Chapter 303: The Magul Incident (Part One)

Chapter 303: The Magul Incident (Part One)

The vast wasteland stretched on endlessly, winding roads threading through undulating mountains like a coiled serpent.

The Magul Trade Route.

This was an ancient trade route, carved out over millennia by countless merchants. It had once served as a crucial connection between the Lackman Duchy and the Bosk Duchy, a vital path for commerce and goods transportation, its surface etched with the traces of bygone years.

“Tell those up ahead to move faster!”

“If we don’t deliver this shipment on time, there will be hell to pay.”

A rough, gruff voice echoed from the most luxurious passenger carriage, adorned with the emblem of flame and slit-pupil eyes.

A caravan numbering in the hundreds hurriedly traversed the ancient road. The carts were loaded with goods from the Ember Kingdom, flanked by hundreds of fully armed goblin soldiers—this was the “Free Trade Caravan” led by Count Hart, a large-scale caravan representing the official interests of the Ember Kingdom.

Though infamous throughout the Northern nations, this caravan remained an irresistible lure to the lower classes. They dumped vast quantities of cheap goods onto the market, persuading the Skanyans, who had never seen such quality items, to willingly hand over their gold and silver.

“Hoo—”

The frigid wind howled, lifting the carriage curtain.

Inside the lavish carriage, Count Hart exhaled a sulfurous breath. As a noble of blazing dragon blood, he detested the bone-chilling weather of the North.

“Damn it, another of those blasted Northern winds.”

“Once His Majesty unifies Anzeta, I must find a way to conduct business in the South. This weather is intolerable.”

Stroking the scales covering his chin, Hart muttered to himself.

At the forefront of the caravan, Old John led the horses forward, his gaunt body trembling against the wind. He instinctively pulled his cotton coat tighter, shielding his aged, weathered bones.

“May the Ember King bless us…”

“Let’s hope everything goes smoothly this time.”

Gazing at the endless trade road, Old John murmured under his breath.

To the merchants, the Kingdom’s sovereign seemed to possess divine favor. How else could they have amassed such wealth in just a few short years, driving other Northern traders to the brink of despair?

Over time, even coachmen like Old John had developed the habit of praying before setting out. It wasn’t faith, merely superstition to wish for a safe journey.

Old John had been born a serf.

But at twenty, he was sold to a trade caravan, serving as a traveling slave. That caravan was later captured by the Ember Kingdom’s army, and its leader was executed.

Old John, however, was fortunate. Not only was he granted freedom, but his familiarity with the trade routes earned him a stable job as a coachman.

“Old man, how much longer until we get there?”

A little girl’s head suddenly popped out of the carriage window. She appeared to be eight or nine, her hair styled in the small braids that had recently become fashionable in the Kingdom, her expression playful and mischievous.

“Misha, didn’t I tell you to stay inside the carriage?”

With a stern face, John lightly tapped her head with the short stick at the end of his whip.

“Hmph, fine, don’t tell me then.”

Misha pouted, rubbing her head as she retreated back into the carriage.

She had once been part of a Northern noble’s slave caravan, a “commodity” to be traded. John had rescued her and adopted her, naming her “Misha.” Having no children of his own, Old John treated her as a granddaughter, spending his meager wages on her education.

Yet Misha refused to behave. She had snuck into the caravan by hiding among the goods, much to Old John’s frustration.

Driving the horses forward, John grumbled under his breath:

“I’ve told you time and again, trade caravans are no child’s game. Bandits and monsters could take your life in an instant!”

“With the Kingdom’s elite guarding us, what’s there to worry about? Heh, I’m already here, so let me see the world and keep you company.”

“Sigh…”

Old John sighed deeply, shaking his head. The mischievous girl exasperated him endlessly, yet warmed his heart in ways he couldn’t explain.

His gaze fell to the road ahead, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Something feels off about the Magul Trade Route today…”

“It’s far too quiet.”

Experienced as he was, John immediately sensed that something was wrong. Magul was among the busiest trade routes in the North, yet today, no other caravans were in sight.

“Let’s hope it’s just a coincidence.”

He comforted himself with that thought.

After all, he was just a humble coachman with no say in the caravan’s actions. Everything fell under Count Hart’s orders.

In the Anzeta Wasteland, no one in their right mind would provoke an Ember Kingdom caravan except mindless beasts—and even those were rarely a threat.

The horses grew restless, their hooves stamping anxiously. Old John’s expression grew tense, his lips twitching.

“Wait, this is…”

The ground was trembling.

A thunderous rumble of hooves echoed across the plains.

John turned his head in panic—

A tide of cavalry poured down from the mountaintops, their armor gleaming and lances reflecting the cold light. A flood of steel surged across the wasteland, banners bearing the lion crest fluttering in the wind.

“For the Bosk Duchy!”

“For Northern order!”

The rallying cries resounded across the plains.

It was the North’s elite cavalry—the Bosk family’s personal guard!

“Enemy attack!”

“It’s the Bosk Duchy!”

“What fool gave them the courage to provoke the Kingdom? This is a declaration of war!”

“Damn it, this must have been planned for a long time!”

Chaos erupted in the caravan. Shouts, curses, and screams merged into a cacophony that left John dizzy.

Turning back toward the carriage, John, though drenched in sweat, maintained his composure as best he could and whispered urgently:

“Misha, promise me, don’t come out.

“No matter what happens, stay inside!”

Before he could finish, goblin soldiers dragged him away roughly.

Amidst the pandemonium, under Hart’s frantic orders, the caravan scrambled to prepare for battle. John, as part of the group, was forced to join the fight.

Hart strode to the front lines, pointing at the incoming cavalry and roaring: “Shoot them full of holes!”

“Bang! Bang! Bang!”

The goblin soldiers raised their muskets, unleashing a hail of lead bullets that felled dozens of armored cavalrymen in moments.

This strategy, once unstoppable across the North, now began to falter.

The cavalry was simply too numerous, and nearly all were Bosk’s elite troops. Undeterred, they charged forward over the corpses of their fallen comrades, their lances skewering goblins, their swords cleaving heads.

The goblins switched to spears and bayonets, severing horse legs and piercing riders from below.

“For the Ember Kingdom!” “For the Bosk Duchy!” The cries filled the battlefield.

The brutal clash began.

Gunfire roared, blades sank into flesh, hooves thundered, and screams of pain and fury mingled into a blood-soaked symphony of war.

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