Chapter 405: The Legend of the Name
Marlon and his son Merlin were granted only a fleeting moment of respite—just enough to catch their breath—before a desperate shout rang out from somewhere behind them. More enemies were scaling the walls. They were coming for them.
Marlon’s jaw tightened. His eyes swept the battlefield below, then narrowed with grim suspicion. The Estalian soldiers had moved with uncanny precision—as if they had known exactly where the Northem troops would strike.
"There must be a traitor among us," he muttered, voice low and sharp. "They were waiting."
From behind a jagged boulder, Hector emerged, sweat glistening on his brow, the weariness in his gait betraying hours of relentless combat. He crouched beside Marlon, casting a glance toward Merlin—no longer the uncertain man who had once been dismissed as the ’useless son who got his title because of his father.’ Hector had witnessed the exchange between father and son earlier... and now, he saw Merlin in a new light.
Merlin had become a soldier.
"General," Hector began, his voice rough with exhaustion. "We’ve walked straight into a trap."
The plan had been straightforward—strike fast, clear the western wall’s guards, and slip into Carles under the cover of night. But who would have thought that the Estalis soldiers seemed to have read their thoughts? They had outmaneuvered them, ambushing their position with surgical precision.
If not for the elite training of the Northem soldiers, they would have all been slaughtered before sundown.
"We should retreat, sir," Hector continued, though the words tasted bitter. He did not want to retreat, but at their current state, they were only seeking death if they pushed through with their plans. "Pushing forward would be suicide."
Marlon gave a terse nod. "I agree." He also believed that the best course of action was to retreat.
Without waiting for further orders, Hector rose. "I’ll draw their attention. You and Lieutenant Merlin lead the men back to Roca." His eyes burned with purpose as he disappeared into the chaos.
But before the father and son could make their move, the sound of boots striking stone echoed ominously. A dozen Estalian and Zuran soldiers encircled them. These weren’t ordinary troops—they moved with lethal grace and precision. Even Hector, who had set out moments earlier, was now trapped in the tightening ring of steel.
The last golden rays of the sun bounced off the white marble of Carles’ town hall, casting long, blood-stained shadows across the courtyard that reflected into the stones of Roca.
The three of them—Marlon, Merlin, and Hector—stood with backs pressed together, swords raised, shields braced.
The Zuran and Estalian soldiers in the encirclement realized that it was difficult to defeat the three men in their current position, so they came in waves, four to each man, probing their formation, looking for an opening.
Victor was young and strong. He fought like a man possessed, young muscles fueled by adrenaline and rage. He cut down two attackers, their cries lost in the din of steel on steel.
Marlon, however, was not faring well. His strength was ebbing away and yet he fought with fervor. Though aging and weary, he held his ground with the unyielding resolve of a veteran. He had lost the strength of youth, but not the skill of years. Each movement was precise, every parry calculated.
But then—Merlin stumbled.
He hit the ground hard, dazed. A Zuran soldier closed in, blade raised to strike.
"No!" Marlon roared.
With a surge of primal strength, he kicked his opponent into the path of another’s blade, then lunged across to where his son was. His sword drove clean through the soldier poised to kill his son.
Whoosh!
A Zuran soldier saw an opening. A blur of steel struck Marlon across the upper arm. Blood burst forth, painting his armor crimson.
"Father!" Merlin cried out in panic, eyes wide as he scrambled to his feet.
Fueled by fury, Merlin hurled himself forward and plunged his sword into the gut of the Zuran who had wounded Marlon. The man staggered, choking on blood, Merlin’s blade still embedded in him.
With no time to retrieve it, Merlin drew his knives—his last line of defense—and turned to his father.
"Father," he gasped, horror in his voice as he saw the blood pouring from the wound.
"I’m fine," Marlon growled, his voice ragged, teeth clenched against the pain.
Only two enemies now stood before them—the rest had broken off to surround Hector, drawn by the threat he posed.
"He is a better opponent. Let’s take him out first." Their leader said.
But Marlon knew... the fight wasn’t over.
One of the soldiers standing before them snarled and lunged, his blade flashing as it arced toward Merlin’s chest.
But before it could strike true—clang!—Marlon’s sword intercepted it with a burst of sparks. With a practiced twist of his wrist, he disarmed the attacker, sending the enemy’s weapon clattering across the blood-slicked stones.
The disarmed soldier roared in fury. He dove for his fallen blade, snatched it up, and spun toward Marlon with murder blazing in his eyes. He raised the weapon high—its edge poised for a killing stroke meant to sever Marlon’s head from his shoulders.
But at the last second, his gaze shifted. His blade veered mid-swing.
He aimed for Merlin.
Marlon didn’t hesitate.
A father’s instinct surged through him like lightning. He flung himself toward Merlin, arms outstretched, ready to use his own body as a shield—willing, even eager, to take the blow meant for his son.
But the steel never landed.
THUD!
THUD!
Two bodies dropped to the gravel-strewn ground with lifeless finality.
Marlon blinked, breath catching in his throat. He turned.
Both enemy soldiers lay sprawled face-down in the dust, unmoving—sleek black arrows jutting from between their shoulder blades.
Even the men who had been surrounding Hector were now motionless, cut down mid-fight by the same silent force. Arrows protruded from backs, necks, and spines.
A ripple of panic spread through the remaining Estalian and Zuran soldiers. Realizing they were exposed to an unseen archer—or archers—they broke formation and fled, vanishing into the safety of the walls like rats into shadow.
Silence settled across the battlefield, broken only by the crackle of distant fires and the rasp of labored breathing.
Marlon sank to one knee, his chest heaving. He clutched at his bleeding arm, trying to staunch the flow with trembling fingers.
"Father!" Merlin was beside him in an instant, tearing the hem of his tunic with frantic hands. He wrapped the makeshift bandage around the wound, tightening it to slow the bleeding. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from the adrenaline of nearly losing his father twice in as many minutes.
From a few paces away, Hector approached. Dust streaked his face, and his armor was dented from the battle, but his eyes were sharp—watchful.
In his hand, he held one of the arrows, its black fletching catching the dying light.
"This isn’t ours," he said grimly. "Our archers don’t use this kind of shaft."
He turned the arrow in his hand, examining the craftsmanship.
"Whoever fired this..." he paused, glancing toward the forested ridges beyond the boulders, "...they just saved our lives."