage. "I told you! Anything but Defiance!" he screamed, swinging the heavy tool.

The Wanderer ducked beneath the clumsy strike and shouted back, "I was bluffing, you idiot! I don't actually need the fucking sword!"

Harith stood shaking and breathing heavily from exhaustion. "Even if you were... they will come looking for it now! You’ve brought the Red Crowns to our doorstep!"

The Wanderer raised his hands, trying to de-escalate the panic. "Just listen to me for one second-"

But Harith ignored his plea. In a desperate attempt, he snatched a kitchen knife from the nearby table and hurled it at the Wanderer's chest.

The Wanderer tilted his torso aside, avoiding the knife. But Harith was already moving behind the distraction, raising the shovel over his head for a crushing downward blow.

The Wanderer raised his left arm in defense.

The iron edge of the shovel penetrated the Wanderer's forearm, and wedged into the underlying mechanical frame.

Harith’s hands slowly let go of the handle. His eyes widened in horror. He stepped backward, and he tripped over a fallen chair, crashing onto the dirt floor.

He stared up at the arm and rasped. "What the hell are you?"

"What's going on in here?!" Sunny’s worried voice suddenly pierced the room as he rushed inside through the open doorway. His gaze instantly fell on the shovel sticking vertically out of the Wanderer’s forearm. "Oh my god. Vincent! Are you okay?!" Sunny cried, stepping forward to help.

"Sunny, stop!" Harith screamed from the floor. "Stay away from him! That is not Vincent!"

Sunny froze in his tracks, looking down at Harith.

Harith pointed a shaking finger at the Wanderer. "He is a demon! He stole Vincent's face and he's wearing it right now, just like he wears that stolen guard uniform!"

The Wanderer gripped the wooden handle of the shovel with his right hand and yanked it out of his right arm, tossing the shovel aside.

Sunny stared at the open wound that should have been gushing blood, only to find steel and wires.

"Vincent...?" Sunny stammered, his voice trembling as he took a slow step backward.

The Wanderer jumped to the door, slamming it shut.

He turned around facing both of them.

"Sit down. Both of you," the Wanderer said. "We need to talk."

The Wanderer stood in the center of the room. As calmly as possible, he explained the truth, how he had infiltrated the Owls to dismantle them from the inside, how they had grafted Vincent’s face onto his own to maintain a flawless cover, and how the mechanical arm was just another tool in their twisted game. He told them that everything he was doing, including the reckless play at the Red Citadel, was the only way to maintain the cover of hatred between the two Crowns.

Sunny’s breathing turned shallow. "So..." he rasped, "Vincent is... he's really dead."

The Wanderer closed his eyes for a brief second, then looked directly at the boy. "Harith told me he watched him die. But I had nothing to do with his death, Sunny. I didn't even know Vincent was a real person until the moment I arrived here in Hosar."

Sunny slowly turned his head, looking at Harith for confirmation. Tears finally broke, streaming down the boy's cheeks as Harith silently closed his eyes, unable to deny it.

He opened his eyes again and stared at the stranger wearing his son's flesh. "You defile his memory, demon," the old man hissed. "I will not help you any further. I won't let you use his ghost to fight your wars."

Sunny sank onto a stool, covering his face with his hands as sobs tore from his chest. "Vincent..." he muttered into his palms. "I knew it... I knew there was something off about you."

The Wanderer stepped across the dirt floor, and took the fallen kitchen knife.

Harith tensed, instinctively moving to shield Sunny.

The Wanderer looked at them, and took the knife with his mechanical hand, tearing a cut in his right palm.

A crimson blood welled in his palm and began to drip onto the dirt floor.

"Whether you like it or not, you are both part of this whole thing now," the Wanderer said, as he held out his bleeding hand. "And I am not a demon. Not physically, at least. I bleed just like anyone else in this miserable city."

Harith slowly pushed himself up from the floor. "I would rather join my son in the ground before I ever give up Defiance to those vipers in the citadel."

The Wanderer let out a sigh, tossing the knife onto the table. "I told you, old man: I was bluffing. I don't want your sword. If it makes you feel any better, go dig it up and hide it somewhere else. Somewhere I don't know about. But whatever you do, you have to keep your act together when the eyes of the city are on us."

He turned and walked toward the door,

"You don't have a choice anymore," the Wanderer said coldly. "Get ready for tomorrow. We are moving out of the slums to live in the Red Citadel."

He stepped out into the street, leaving behind the faint sound of Sunny's sobbing, while Harith stood completely frozen in the dark, staring into the nothingness of a life built on ghosts.