Chapter 52 - Prince, Meeting the Prince Again

The wild boar twisted its neck upward and then saw the purple clothes, the purple hair, a familiar face, and a pair of cold, icy purple eyes.Squeal!

Pandora!

“Thud!”

The wild boar flipped over onto the ground, scared out of its wits. Before, after having bullied one or two animals, it had been beaten black and blue; after bullying three or four, it had been beaten to a bloody pulp. This time, nearly bullying from tail to snout, wouldn’t it be beaten to death?!

The next moment, the wild boar found strength from who knows where, its cumbersome body suddenly twisted, and it struggled to its feet. Its four short legs ran toward the depths of the forest as fast as if pounding garlic, truly a desperate escape.

Pandora, watching the increasingly distant figure of the wild boar, furrowed her brow. On any other day, she would definitely chase after it, to beat the wild boar within an inch of its life. But today…

Watching Richard walk by, heading toward the great mountain, Pandora ultimately blinked her eyes and didn’t chase after the wild boar, instead turning to follow Richard.

“Pant, pant, pant…”

The wild boar didn’t know how far it had run, gasping for breath, parched and tongue-tied, feeling like smoke was about to come out of its throat. It felt the effort was hardly worth it.

After bullying so many animals today, it had felt good, but it hadn’t gotten to drink any water, a serious loss. Moreover, not only could it not drink today, but it likely wouldn’t dare show up to drink for several days to come; if caught, it would surely be severely beaten.

What to do? There was only one good place nearby to drink, and the water in that pond was the sweetest; all other streams and puddles were turbid and undrinkable.

It had to find a solution, or it would die of thirst!

The wild boar panted and white steam continuously sprayed from its mouth and nose as it rolled its eyes and pondered the big issues of its pig life.

Not far away.

“Clippity, cloppity, clippity…”

The noisy sound of hooves and footsteps arose as a large group moved through the forest.

Those riding horses were nobles clad in various ornate armors, and the foot soldiers wore leather armor and carried bows and arrows. The group looked formidable, like an elite army about to attack an enemy, but up close one would find the atmosphere quite relaxed. The mounted men chatted with each other, occasionally bursting into loud laughter. From time to time, there would also be a jibe or a narrow-minded comment.

“Viscount Lansite, from your great-grandfather to you, the title has been passed down for four generations now, hasn’t it?” a middle-aged man dressed in a grand, silver armor rode a horse and said with a somewhat imposing manner.

“Yes, Count Vick,” another man on horseback said. He appeared to be in his thirties, with a chin full of stubble and an unkempt appearance. Compared to other nobles, his armor was anything but ornate—in fact, it could be described as shabby and worn.

The surface of the armor showed obvious signs of rust. At the shoulder armor, there were misfits, suggesting that this armor might have been passed down from the previous generation or even the one before.

For a noble not to have their own specially tailored armor, not to spend a great deal on maintenance, not to polish with marble and coarse linen, not to buff to a shine with woolen blankets—to not make their armor gleam was, to put it mildly, unbecoming of nobility. To be more serious, it was downright heresy, the mark of an oddball among the nobility.

Count Vick, called thus, did not comment on the other’s armor but, upon hearing the reply, said thoughtfully, “Four generations, eh? I remember your great-grandfather was only a lord, and now you are a viscount. To advance two ranks in four generations is indeed no small feat. However, I’ve heard that although you, Viscount Lansite, have risen in rank, your lands have shrunk, and your income has dwindled. That shouldn’t be the case.”

“Hmph,” interjected a tall, thin noble, “Count Vick, Viscount Lansite is too kind to his farmers and serfs. Hmph, I’ve heard he collects much less tax than we do, how can he amass any wealth? But of course, this isn’t the key point. I think the real issue is that Viscount Lansite stays cloistered in his castle, sleeping soundly while every kingdom war passes by without his involvement. No war achievements mean no rewards or fame, no one to join his cause, and naturally, no money.”

The crowd burst into laughter upon hearing this.

Viscount Lansite remained expressionless.

The tall and thin noble persisted, “Actually, I think it’s far too easy for Viscount Lansite to get rich. He just needs to wait for the next kingdom war, join in, and capture some wealthy nobles on the battlefield—demand hefty ransoms for them.”

“Of course,” the tall, thin noble’s voice took on a sharp tone, full of implications, “before that, Visite Lansite needs to find himself a better suit of armor, or he might get captured by the enemy before he can capture anyone on the battlefield.”

“Ha ha ha!”

The whole group laughed again. These were nobles from the capital, backed by great nobles with substantial power. Even if they did not inherit titles, they had no fear of a noble from a far-flung domain like Lansite.

Lansite’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he did not choose to simply accept the mockery. They might not fear him, but he certainly didn’t fear them either.

He looked at the tall, thin noble who had spoken and sneered, “You whelp from the Caesar family, I might not have fine armor, but do you believe I could still slaughter you, even with your double-layered armor?”

“You!”

“What’s the matter, don’t believe me? You can try. Shall I throw you a gauntlet, choose a spot, and have a proper duel? Oh, that’s right, I’m too poor to have gloves, but you have some, don’t you? Why not throw them down as a challenge, how about that, do you dare?”

After Lansite finished speaking, the young noble’s eyes bulged, and he remained speechless for a long time, his hands gripping tightly on the horse, as if truly afraid a glove might fall to the ground.

Lansite sneered at this, and immediately, the young noble’s face reddened.

Just as those close to the young noble were about to react, a fifteen or sixteen-year-old noble youth at the very front suddenly gave a light cough.

Everyone immediately fell silent.

“Clip-clop, clip-clop,” Lansite spurred his horse forward, approaching the young noble and asked respectfully, “Prince Gelo, what is the matter?”

The one addressed as Prince Gelo was dressed in armor inlaid with gemstones and pearls, with brownish hair, his eyes tinged with deep worries. Mounted on his horse and looking ahead with slightly furrowed brows, he asked, “Lansite, didn’t you say this forest is full of beasts? And now in late autumn, the prime time for hunting, we haven’t encountered a single one. Why is that?”