Chapter 31: The Elven Ranger—Deng Ken!

Time flew by.

Before he knew it, Deng Ken had been transported to the Medieval Era for nearly a month.

Aniya had reached an agreement with Duke Dintajier; she planned to rebuild her family’s fortunes in Britain and was now preparing, under Severus’s escort, to contact a fleet to transport the recruited exiles over.

Initially, there wouldn’t be many—just over three hundred men in a private mercenary force.

What Duke Dintajier thought was a powerful ally was actually the combined resources of two people: Aniya did have a fleet in North Africa, but her former private armed forces belonged to her deceased husband; after his accidental death, she lost all private military strength and had merely hired expensive mercenary guards.

That retired Imperial Guard had been utterly bewitched by her wealth and beauty, but Aniya didn’t even look at him twice.

These two “thighs” were Aniya’s—her wealth, her trade caravans, her connections—and Deng Ken’s—he had, in a single battle, recruited hundreds of exiles, mostly young and strong, who, once trained and reorganized, would form a private military force.

In the Empire, such a force was insignificant—likely crushed before it even gained momentum—but in Britain, after reorganization and integration, they could field nearly a thousand troops.

Duke Dintajier was an old fox.

He wouldn’t give up any of his own lands; instead, under the guise of an alliance, he carved out a portion of territory already seized by the Saxons and granted it to Deng Ken and his group.

During his peak, his domain had expanded near Winchester, so with a wave of his hand, he gave them Southampton, held by the Saxons.

Despite appearing genuinely eager to recruit Deng Ken, when it came to granting land, he’d likely hand over only one or two small villages.

The fertile lands of Britain lay in the east, around London; even his own men had little good land, let alone any he’d be willing to give away.

It felt like cutting off his own flesh.

Talk of friendship was fine; talk of land was not.

“This old fox is making us reclaim his lost territories.”

Aniya fumed, teeth clenched—every stretch from Cornwall to Southampton had been overrun by the Saxons. If they could retake Southampton Port, they’d recover nearly all of Duke Dintajier’s lost lands.

Deng Ken, however, was unfazed, even pleased: “It doesn’t matter.”

“As long as we have the moral high ground.”

For Deng Ken, the most important thing was the legitimacy of his alliance—legal claim to a territory, even if it was still under Saxon control.

Lost land?

No problem—we’ll take it back.

In Deng Ken’s view, capturing Southampton Port was merely seizing less than one-fifth of a province—equivalent to conquering a few prefectural cities. He still had a good chance of sweeping it all in one stroke. It was like capturing more than half of Henan Province—you’d essentially control all of England.

Southampton was a vital port in England.

Geographically, it was the narrow tip of a small island jutting toward Europe on the British map—the future site of a major overseas harbor, naval base, and one of Britain’s top ten ports.

The island was called the Isle of Wight, reminding Deng Ken of a certain game’s “Wight’s Leg.”

Severus said grimly: “Even if we take it?”

“How do we hold it?”

“Kent Kingdom is in chaos now, but our strength alone won’t be enough to defend it.”

News arrived yesterday: Kent Kingdom was descending into turmoil, with uncle and nephew both vying for the throne.

Deng Ken rose calmly: “We don’t need to hold it.”

“Nor do we need to rush to take it.”

“First, train the troops.”

He turned to look at the Crow Queen—Tris, his voice firm: “The exiles still lack combat readiness. After reorganization, they need training and battlefield preparation.”

“When the time is right, we’ll push straight to Southampton.”

In his past life, he’d been a veteran Crusader Kings player.

At first, having no land didn’t matter—as long as he had money, grain, and men. Once he forged a solid force, he could rise up and seize territory anytime. The exiles weren’t all farmers—they were warriors from Gaulish tongues who had rebelled only because they could no longer survive.

Where would the money and grain come from?

Initially, from Aniya’s resources; later, through war-sustained warfare—raid, plunder, take what you can. The Saxons had plundered the Britons; now he’d lead his men to plunder the Saxons.

In this chaotic age, who feared whom? Everyone was gambling with their lives.

Severus hesitated: “Will they really follow us?”

Deng Ken said confidently: “Don’t worry—I have absolute certainty.”

The exiles were people who could no longer survive.

The Crow Queen—Tris seemed to guess Deng Ken’s plan; she rose abruptly, stunned: “You’re planning to…”

Deng Ken looked at her, smiled faintly, and calmly uttered two words—weighty as a thousand catties.

—“Land redistribution!”

What did he need so much land for? To become a medieval landlord?

Divide the land. Divide the fields.

Give them a true identity as free men—free from slavery and serfdom—so they could live with dignity, honor, and self-respect!

In the late Empire, land consolidation and slavery had become extremely severe.

Without any place left to live, how could so many rebels have arisen?

When Deng Ken spoke those two words, everyone fell silent—every person present understood the weight of “land redistribution.” Even Severus’s recruited Gallic warriors, upon grasping Deng Ken’s meaning, looked at him with blazing eyes!

Who in this age didn’t want land, fields, a house, and a wife? But the world offered them none—even armed men rarely owned a single plot of land.

Aniya couldn’t help but look up, a question forming in her heart.

If you give away all the land…

Then what about you?

In this era, noble families built their fortunes on vast estates—lords were always the greatest landowners.

Deng Ken smiled but said nothing.

It was the limitation of the age—he didn’t need to explain further.

The candle flame flickered.

Aniya, watching Deng Ken’s resolute expression, bit her lip: “I’ll leave tomorrow and send word to the North African fleet to hurry over.”

“I’ll arrange to ship over grain and weapons.”

At this stage, the startup capital still relied on Aniya—Deng Ken had men, but the exiles were all penniless.

The Crow Queen—Tris fell silent for a long while, then suddenly said: “I have a way to recruit a force of elite troops.”

Huh?

Where would elite troops come from?

Seeing Deng Ken’s puzzled gaze, the Crow Queen—Tris said gravely: “The temple guards who once served the Roman gods.”

“Their numbers are few—only twenty or thirty.”

Like a secret order?

Deng Ken’s expression brightened: “Perfect.”

If so, combined with the recruited exiles and some trained farmers, Deng Ken’s initial force could reach nearly five hundred men.

Night deepened.

Aniya had retired early—she was leaving tomorrow.

Deng Ken was considering his next move when he noticed the Crow Queen—Tris standing at the window, gazing at the moon. He walked over and draped a coat over her shoulders.

Witches’ bodies were only slightly stronger than ordinary people’s; last time, Tris had shivered from the cold.

Deng Ken gazed at Tris’s moonlit face, as beautiful as white jade, and whispered: “What are you thinking about?”

The Crow Queen—Tris turned her head slightly, leaning half against his shoulder, and murmured: “I’m thinking of that prophecy.”

“You don’t believe in prophecies, do you?”

Deng Ken slowly nodded—he truly didn’t believe in such things.

The Crow Queen—Tris turned to meet his eyes, deep as an abyss, making her spirit tremble slightly. She murmured: “The prophecy has changed.”

Huh?

Deng Ken looked puzzled.

The Crow Queen—Tris paused, then softly said: “That prophecy was the last guidance the gods gave me—a land beyond the sea, where we could find refuge.”

“But now, it’s different.”

Deng Ken hesitated: “What’s different?”

The Crow Queen—Tris gently touched Deng Ken’s sharp, chiseled cheek. Her voice held no joy, only a trace of worry: “Diana has answered my prayers again.”

Huh?!

Had the signal link to the ancient Roman and Greek pantheon been reestablished?

But Tris’s next words made Deng Ken fall into deep thought: “Only when it concerns you does the goddess give me the faintest response.”

The last mortal to draw such attention from the ancient Roman and Greek gods was Julian the Apostate.

The emperor who supported the restoration of the polytheist faction.

Tris was truly worried for his safety—after all, the ancient Roman and Greek pantheon had been destroyed for so long; she had long since given up hope.

She only wanted to find that overseas land, a place for them all to survive.

Julian the Apostate died under mysterious circumstances.

Surrounded by countless polytheist priests, the emperor suddenly died—some even speculated the spear that killed him was a disguised holy relic: the Spear of Longinus.

Upon receiving the goddess’s faint response, Tris’s first reaction wasn’t elation—it was dread for Deng Ken’s safety.

They had already lost.

Now, after so many centuries, the ancient Roman and Greek pantheon—long buried under its own tomb—suddenly took such interest in Deng Ken. How could Tris not feel unease?

Deng Ken immediately understood Tris’s meaning.

He looked down at the witch before him, whose face glowed like the moon, her beauty radiant. His intense gaze made her cheeks flush faintly, like a shy maiden. Finally, he couldn’t help but kiss her lightly, and said firmly: “Let things unfold naturally. Don’t dwell on these things.”

Deng Ken still bore the status “Odin’s Gaze.”

Too much debt won’t crush you.

It’s just one more Diana’s Gaze or Artemis’s Gaze.

The Witch-Queen-Tris made him realize one thing: the ancient Greek and Roman pantheons might not be entirely extinct—they were now in a state of factional collapse, exiled gods severed from faith and sacrifice in the mortal world.

As long as someone resumed their sacrifices, they could pry open their coffins and restore themselves in the mortal world.

Of course, they still couldn’t defeat the Church.

The sleeping Diana might have placed her bet on Deng Ken, hoping he would restore her worship in the mortal world, which was why she responded to prayers tied to him.

“So the ancient Roman and Greek pantheon still wants to use my power to make another comeback?”

This was Deng Ken’s conclusion after thinking it through.

He had become the last straw for this fallen pantheon, the next apostate—Julian.

Who cared? Use it while you can.

Deng Ken still wore Diana’s insignia and bore the “Odin’s Gaze” status; unless a true god descended personally into the mortal world, he wasn’t the least bit worried.

Perhaps his confidence affected Tris before him—the Witch-Queen couldn’t resist rising on her toes to kiss him, whispering, “I’ll visit Merlin tomorrow.”

Deng Ken said gravely, “Shall I escort you?”

The Witch-Queen-Tris shook her head slightly. “No. Since entering Britain, my power has recovered considerably.”

“This land is different. The power of the mythic age hasn’t fully faded.”

Like how Severus restored the Druids’ supernatural abilities here?

Or is there an Avalon hidden in the mist?

Deng Ken hadn’t unlocked his mana bar yet, so he couldn’t sense any difference.

It was time to find a way to unlock the mana bar.

Not having unlocked it yet just meant he hadn’t killed enough! Killing more enemies with spellcasting ability might do it!

Action without delay.

The next day, Deng Ken headed straight for the Saxon-occupied region, armed with full gear, riding a warhorse, ready to slaughter heavily in these war-torn zones.

Strictly speaking, escorting the Witch-Queen-Tris to Britain completed the first phase of his mission.

Now he needed to establish a foothold in Britain.

It was time to go out alone and make a splash!

A lush, green forest.

Deng Ken emerged from the southwest, his warhorse ambling behind, grazing.

From his God’s-eye view, several kilometers away lay a small town marked as Devon Town; the strategic map clearly showed hundreds of hostile markers.

“Probably a Saxon-occupied town.”

Deng Ken checked the sky and decided to act at night.

Night deepened.

In his God’s-eye view, Deng Ken adjusted the projection—darkness became daylight—and he crept forward silently.

The population was roughly two to three thousand.

Most were neutral markers; only soldiers carried hostile markers. Ordinary Saxon civilians were neutral too, meaning they wouldn’t attack on sight.

The town was encircled by a wooden wall, little more than a fence, with watchtowers at two entry points, patrolled by guards.

—Saxon Militia Spear-and-Shield Men.

Fwip!

An arrow sliced through the air.

Deng Ken drew and shot silently, instantly killing the Saxon guard on the watchtower with a headshot.

“About three to four meters high.”

He calculated the height and distance, then sprinted forward, leaping up to grip the fence, spinning three hundred sixty degrees—his core strength granting him astonishing agility as he flipped cleanly over the wall.

He’d learned this move watching Geralt of Rivia—but never expected his current physique could pull it off, though not as smoothly.

“Time to hunt!”

Deng Ken landed soundlessly, scanned the map, cleared the watchtower, then headed straight for a spot near the encampment.

The Frankish throwing axe spun once in his palm.

Thud!

It buried itself into the skull.

Deng Ken rushed forward, dragging the body of an Anglo-Saxon axeman into a nearby dark alley.

On the map:

A dense cluster of markers—all identical: “British Prisoners and Slaves.”

They were locked in a place like a livestock shed.

Around twenty Saxon barbarian soldiers guarded it; some slept, others kept watch.

Fwip!

An arrow pierced the air.

One nightwatchman clutched his throat and collapsed, the arrow nearly severing his trachea, blood gurgling out.

Rapid fire.

The noise drew three patrolling barbarians; Deng Ken didn’t hesitate, firing a string of arrows—only thuds echoed in the dark, then all were corpses.

Clang!

He drew his sword. As a door beside him opened, the Oathkeeper flashed like frost, beheading a Saxon axeman on the spot.

Blood spurted wildly.

The thick stench of blood startled the livestock shed—dozens of terrified eyes turned toward him.

“Shh!”

In the firelight, Deng Ken raised a finger.

Inside the shed, seventy or eighty British slaves were crammed together—none dared make a sound, all holding their breath.

The British slaves wore only thin, tattered clothes, all chained together.

Clank!

The Oathkeeper’s blade severed the chains of one man—his marker read “British Legionary.”

Deng Ken tossed him an axe. “Find the keys.”

“Unchain the others.”

“Escape through the western gate—I’ve already taken out the guard there.”

In an instant:

More than half the British slaves in the stinking shed turned into green-marked units.

The British Legionary trembled slightly, gripping his axe, voice hoarse: “Who are you?”

Deng Ken smiled, turned away: “Call me the Ranger.”

“I’ll set fire to distract them—give you time to flee.”

“Don’t hesitate!”

“Go now!”

From the crowd rose a fierce man with whip scars across his face. “What about you? Won’t you come with us? I’ll stay and help you!”

—Sarmatian Horseman (Prisoner).

Deng Ken didn’t pause. “Don’t worry. If I want to leave, no one can stop me.”

“Follow the river into the forest, then head toward Cornwall.”

Minutes later:

A fire erupted suddenly in the southwest of the town—then a group of freed prisoners, armed and leading dozens of slaves, charged toward the western gate.

Deng Ken stood atop a roof, an unfeeling hunter beneath the black night sky.

One hundred fifty meters away.

A forty-five-degree arc shot—killing instantly the Saxon soldier who had spotted them fleeing.

Thud.

The British Legionary, who had just braced to fight, froze, turned back—but saw nothing. The night was pitch black; distant flames rose, the whole town in chaos.

He knew the Ranger who’d saved them was aiding them still.

Who was he?

How dared he storm a Saxon-occupied town alone?

“Go!”

The freed prisoners and slaves didn’t hesitate—they smashed through the gate and vanished into the wilderness under night.

On the rooftops near the barracks:

Deng Ken moved as lightly as an elven ranger, sliding down the eaves, nocking an arrow, and shooting dead a one-star target—“Saxon Elite Axeman”—who had rushed out in panic, still half-asleep, armor unfastened.

He’d been woken mid-sleep, hadn’t even donned his armor.

“It’s getting chaotic.”

The whole town was in turmoil. Once he confirmed all enemies had poured out, he sprinted, leapt onto a roof edge, then ran across adjacent rooftops, leaping nearly six meters to land on the opposite street, heading straight for the marker labeled “Priest.”

Creak.

A heavy door creaked open, releasing a stench of blood mixed with herbs from within the room.

Many mysterious symbols surfaced in the flickering firelight.

At the center lay numerous divination and sacrificial tools: bones inscribed with runes, their meanings unknown.

—Durgan (priest unit).

The Saxon barbarian priest pushed open the door and called out to the panicked servants; just as he opened his mouth to speak, an arrow sliced through the air and pierced his throat.

Fwip!

A second arrow struck, embedding itself in his forehead.

“That’ll do.”

Deng Ken withheld two arrows; he slipped into the chaotic crowd, cast a glance at the rapidly assembling bands of Saxon soldiers, and walked away without looking back.

He wanted to see how many days these Saxon barbarians could hold out—he’d never linger in battle. Whenever the enemy gathered, he withdrew; whenever he faced a formidable opponent, he withdrew. This crumbling wooden wall couldn’t stop him.

Precisely sixteen heads.

Deng Ken was not greedy; after leaping over the fence again, he sprinted straight for his warhorse and plunged into the dense forest.

Eat one bite at a time.

Tackle one task at a time.

I’ll come again tomorrow!

………………