Chapter 136: Knight Martin

The patron had barely finished speaking when hurried footsteps scrambled across the deck, followed by several splashes as bodies jumped overboard in quick succession; those who missed the chance immediately set up betting pools on the spot.

That shout not only called for help—crew members drawn by the spectacle reached the upper deck faster than Kraft and Martin, crowding the rail to join the watching crowd and betting circle, cheering for their chosen swimmers and critiquing their strokes.

The situation quickly devolved into farce. Many of the skilled sailors had grown up along the warmer waters of the Tem River, where swimming had been their childhood pastime; rescuing a drowning person held no difficulty or seriousness for them.

Martin pushed through the crowd first, crossbow in hand, reaching the rail just as the fastest contestant nearly caught up to the sinking figure. So far, it sank more than rose—the splashes were growing smaller, but the sailor should still be able to pull the person up.

The atmosphere was electric; winners collected a coin or two as stakes, while companions laughed and cursed at the losers, handing over their coins. Martin still held his crossbow, watching—Kraft strongly suspected that if the target stirred again, he would fire another arrow regardless of the risk of hitting the rescuer.

But for now, that wasn't a concern. One sailor dove beneath the surface and resurfaced, having hooked the drowning man under the armpits, gripping his chest. The following rescuers didn't turn back immediately; instead, they paused briefly, helping to support the victim's body as they swam back.

Sailors at the rail lowered a rope ladder to welcome them aboard.

The entire rescue went smoothly—there was none of the frantic tugging typical of drowning victims, saving the sailors considerable effort; the man lay limp as if unconscious, obediently allowing them to drag him to the rail and haul him onto the deck, requiring no extra hands.

Everything was excellent: skilled technique, prompt response, teamwork, and safety awareness—if only the rescued man were still alive.

Kraft reached the drowning man's side; his professional instincts immediately sensed something deeply wrong—the skin's dominant hue was a ghastly pallor, and the chest showed no sign of breathing.

He placed his fingers two finger-widths beside the trachea for a moment; it felt like touching freshly thawed meat—icy cold, with no pulse whatsoever.

By standard rescue protocol, if he still hoped the man could speak, he should clear the airway and begin CPR immediately—but the two crossbow bolts' entry points made him abandon the idea.

The first bolt—the one that ruined his swimming posture—had struck the thigh, rendering someone without pain tolerance utterly incapacitated, reduced to flailing in place. The second bolt pierced from behind, near the shoulder blade, entering around the eighth intercostal space, creating an open pneumothorax, then angled upward through the mediastinum between the lungs.

The mediastinum contained too many vital structures: esophagus, trachea, aorta, the heart at roughly the same level. Chest compressions were impossible with that lodged inside, extraction was unfeasible, and emergency surgery couldn't resolve such a complex injury.

In short: wait for death.

Oh, seems there's no need to wait—likely already dead.

Upon seeing the victim's condition, those who had gathered to gawk immediately stepped back a full circle, noticing Martin's crossbow still clutched in hand.

"This damned heretic poisoned the food, intending to murder the faithful of the Lord."

Excellent—first, draw a line: label it heresy, aligning himself with the onlookers as fellow believers. Such practiced maneuvering clearly marked him as a member of a violent organization with prior experience.

In truth, no explanation was needed—if a man carried a sword, carried a portable crossbow, and openly declared he had killed the man and offered a reward for recovery, it was obvious he held special status and legitimate grounds—or better yet, you'd best acknowledge his special status and legitimate grounds.

The atmosphere grew tense; the sailors weren't sure whether to let Martin act—he showed no tangible evidence. Until the captain arrived, alerted by the crew, and learned the full account.

"A heretic? Poisoned? That's truly dreadful…"

"He placed poison berries in my fruit platter," Kraft stepped forward to explain—the physical evidence was preserved, though no one could prove it came from the corpse. His connection to the captain through William lent him enough credibility.

The captain wanted to throw Martin overboard immediately, but considering he was a friend of a friend, and given the man's clearly unusual status, he had to endure it, assuming the role of temporary maritime judge: "I need to see those berries—and his cabin belongings."

"When we next dock, I'll handle the explanation to the port authorities—we're hunting these people. I hope no one speaks out after we disembark." The man spoke with utter confidence, casually sliding the crossbow back beneath his robe, even taking the upper hand.

In truth, the matter was already settled. The captain did hold temporary maritime jurisdiction—but it absolutely did not extend to someone who looked dangerously powerful, clearly of high standing, and unwilling to reveal his identity. Since the man was so certain local officials wouldn't touch him, let the port authorities deal with him.

"Don't touch anything on the body," Martin said, then turned with the captain toward the cabin, his expression grim—perhaps he'd preferred to pull up a living man.

Fortunately, belladonna was indeed found in the cabin, stored in a half-empty basket alongside baskets of other berries—apparently intended to be deliberately mixed and served to the victim.

Perhaps the man hadn't anticipated the perfect opportunity: someone who remembered the exact position of every blueberry. Martin and Kraft's counterattack came so swiftly, they confronted him without alerting anyone, leaving him no time to clean up.

Then he made his second mistake: openly revealing his suspicion and attempting to flee by swimming. Normally, that wouldn't be a mistake—he really did swim fast. But not fast enough to outpace the custom portable crossbow Kraft had never seen before.

The captain's face was no better than Martin's—poison meant for assassination had been smuggled aboard. Only luck saved them: the target was a passenger, not the crew. Had it been placed on the dining table, half the ship would be dead.

"I'll testify for you, but I can't possibly continue the voyage—our contract doesn't cover this."

"No problem. The next stop is our destination: Westminster. After that, this ship has nothing to do with it." Martin handed the half-basket of belladonna to Kraft, who was thoroughly satisfied. "Also, I need to temporarily borrow this cabin."

"For the body."

He shoved unrelated items aside, clearing the floor, then carried the corpse back to the very place it had just escaped from.

…

"I assume you want to explain something to me—and you should." Martin closed the door, and Kraft voiced the question he'd anticipated. He could suppress curiosity, politely avoid prying into others' secrets. But when it concerned himself, matters changed.

A clearly professionally trained armed operative—even if not a knight, likely a knight-in-training squire—traveling to Westminster to deliver a letter to an academic gathering.

That alone would be odd enough. But he carried a custom crossbow, and his loading motion was practiced, not forced. If even messengers were this skilled, was the university's security force sweeping the entire kingdom? When was the king going to replace the rector of Rivers University?

Kraft couldn't pretend ignorance anymore—he needed an answer today.

"This is complicated." The situation had erupted suddenly; Martin had shot a living man without hesitation, yet offered no immediate explanation.

He had many secrets, but most clearly couldn't be disclosed at his discretion. His hesitation revealed much: this situation was unplanned; whatever his affiliation or whose will he represented, events had already partially slipped from their control.

Trouble. Kraft would rather hear him say firmly, "Don't ask what you shouldn't—just follow me," than face a teammate lost in thought—even a temporary one.

"Then let's change tactics. You don't have to speak." Compared to waiting for reluctant answers, direct questioning better suited the doctor's habits. "I'll ask. You answer yes or no. If you won't answer, say so. That's fair, right?"

Martin nodded. At this point, a compromise both could accept was best.

"First—is this academic gathering invitation real?"

Upon hearing the question, Martin relaxed slightly. "Yes. The academic gathering, held every three years, is a Rivers University tradition—every college participates. In recent sessions, the invitation has expanded to include scholars who've made breakthrough contributions in medicine."

"What about the honorary professorship?"

"Also real. The Oakleaf Medal has already been prepared in the hall—cast in gold, inlaid with emeralds by craftsmen who've served Westminster Castle for generations. It's a symbol of honor meant to be passed down alongside armor."

"Alright…" Kraft temporarily believed him—these details were too hard to fake. Then why would someone try to assassinate a harmless man who'd merely come to collect an award?

"So the 'heretic' you mentioned earlier—was that made up?"

"No. It's true." Martin's face twisted again with that familiar mix of irritation and revulsion. He kicked the corpse, then pulled up the waterlogged thin shirt, searching for something.

"There's a heretical cult in Westminster Castle using a single ring as their symbol—causing trouble everywhere: extortion, murders, strange rituals. They've hanged plenty, but never managed to eradicate them cleanly."

Ring symbol, extortion, rituals, too big to control… Kraft thought deeply. I strongly suspect you're hinting at that ancient, kingdom-wide organization with countless followers, industrialized operations, its own armed forces, and hated by nearly every noble.

Seeing Kraft's misinterpretation, Martin immediately corrected himself: "Their symbol is only a single ring—like this."

He peeled off the shirt and turned the corpse over—a poorly done tattooed ring appeared, inked around an old scar, encircling a slightly raised, discolored patch of healed tissue.

"Their custom: they mark any wound on the body with a circle. Fanatical believers without wounds will create one themselves—cutting, burning, anything."

"What about the Inquisition and local lords?" For such a thing to thrive near Westminster—right next to the kingdom's center, under the Church's strongest influence—was an unimaginable disgrace.

"These damned heretics pose as Church members to preach, even altering doctrine from the Holy Scripture. Those who can't even write their own names have been deceived for years before they're discovered!"

"Worse—they alter it so convincingly, even Church knights might not know the original better. The Church lacks manpower, and how could any lord possibly investigate this himself?"

He very much wanted to ask if this wasn't some splinter sect expelled from the Church, but considering Martin's mood, he swallowed the question and pressed on with the matter at hand.

"Does this have anything to do with the academic gathering?"

"No," Martin flatly denied any connection, "I am only responsible for ensuring your safe arrival in Vestminster and for you to perform what a professor ought to do. These non-medical matters are irrelevant."

It was a straightforward answer, though its credibility was questionable. If he had truly been invited for medical reasons, it hardly seemed like a pure academic gathering or title conferment.

These were all cover stories—meant to lure Kraft here and impress others. They needed medical aid, using the academic gathering as a facade, sending a trusted person to accompany him.

"But this did happen—right here. An 'irrelevant' heretic placed poisonous berries in my fruit platter. Do you think that's a coincidence, Mr. Martin?"

"I don't know…" Clouds of doubt crossed his face; every word he uttered felt ungrounded—he couldn't understand what this half-professional assassination was about.

Their itinerary had been exposed, yet it was a heretic who came.

"Did the letter mention a high-ranking figure coming to bestow the insignia?" Kraft speculated casually, broadening his scope.

"…"

"Is it related to the content to be presented at the gathering?"

"…"

"Besides the gathering, what else do you need me to do?"

"…"

Fine. Everything was a mess—an invitation with an unclear ultimate purpose, linked to a heretic network deeply entrenched in the noble Church's inaccessible corners, and their guide stammered, silent, powerless to decide.

"Alright, Sir Martin, at least your name is real, isn't it?" Kraft picked up the basket, opened the door that wouldn't latch, as if he'd just remembered the least important matter before leaving.

"Yes… hmm?" Martin, having endured the barrage of questions, answered instinctively in his usual form of address, momentarily distracted.

Ah… Sir Martin.