TO&FQ: Book 2 - Chapter 36 (RAW)

Chapter 36 - The Dragon Turtle

Invincibility lies in the defence; the possibility of victory in the attack.

- Sun Tzu.

Seraphina’s party ran at a light jog, it would do them no good to arrive to a potential fight tired. Only the blonde girl wore a full harness of brigandine and platemail, her ridiculous Strength and Constitution making the ensemble as cumbersome as an evening dress. However, without horses the men had chosen to wear half plate or chainmail.

The party found Desdemona looking listless and bloody, surrounded by quite a number of broken, dead bodies. Some of which, Seraphina wryly observed, had more than a few chunks taken out of them.

Desdemona really did look like she was in an almost post-coital daze. It was of note that she was also not naked, her red dress just stained and sticky in parts with a different crimson.

The rest of Seraphina's party, quite justly, a bit out of place and horrified at the spectacle. 

But Seraphina had already seen her fair share of horrors, her strong mind capable of compartmentalizing anything and everything. And, when faced with a beast you could only show strength.

She lifted her chin proudly and addressed the de Savant girl. “Have you had enough fun? Got it out of your system, darling?”

Desdemona blinked, growling for a moment before she coughed in embarrassment and gave her friend a small nod.

“Where are the rest of the villagers, my dear?” Seraphina asked, coming closer and placing a firm hand on her shoulder.

Desdemona looked up at her, eyes slowly focusing on the blonde girl. “They all ran away while these were distracted,” she answered pointing to the bodies of soldiers clad in eastern-looking armor.

Seraphina breathed an internal sigh of relief. If the de Savant girl under the throes of her transformation had killed or injured some of the villagers it might have affected their completion rewards.

“You did very well, Desdemona. I just knew you had it in you,” Seraphina replied with a pleased smile.

She really had done exceptionally well. Desdemona, having dealt with this initial encounter in such a lightning-fast fashion, gave them some float time to clear the trial early without bothering to protect the other villages.

This would be over before even her best predictions. It was time for a speed run clear.

Were this a game, Seraphina would have been tempted to target the mini-bosses before going for the head honcho of this Trial. But she was the leader and responsible for this group; she would not risk even her pawns needlessly.

She would have Ibn do that instead.

The time now was for a deception. Eloise, who upon the next part of her plan hinged upon, had to have sufficient Charisma to pass a few checks coming. Seraphina hoped that the added bonus of her being in the same party would be enough.

“Collect as much of the usable gear as possible. We are now going to be Lady Eloise’s, now Lady Mingtian of the Seventh Circle of Earth’s prisoners. Boys, you are to be her auxillae escort. Lady Mingtian has strange, eccentric tastes that way. Do not do anything more than a surly grunt,” she ordered, addressing her group.

“That's all well and good, milady, but if we are her auxillae then surely we don't need to don these poor people's gear?” Sir Frest asked annoyingly, losing him a few points in Seraphina's eyes.

She frowned. He did have a point, but the young noblewoman did not like being second-guessed. And more importantly, did not like admitting her mistakes. “It is to add some veracity to the whole thing,” she replied airily. “Now, get changed and see if you can wrangle us some horses,” she suggested to Giles and Krayton. 

Dutifully, the brothers wandered off.

“Lady Seraphina, I understand that to conquer this Trial, we must ultimately defeat the Empire’s general. But you told us it would happen on the battlefield—after we rescue a few villagers from the Empire’s brutal chevauchée tactics. That’s when King Elidion I is supposed to arrive, just in time to force the Empire into open combat—and compel the general to face him directly. Then we basically do something you called a ‘kill-steal,’ correct?”

“Yes, but thinking on it again, all of that sounds rather messy and I fear will take up far too much time. I would rather be back in time for tea, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, yes…”

“And, participating in a battle is much more dangerous than this plan. All sorts of things can go wrong you know,” Seraphina said with a shrug of her shoulders. 

“And… you do know all we need to do is get Desdemona or I within throwing distance of the General’s tent one way or another. According to the histories, he was quite the collector of foreign concubines, he simply will not be able to resist.”

Desdemona frowned at this. 

“Not you, darling, me,” Seraphina stated proudly, slapping at her breast. “That’s how we will get into camp. Men can overlook all sorts of gaps in their logic when they are faced with the objects of their desire. And… the men of his camp will know well of their leader’s desires…”

“You are betting quite a lot on your beauty there, Lady Seraphina,” Frest quipped.

“Shouldn’t you be helping the brothers wrangle some horses. You used to be good at that weren’t you? Especially the ones you didn’t own,” replied
Seraphina icily.

Frest instead of replying just gave her a quick salute before running off to join wherever the brothers had wandered off to.

***

The men and women under Seraphina’s command moved with practiced efficiency. After donning their newly acquired equipment and scrounging up a few serviceable mounts, they gathered in the village square. The ground was still damp from rain, and the air hung heavy with the scent of ash and blood.

To their surprise, a handful of survivors had begun to crawl out from hidden basements and root cellars—faces smeared with soot, eyes wide with disbelief at the sunlight they thought they’d never see again. Some wept openly. Others knelt in the mud, murmuring thanks or prayers in trembling voices. A hunched old man gripped Seraphina’s gloved hand with a reverence she found unsettling, while a young mother pushed forward to press a dried bouquet into Eloise’s arms, her eyes brimming with tears.

In exchange for one of Seraphina’s earrings—a fine ruby set in gold—and a solemn vow of vengeance, the villagers provided tack and supplies for the horses. They would not accept any money for the horses and just asked her to return them. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Still, Seraphina shook her head as she watched them bow and scrape. Had their survival not influenced the dungeon’s reward calculations, she was not entirely sure she would’ve bothered. It was a grim thought, and she pushed it aside.

These people, she reminded herself again, were not real. Perhaps they had been real once upon a time, but these were mere memories. Remembrances given tangible form to help test those who challenged a Trial.

Was treating them as humans also part of the test?

Now fully outfitted and mounted, the party was ready for the next, and hopefully final, stage. The dice would have to be cast—though technically, it was Eloise who would be rolling them.

Seraphina swung onto a dun-colored mare with practiced grace. Her hands were bound loosely in front of her, and her helm was hooked at her hip like an ornament. Her greatsword, too recognizable to display openly, had been swaddled in layers of cloth, its deadly profile disguised beneath the wrappings.

Desdemona, similarly bound and mounted, rode beside her. The pair of comely Aranthian noblewomen were roped together and tethered to Sir Frest’s mount by a leading rein, giving the appearance of captured prizes rather than commanders.

The rest of the group completed the deception. The men wore a mismatched array of Aranthian and Imperial armor, giving them the rough-hewn look of veteran mercenaries—dangerous, unsavory, and well-paid. Eloise, in her usual blend of modern Aranthian flair with classical Imperial elegance, completed the minor illusion. She looked every inch the eccentric noblewoman: imperious, unpredictable, and entirely convincing as the leader of this motley escort.

Seraphina cast one final glance across the square, meeting the eyes of each of her companions. She offered them a crooked smile before fixing her face into an expression of rebellious defeat. The young girl had a part to play, and all her life she had always played her roles well. Even if she detested playing the part of someone who had lost.

***

Travelling in a north-easterly direction through a lightly wooded stretch of land, the party kept a rapid clip on their borrowed horses. Leaf-dappled sunlight flickered across the column like a stuttering lantern, illuminating the rough disguise of patched armour and knotted ropes. Both she and Desdemona rode upright and steady despite their bound wrists, their posture regal enough to pass for dignified captivity. Here and there, the trees thinned, revealing jagged ridgelines to the north—territory the Imperial army was said to occupy in force before the war of Jade and Steel.

They had not gone more than a league when Seraphina’s mare flicked an ear and snorted a warning. Moments later, four riders appeared between the trees ahead. They wore the lamellar breastplates and peaked helms of Empire light cavalry, green-black lacquer dulled by travel grime. Their mounts fell into a wary trot, forming a loose chevron that blocked the trail. At the apex rode an officer no older than twenty, moustache wispy, shoulders squared as though parade-ground drilling could shield him from a world of ambushes.

Frest reined up, doing an admirable impression of a mercenary captain whose nerves were forever frayed. Seraphina let her gaze slip half-lidded, chin tilted at just the angle to suggest defeated hauteur. Beneath the veneer her mind whirred—four scouts, light armour, sabres at the hip, cheap iron spear-heads. Easy prey. One whisper to Desdemona, one feint from Frest, and the forest floor would bloom crimson.

She almost gave the order. But, the empire’s scouts were worth pennies in experience; their deaths might even penalise negotiation routes or trigger an alarmed patrol. And, it would slow them down. Besides, Eloise was already nudging her sorrel horse forward.

The officer lifted a gloved fist, barked a challenge in the Empire tongue—a string of crisp, tonal syllables that was basically an archaic form of Mandarin. Seraphina’s lip twitched. Of all the grand cultures the developers could have invented, they’d taken the laziest shortcut: file off serial numbers, change a few words here and there, and call it “Imperial.” Oh, and they added a bit of Latin here and there, the lore being that a legion had once been transported from their world to this one.

It had irked her every time a character mispronounced a fourth-tone word, and the game subtitles had insisted it was ancient and dignified. However, it basically meant that Seraphina could understand the exchange.

Eloise answered smoothly in the same language. As much of a daughter of the Empire as she was Aranthian, her accent was impeccable. She opened her fan, a swirl of indigo and silver. At once, the scouts’ attention riveted to her like iron filings to a lodestone. She offered the officer a shallow bow, commending them on their duties for reclaiming this land for the glory of the Empire. She then spoke quickly, framing their presence as Eloise looking for glory on a path to Heaven. The words ransom and noble hostages glittered in the air like coins tossed onto a tavern table. Fortune had favored this Lady Mingtian, and she wanted to gain more honor by offering the general her war prizes of foreign flesh.

The officer’s scepticism wilted under that barrage of polite flattery and private greed. If this noblewoman found glory under the eyes of Heaven, then so would he by association. He motioned for his men to fan out, eyes narrowing at Seraphina and Desdemona. For a moment he picture himself mastering these Aranthian whores then thought better of it. 

As for the girls, they played their roles to perfection—backs straight, wrists tense against the rope, faces carved into masks of reluctant submission. One scout rode up to inspect the bundle that concealed Seraphina’s massive greatsword. Eloise glared at him, daring him to tug loose the cloth strips. He reconsidered with visible unease; the seeming captives radiated too much presence to be ordinary spoils.

While the scouts conferred in hushed tones, Seraphina’s gaze drifted to the treeline, measuring arrow angles and stride lengths out of habit. Four corpses, thirty heartbeats, her inner tactician noted. But the alarm would echo farther than steel can fly. She exhaled, forcing the calculation away. This was a mission of deception, not carnage—at least not yet.

Eloise returned at a trot, the officer riding beside her, chin lifted with the self-importance of a dog freshly awarded a ribbon. “Captain Chong has graciously offered to escort us directly to Lord Marquis Ma’s field camp,” she announced in broken Aranthian, voice pitched just loudly enough for the scouts to recognise the deference but none of the mockery, to the Seraphina’s men. “Our… escorts will ensure we suffer no further indignities on the road.”

Seraphina offered Sir Frest a quick look, silently appending—not yet. The party fell in behind the Imperial riders. As they set off, Desdemona leaned close, whispering from the corner of her mouth, “I assume we’re still alive because murder was not quite necessary? Let me… run wild. Please…”

“Restrain yourself, a sword without a sheath is useless,” Seraphina replied, though the words tasted sour. Secretly, she agreed with Desdemona and would have much preferred lopping off the escorts’ heads. She had never liked letting potential threats get so close to her. Still, the living could open doors locked to a corpse.

Their new escorts kept a brisk military pace, rattling off occasional remarks in that pseudo-Mandarin dialect. Seraphina caught most of the phrases—references to siege engines, supply wagons, complaints about the Count’s impatience for gathering his “prizes” for his hareem back home, which could only mean the two “Aranthian nobles” now riding behind them. She filed the intel away, even as irritation simmered. If her developers insisted on plagiarising Earth cultures, they really should have at least hired decent linguistic consultants.

The forest thinned to scrubland dotted with flinty outcrops. Ahead, banners snapped above a rise—crimson silk stamped with the gold-thread dragon of the Empire. And beneath it was Lord Marquis Ma’s heraldry, a stylized tortoise with a serpentine neck. Drums rolled like distant thunder. Seraphina straightened in her saddle, allowing a flicker of anticipation to spark behind her feigned defeat. The board was set; the pieces were advancing. All that remained was to decide when to strike the blow that would cut off the head of this odious serpent.