Chapter 166: Rescuing the Beauty

Outside the castle, the night wind fluttered Robin's velvet cloak.

He brushed the spell scroll hidden in his cuff, and the rosemary scent behind his ear suddenly turned scorching.

It wasn't perfume; it was the Order power surging in his bloodline, tearing away the disguise's coating to reveal the Wei Erke family's fangs.

When the second bell rang across the starry sky, he laughed softly: perhaps his mother was right—the true blade never shows its edge; it hides among roses, waiting for prey to come and kiss its tip.

The Viscountess chose Robin as a pawn to approach Lady Aishaer because of the latter's highly particular collecting habit—Duke Huo Ke's second wife was keen on gathering male companions, from the silver‑haired lute player of the Northern Snow Wolf Tribe to the glazed‑lamp craftsman of the Eastern Desert; her "collection" spanned the continent's oddities.

Robin's status formed a deadly lure: a young swordsman not yet officially a Legendary Knight, such a "living exhibit" was unique in Aishaer's display case.

More crucial was Robin's "invisible" identity: as the heir of the Wei Erke family in the Western Realm, he had only just returned to the West, had not attended any special banquets in the past two years, spending most of his time on the training grounds and rarely appearing in aristocratic gatherings.

Most only knew the Viscount's son was named "Allen," yet his appearance remained vague, let alone Lady Aishaer, who had never set foot in the northern Western Realm—to her, the silver‑haired youth calling himself "Allen" was just another "Northern treasure" to be added to her collection.

The next day, Robin, using the network the Viscountess had secretly woven, assumed the forged identity of a "Northern wandering bard Allen" and stepped through the bronze great gate of Horen Imperial Gate City.

The Western Realm's largest city resembled a coiled iron‑shell beast, its walls built of black stone alloyed with mithril, glinting a cold, hard metallic sheen in the sun.

Although its fame was eclipsed by Oberdi's dazzling lanterns and Minerva's scholarly brilliance, the duke Huo Ke's xenophobic policy turned it into a steel slab—foreign footsteps were nailed to the walls by crossbow bolts from the towers before they even reached the streets.

Robin's boot soles tread the mottled cobblestones, and the Sin-Cleaving Sword hidden beneath his cloak warmed slightly.

A drunk at the corner glanced at him with cloudy eyes, but upon seeing the forged bard badge on his chest, spat a mouthful of blood‑stained saliva disdainfully.

In this city driven by gears and authority, art was merely a garnish on aristocratic tables; only the Huo Ke family's crest could pass unimpeded.

He looked up at the towering spire of the duke's mansion, studded with colored glass from the Eastern Realm, each shard refracting a different light of intrigue.

The Viscountess's intel was correct: Lady Aishaer had this morning ordered a tea set in the garden, awaiting a mysterious noble from the Snow Kingdom.

At this moment, Robin's hair still carried the rosemary essential oil the Viscountess had brewed herself, its scent mingling with the forged lute case's wood aroma, drifting with the north wind through the city toward the rose bushes blooming at the duke's mansion.

In the shadows of Horen Imperial Gate City, the gears of a mechanical clock turned silently.

Robin's fingertip brushed the hot‑stamped pattern on the edge of the magical scroll, the rough parchment feel reminding him of the training ground's grit.

From afar, the clank of armor rang like a drumbeat, and the Sin-Cleaving Sword lodged in his chest quivered—a reflex of the blade anticipating its draw.

A gust at the corner lifted his dark‑green velvet cloak, revealing the faint Order crest beneath the lining, shimmering a cold silver in the dusk.

The carriage bells of Lady Aishaer rang from afar to near, while seven snow foxes wearing pearl collars trotted before the car, breaking the slanting sun.

Robin timed his turn at the corner, catching sight of the lady pulling back a velvet curtain; the jade bracelet on her wrist glowed faintly in the sunset, matching the Viscountess's description to the last detail.

Just as he was about to bend down to pluck a string, three dark silhouettes darted from the alley; the glint from mechanical prosthetic eyes beneath hoods revealed custom assassination gear of the Wei Erke death knights.

"Careful!" Robin's string snapped in response, the clear clang of the Sin-Cleaving Sword drawing mingling with the tearing of the magical scroll.

The first death knight's fist whooshed forward, but three inches before reaching his face it was blasted back by a golden chain.

It was the half‑exposed Order power he deliberately displayed, blooming fragmented gold light in the air like bait.

Amid Lady Aishaer's gasp, Robin spun, slashing the second dagger; the blade, while sliding across the death knight's throat, suddenly veered and left a shallow scar on the opponent's shoulder guard.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, kneeling on one knee, the Sin-Cleaving Sword propped on the blood‑stained stone slab; as he lifted his head, his left pupil constricted slightly from adrenaline.

Lady Aishaer clutched her ruby necklace over her heart, but her gaze was drawn to the blood droplet seeping from Robin's collarbone—a "battle scar" he had deliberately slashed with a dagger last night, now especially alluring amid the rosemary scent.

"Your sword," the lady's fingertip trembled lightly, unsure whether from fear or excitement.

"Just a wandering bard's toy," Robin muttered, wiping the blade; the Order power burned like a fine flame within his veins.

From afar, guards shouted, yet before the death knights slipped into shadow, he whispered in a voice only they could hear, "Tell my father, the first step of the plan is complete."

When Lady Aishaer's carriage departed under a guard of soldiers, Robin noticed the silk handkerchief she had slipped him, embroidered with a half‑bloomed rose.

Robin unfolded the handkerchief scented with rose perfume, his fingertips brushing the tiny silver bell hidden in the embroidery thread.

It was the "invitation" the Viscountess had spoken of.

At noon the next day, when the wooden door of the inn room was knocked, he was polishing the Sin-Cleaving Sword; the Order crest on its hilt cast a rhombus of light in the sun, landing precisely on the pale figure standing at the doorway.

The wind chime's skirt brushed the dust‑laden carpet; the maid who always lowered her eyes had delicate lace around her fingertips, yet when handing the teacup she revealed a thin callus on her thenar—a mark of years wielding a whip.

"The lady said the knight who rescued the beauty last night shouldn't live in a drafty attic," she said, her voice like honeyed poison, "especially when his strings carry the scent of the north wind."

Robin looked up, colliding with a leather‑whip tassel slipping from her cuff; it was woven from a male companion's hair, matching the "collectibles" described by the Viscountess.

"Please convey my regards to the lady!" he said, sheathing the Sin-Cleaving Sword into the lute case; the metallic clang concealed a subtle Order ripple, "The wandering bard's strings tremble only for those who appreciate them."

The teacup tapped lightly on the table, its surface reflecting the wind chime's suddenly narrowed pupil—she clearly sensed the force that did not belong to a "bard."

This was the true pressure of a Legendary Knight, far beyond what the wind chime could withstand.

(End of Chapter)