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Chapter 23
Chapter 23. Hearthstone Village
The party set out again, and the carriages drove toward the direction of the cooking smoke.
Before long, the village appeared in their field of vision.
A dirt road branched off from the official road. Its surface was uneven and full of potholes, and traces of the rain from a few days ago still remained. Several puddles reflected the light of the sky. On both sides of the road were stretches of wheat fields. The wheat had just begun to form ears, spreading lush and green all the way to the foot of the distant hills.
Occasionally, a few vegetable plots were mixed in between, planted with cabbage, onions, and some leafy greens Fick could not name.
W ēb n ȯ vе l̊ Ë n̈ũ m̄à
Several farmers were working in the fields, bent at the waist, their movements slow and unhurried. They raised their heads and looked at the convoy, their gazes lingering for an instant on the tall horses before they lowered their heads and went back to work, as if they had seen enough of the world—or as if they simply could not be bothered to pay attention.
Farther in, rows of low mud-brick houses came into view.
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The houses were packed tightly together. Their wall surfaces had peeled badly, and the thatched roofs were mottled yellow and black. The newly repaired upper layers of straw were lighter in color, while the older lower layers had already turned black and moldy.
Firewood was piled at the entrances to the courtyards, with a few worn-out farming tools thrown beside it, such as chipped hoes and sickles with broken handles, leaning against the base of the walls to sun themselves.
Several spotted dogs darted out of an alley and barked a few times at the carriages, only to be driven away by a group of children throwing stones.
At the village entrance stood a crooked-necked tree. Beneath it sat an old man in a patched coarse-cloth short robe, puffing on a long-stemmed pipe. Amid the curling smoke, his face was as wrinkled as the skin of a dried walnut.
Е̇ n ŭ ḿӑ
When he saw the convoy approach, the old man hurriedly stood and dodged to the side. His movements were so flustered that he nearly tripped over his own feet.
“The chief of Hearthstone Village welcomes the royal lords. We are ignorant country folk who do not understand etiquette. I ask all you lords to forgive us.”
Alex had the carriage stop beside him and leaned out to ask, “Old sir, where is the tavern?”
The old man quickly half-knelt, paying no mind as his knee struck the muddy ground. With his head lowered, he said, “Go straight ahead. Once you see a large locust tree, you will be there.”
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Alex thanked him, and the carriages continued deeper into the village.
Fick looked out from the carriage window and saw several children squatting by the roadside. The oldest were only seven or eight years old, while the youngest still had bare bottoms. They stared wide-eyed and curiously at the convoy.
Е_ň um̀ а
One child with a runny nose reached out, wanting to touch a horse’s leg, but an older child slapped his hand away and dragged him several steps back.
Farther away, several wells stood clustered together. A group of peasant women gathered nearby, beating clothes while chattering among themselves.
When they saw the convoy coming, their voices lowered, and several pairs of eyes glanced over in unison, though the work in their hands did not stop. One younger woman even secretly tugged at her collar and smoothed out her washed-out apron.
“A small place,” Guard Ampel said as he also looked outside, his voice very low. “I suspect they only see outsiders a few times a year at most.”
The carriage stopped beside the large locust tree.
Beside it stood a mud-brick building larger than all the surrounding houses. It had two stories, which in this village was already enough to count as a tall building.
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The wall surface had been whitewashed. Although most of it had peeled away, one could still see that care had once been put into it. A wooden sign hung at the entrance, weathered by wind and sun until its paint had nearly flaked off. The words “Bob’s Tavern” were carved crookedly into it, the strokes looking as though they had been gouged out with a knife.
Several long benches stood outside the door, empty, their surfaces polished shiny from wear. Beside them, two donkeys were tied to a hitching post, one black and one gray, both lowering their heads as they chewed on the hay scattered on the ground.
The tavern’s wooden door stood wide open, and the sound of voices mingled with the aroma of roasted meat as it drifted out.
One Royal Knight was just about to take out a horn, but Alex raised his hand and stopped him.
“The people of House Carey’s territory have the lowest education level in the entire Empire. They respect force. They do not acknowledge the royal family, only fists,” he said. “This is just the right time for me to vent a little.”
Shulia poked her head out of the carriage window. “Do not drag Fick into this.”
Е ṅ ŭmà.ǐ d̈
Alex ignored her. He straightened his collar and walked toward the tavern alone. His posture as he walked remained composed, as though he were not heading into an unfamiliar country tavern, but attending a noble banquet.
The tavern door stood wide open, and dim yellow lamplight and human voices poured out together. Crude laughter and cursing, the clink of wine cups, and someone singing at the top of his lungs—these were the sounds a proper countryside tavern ought to have.
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Alex stepped over the threshold.
The noise suddenly fell silent for an instant.
Then an even louder uproar erupted.
“Well now, look who it is!”
Ẅė b̀ n̂ о̇v̄ е l̆ _Е ñuḿ а̃
“Such delicate skin and tender flesh. Which family’s young master ran all the way here?”
“Pretty boy came to play, did he? Hahahaha.”
Fick sat in the carriage, listening to those filthy words from inside, his brows knitting tighter and tighter.
Shulia was tugging at his sleeve, still muttering about the latter half of Don Quixote. “Do not mind him. Just tell me about the sequel. I promise I will not tell anyone else—”
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“I will tell you later.” Fick interrupted her and tilted his head, listening to the movement inside the tavern.
Then he heard the sounds of a fight, the tremendous crash of a table being overturned, the shattering of wine bottles, and someone screaming. Of course, it was not Alex’s voice.
E n̆ ūm̈ a
Fick shook off Shulia’s hand, lifted the carriage curtain, and jumped down.
“Fick!” Shulia called from behind him. “What are you doing?”
“Gaining experience!”
Fick rushed to the tavern entrance in a few steps and shoved the door open.
Seven or eight burly men surrounded Alex. Two were already lying on the floor, clutching their hands and wailing. By a table near the wall, a bald, fat tavern owner and two workers were huddled beneath the table, with only a few pairs of frightened eyes showing.
Alex stood in the middle, his clothes slightly disheveled, still holding a wooden chair with one leg missing. His face remained as composed as ever, as though he had merely loosened his muscles a little.
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“Great talent?” When he saw Fick, he raised an eyebrow. “Why did you come down?”
Before Fick could answer, a burly man beside him turned his head. His muddy eyes swept over Fick.
“Well, here comes another—” He grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth. Before he could finish speaking, he had already pounced over.
Fick had no time to think. His body reacted before his mind did. He sidestepped, letting the man’s charge pass him, then drove a fist viciously into the side of the man’s waist, right where the kidney was.
The burly man let out a scream like a slaughtered pig. His entire body bent like a shrimp, and he collapsed to his knees while clutching his waist, leaving only breathless, rasping gasps in his mouth.
Fick was very satisfied. The power of that punch was far greater than he had imagined. After the Azure Crystal’s strengthening, combined with his original foundation, the results after even a little training far exceeded expectations.
Е̊ n̄ ū mа̌. і̂d_
Alex’s eyes lit up. “Great talent, good punch!” he shouted, then swung the chair leg in his hand in a full arc and smashed it onto another burly man’s head. The man fell in response.
The remaining five or six burly men exchanged glances and pounced together.
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What followed was a chaotic brawl.
Fick had never truly trained in punches or kicks, but relying on his great strength, he managed to hold his own without suffering a disadvantage. He punched one man in the face, then kicked another away. Though his movements were clumsy, every blow landed with solid, genuine pain.
Alex was different. He had clearly undergone systematic training, and every move was clean and efficient.
He dodged a sneak attack from a wine bottle, casually grabbed another chair, and smashed it onto the attacker’s shoulder. He shifted sideways to avoid a punch and drove his knee into the other man’s stomach. He even found time during the fight to straighten the collar that had been pulled askew.
Е̌n ǔ m̆ а̃ . і̌ d̊
The two of them fought back-to-back, and their cooperation was unexpectedly smooth.
“Great talent, left!”
Fick punched left, striking a man squarely on the bridge of the nose.
“Great talent, duck!”
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Fick instinctively lowered himself, and the chair in Alex’s hand swept over the top of his head, smashing into the face of the man lunging toward him.
Wood chips flew everywhere, and screams rose one after another.
Enǔ m а
The last burly man was kicked to the ground by Fick. He still wanted to climb back up, but Alex had already walked up to him while holding the chair with the broken leg.
“Do you still want to play?”
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