Chapter 172: Moon Tide Festival

Robin wipes the bloodstains from his sword hilt, listening to the distant clatter of carriage wheels.

Lady Aishaer's gilt carriage turns a corner at the street, a half‑sheet of crimson‑purple veil visible through the window slit; three days ago she had just executed three incompetent attendants, yet now she can still attend the banquet wearing the pearl necklace the duke awarded her.

"What is the Legendary Knight thinking, sir?" The hoarse voice shatters the dusk; the old steward, leaning on a silver‑topped cane, stands behind him, candlelight flickering coldly on the mirror, "Are you pondering Duke Huo Ke's thunderous methods? Or the origin of the South Sea pearl at the lady's neck?"

The Shadow Count is truly relentless; he found Robin so quickly and even knows his assumed identity.

In truth, Robin wants to say, that is my real identity.

"What good news do you have?" Robin asked coldly.

Three days ago he had watched the duke's guard hang three male companions at the city gate; the spasms of their necks snapping overlapped oddly with the rose perfume drifting from the carriage now.

"Nobles' law always tastes like honey‑marinated blades." He deliberately knocked the sword scabbard against the stone steps, sparks scattering onto the steward's polished leather shoes, "When you cut ants you see blood and choke them, but when you meet a poisonous snake you won't even dare to scrape off a scale."

The old steward chuckled low, pulling a roll of Parchment from his cuff.

The wax seal's iris flower emblem still held warm wax; it was Lady Aishaer's family crest.

"You should see this." He unfolded the page, revealing a dense array of red‑wax stamps, "Last month's smuggled iron‑ore list from the north bears the duchess's signature in the sign‑off column. And the youths hung three days ago were merely accountants handling dirty money for some lord."

Robin's pupils contracted sharply.

He suddenly recalled the rumor he'd heard at the tavern last week: Lady Aishaer's fleet had just returned from the Eastern Realm with thirty crates of amber, and Duke Huo Ke's private army was recruiting mercenaries suited for mountain warfare.

The hung male companions had calloused fingertips from years of writing; could it be that Lady Aishaer's power had grown to a level that even Duke Huo Ke must fear?

"The Count gave orders this morning!" The steward slipped the Parchment into Robin's sword scabbard at his waist, "Tomorrow there will be a festival. Rumor has it the duke and Lady Aishaer will both attend."

As the old man turned, his cloak brushed the moss at the wall base, his voice suddenly light as a feather, "Sir Robin, you should understand that some knives must be swung in the shadows so as not to soil the nobles' flower‑viewing gloves."

The night wind lifted Robin's tattered cloak; he ran his hand over the uneven pattern of the wax seal and suddenly remembered three years ago on the battlefield, when he thrust a broken Sword through an enemy commander's throat, that man's eyes had shown a similar light.

Not fear, but a sudden, dawning despair.

He looked up at the star‑strewn night sky; Lady Aishaer's carriage had already vanished behind the rose‑wall, leaving only a faint trace of sandalwood scent.

Robin clenched the roll of Parchment, his knuckles whitening from the strain.

Perhaps, as the old steward said, his "Legendary" as a wandering Knight must act foolish enough to be accepted by the two.

"It's time to hone the Sword." He whispered to the void; the Parchment inside the scabbard rustled softly, sounding like something growing in the dark.

Far off, the church bells thundered, startling a flock of night crows that swooped over the duke's mansion's spire; in the shadows of their flapping wings, Robin seemed to see countless faces, blackened by ropes, rising from the nobles' goblets, silently mocking the direction of the Moon Tide Festival.

The Moon Tide Festival at Beilong'er Lake in the Western Frontier opened its curtains on the autumn‑equinox night.

The lake surface was dyed by millions of glass lanterns into flowing gold‑red; twelve carved water pavilions supported an altar built of birch and cornflowers, and when the last petal of sunset sank into the lake's heart, seventy‑two girls in silver‑scaled gauze skirts stepped onto lily pads like floating ice, casting pearl‑adorned fishing nets onto the glittering water.

This was the most sacred "Prayer‑Fishing Rite"; legend says the moon god will tonight turn the star fragments into silver fish that fall into the net, heralding a bountiful year.

The nobles' carriages parked one after another along the lakeside promenade, their wheels crushing the carpet of golden‑capped flower petals.

Robin held Lady Aishaer's gilt invitation, deliberately donned his half‑worn Chainmail, and tucked a bluebell he'd picked from the wild into the inner side of his cloak.

Three days ago in the lady's rose garden, he saw the personal maid Fengling staring blankly at that kind of flower.

The main tent's curtains were woven from snow‑silkworm silk and amethyst strands; in the central brazier burned ambergris mixed with the scent of roasted venison.

Amid the crowd Robin caught sight of Fengling: today she had shed her plain long dress for a midnight‑green satin gown, the cuffs embroidered with a night‑dew‑grass emblem that only noble ladies dare use, silver‑butterfly hairpins trembling with each step, making her look more thrillingly beautiful than when she polished silverware in the kitchen.

This showed how high Fengling's status was beside Lady Aishaer.

"Sir Knight, what are you looking at?" Fengling's voice, mingling with the harp music from the lake's center, floated suddenly from behind. She pinched a piece of crisp roasted venison between her fingers, the oil glinting amber under the moonlight, "Or are you counting whether the crystal lamps on the pavilions are enough to replace your broken Sword?"

Robin raised an eyebrow, noting a marigold petal clinging to her ear. "I'm thinking," he said, leaning close to the silver‑butterfly in her hair, inhaling a faint whiff of cornflower scent.

That was the most expensive Eastern spice in the lady's perfume cabinet.

"What exactly has happened these past days? Why does the scent of blood reach two streets away, and what occurred inside the duke's mansion?"

Fengling's fingertips tightened sharply, venison crumbs scattering on the satin. She turned and walked toward the lake shore, her skirt sweeping over a sea of candle tears.

Robin followed her onto the floating bridge; the planks beneath his feet swayed gently in the ripples, and in the distance the altar's girls carried wooden basins brimming with silver fish in a procession, moonlight threading through the fish gills to paint tiny bright spots on her side profile.

"Look at that fishing net," she suddenly pointed at the glowing silver net in the lake's heart, her voice as light as if afraid to wake the lake‑bottom moon god, "It seems able to catch stars, but every mesh hides a barb. Last year, a fisherwoman tried to pluck a pearl from the net's edge, but the barb sliced her palm, blood staining the lake, and that night's catch tasted of rust."

"What are you trying to say?" Robin asked, puzzled.

"Some matters are beyond our rank to meddle with; don't ask, those three Legendary Knights died that night," Fengling said, then showed a lingering look of lingering fear.

Robin lowered his head, saw a barely visible scar at the base of her ring finger, suddenly seized her hand, and earnestly said, "The duke's mansion is too dangerous; how about you come with me and flee the Western Frontier?"

(End of Chapter)