Chapter 288: Allen's Arrival
When it came to luxury goods, the most prominent on the continent were naturally those produced by the elves.
"I have a good relationship with the elves," Ambrose said. "I can help you purchase luxury items. As for food, just get me a list. I also have connections with druids. Meat, livestock, whatever you need, I can supply in any quantity."
That statement genuinely startled Gareth.
"You've done business with the elves, sure, but you've got ties with druids too? You're a lich!"
The ruling druids of the Emerald Dreamwood were known for their hostility toward the undead. Only fringe factions like the Spore Circle had any tolerance for necromancy, and they had no real influence.
"You people always think I'm exaggerating," Ambrose replied. "But when have I ever lied? If I say I can provide it, then I can."
With the Dreamveil Barrier under his control, getting druids to deliver livestock would be trivial. They'd obey whether they liked it or not.
His confidence was convincing. Thinking back on everything he'd seen, Gareth had to admit that, though this lich might be boastful, he'd never actually lied.
"In that case, I'll discuss things with the dragons. Once I return, I'll have them draw up a list. We can negotiate properly after that."
Milena remained silent as she watched her two elders converse. Her admiration for Ambrose deepened even further.
"Father really can do anything. The elves respect him, and even the druids answer to him... he's incredible," she thought inwardly.
Having just secured a major client out of nowhere, Ambrose was in an excellent mood. He handed the small box containing the spider domain to Gareth.
With that, two of the domains had been dealt with. Once he finished negotiating with the elves, he could take Milena home.
Draining the last of his wine in one gulp, Ambrose prepared to leave the tavern and send a message to Catherine.
But just then, that familiar sense of trouble pinged again.
Ambrose frowned in surprise. Could those peasants who dabbled in banditry really affect him across hundreds of kilometers, all the way into elven territory?
As he was puzzling over the situation, the tavern doors swung open. A ragged, filthy figure stumbled inside.
Disheveled and unkempt, he looked like he hadn't bathed in years, but his eyes shone like stars. Those eyes alone made him stand out.
Ambrose recognized the figure instantly: Allen Watson, the paladin he had once captured.
What was he doing here?
Ignoring the stares of the other patrons, Allen scanned the room and immediately locked onto Ambrose's table.
He froze, then blurted out in shock, "You?!"
Ambrose sighed inwardly. So this was the source of the trouble. "Don't start anything in here," he said, rising to his feet. "If you've got business with me, we'll settle it outside."
The tables here weren't cheap. No way he was letting a fight break out in the tavern.
The bewildered Allen was dragged out before he could react.
Sensing the incipient show, several patrons crowded by the windows to watch.
Gareth and Milena followed closely behind. Gareth, who likewise recognized Allen, was already itching for a rematch.
Ambrose led Allen far from the tavern, all the way into a small grove.
Only after erecting a barrier against all spying did he finally turn and say, "Don't tell me you came all this way just to pick a fight."
By then, Allen had regained his bearings. He drew his battered sword.
"Tell me," he said coldly, "did you kill those civilians?"
Allen Watson had chased the lich through hours of wind and dust for one reason alone: vengeance for those wronged villagers. No matter who the enemy was, he would not back down.
But Ambrose answered without hesitation, "Those five civilians? I didn't kill them."
Allen's anger flared. "I never said how many there were!"
Was this lich mocking his intelligence with such a clumsy lie?
Yet Ambrose showed no embarrassment at all. Instead, he said firmly, "I killed five bandits who tried to rob and stab me, not the ‘civilians' you're talking about."
"You dare slander them even after killing them?!"
Holy light began to gather around Allen's blade, its radiance drawing a flicker of surprise from Ambrose.
"You actually became a legend? I thought Lyon was exaggerating!"
The kid was barely in his twenties!
Ambrose couldn't help feeling a stab of envy. Had the Lord of Dawn granted him some hidden boon? Becoming a legend at that age was practically cheating.
Seeing Allen's resolute expression, Ambrose sighed. "You're too stubborn. Looks like you won't listen unless you're given a good beating."
Allen's gaze locked onto him. He still burned with the humiliation of having been captured, helpless and unable to resist. Today, he would cleanse that shame.
But Ambrose's next words shattered that expectation. "Gareth, he's yours. Give the kid a proper lesson."
Gareth let out a booming laugh as he stepped forward. "Remember me, kid?"
Allen's pupils shrank to pinpoints. That headless knight! He had shrunk his body and changed his armor—no wonder Allen hadn't recognized him at first.
Back then, Gareth had crushed him effortlessly. He hadn't even been able to overcome a single finger from Gareth.
That painful memory surged back, but instead of growing fearful, Allen smiled. "Of course I remember," he said. "But I'm not the same as I was back then."
His sword flashed. Blazing holy light surged forth, forming a radiant blade that slashed toward Gareth's chest.
The strike carried a hint of the Silvermoon Knight's former brilliance.
Gareth let out a surprised grunt. The boy had transformed completely since their last encounter.
As the sword descended, Gareth caught it barehanded, crushing the holy energy that was meant to counter the undead between his fingers.
But before he could retaliate, Allen had already flashed behind him. His blade, wreathed in holy light, thrust toward the gap beneath Gareth's arm, the weakest point in his armor.
If the blade could pierce through, holy light would flood in and destroy his undead body from within.
But the strike didn't land. As if he had eyes in the back of his head, Gareth twisted his arm as his elbow smashed into the blade.
The force nearly knocked the sword from Allen's grip. He staggered back, hastily retreating to dissipate the overwhelming impact.
Only then did Gareth turn around, a note of approval in his voice. "Not bad, truly. You've improved by leaps and bounds. You just became a legend, didn't you? And you're no half-baked one, either."
Ambrose rolled his eyes. Was that aimed at him?
Allen watched Gareth warily. His opponent was even stronger than expected. Victory might be impossible; perhaps a tactical retreat was wiser.
His legendary boon allowed limitless teleportation. If he chose to run, escape would be easy.
But just as he was about to withdraw, Gareth slammed a fist against his chest.
The black armor dissolved into thick smoke, drawn into the belt at his waist.
Barehanded, and now clad only in a thin shirt, Gareth faced him again. "Come on," he said. "Let me see what you've really got. That last strike wasn't your full strength, was it?"
Given the blatant provocation, Allen took a deep breath and attacked again.
Energy poured forth like moonlight, radiant and flawless. Gareth reached out once more, crushing it effortlessly in his bare hand. It hadn't been his armor doing the work: he could do the same even without it.
But this time, Allen didn't attempt a sneak attack. He fought head-on.
In his hands, the sword became a blazing mass of light, its trajectory impossible to follow with the naked eye.
Gareth no longer dared to casually catch the blade. Instead, he relied on nimble footwork, weaving around the attacks as he spoke. "This feels like the old days when I was being hunted by a group of paladins. Some of them had swordsmanship as good as yours. Too bad they weren't legends, or I'd be dead."
Allen, pouring everything he had into the fight, offered no response.
Years of training, techniques taught by the Silvermoon Knight, lessons learned on the battlefield—under the intense pressure radiating from his opponent, all that experience fused together. He shed the rigid form of the swordsmanship he had learned. Each strike became something natural, intuitive, almost divine.
Gareth turned serious. By the end, he had no choice but to start blocking some of Allen's blows.
"This kid's talent is ridiculous... he's learning from me even as we fight."
He added a bit more strength.
Immediately, Allen felt the difference. No matter how he attacked, no matter the angle, timing, or variation, Gareth was always one step ahead. That broad hand seemed to be waiting precisely where his wrist would strike, forcing him to constantly adjust his moves.
Minutes passed. Neither of them managed to land a clean hit.
Ambrose, however, was growing impatient. "Gareth, stop playing around. I'm in a hurry."
The moment he said that, Gareth's hand snapped out and seized Allen's wrist. With a crack, bone shattered. Allen's grip failed, and his sword fell to the ground.
No matter how gifted he was, he could not overcome a warrior who had fought through centuries of blood and slaughter. Time was a friend to geniuses, widening the gap between them and their peers. But time was also their enemy: their opponents might well be geniuses of their own, but with the benefit of centuries of experience.
Ambrose walked over and looked down at Allen. "Now," he said calmly, "are you ready to listen?"
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