Chapter 303: The Magul Incident (Part One)
Vast, endless Wasteland—rolling hills stretched beneath a gray sky, pierced by a narrow, winding road that curled like a serpent through the mountains.
Magul Trade Route.
This ancient trade artery had been forged over millennia by countless merchants, a vital artery connecting the Duchy of Lakanman to the Duchy of Bosk. For generations, it had served as the lifeline for commerce and supply, its surface scarred with the weight of time and countless footsteps.
“Hurry up ahead!”
“If we don’t deliver on time, someone’s going to pay!”
A gruff male voice bellowed from the most opulent of the caravans, its front bearing the sigil of Flame and Vertical Pupil.
A caravan of hundreds of wagons surged forward along the ancient path, laden with goods from the Kingdom of Ashen. Flanking the column were hundreds of fully armed Giant Ogre Infantry—guards of the elite. This was Hart’s “Free Trade Caravan,” the largest official expedition of the Representative Kingdom of Ashen.
Infamous across the Northern Kingdoms, yet coveted by the poor and desperate, this caravan flooded the region with cheap goods, enticing the uninitiated Scandians to hand over their gold and silver without hesitation.
“Huff—”
A cold wind howled past, lifting the wagon curtains.
Inside the luxurious carriage, Hart Baron exhaled a sulfurous breath, his face twisted in disdain. As a Noble of Fiery Dragon blood, he despised the biting chill of this northern weather.
“Damn it—another one of these cursed northern winds.”
“When the King finally unites Anzeta, I’m moving south. This climate is unbearable.”
He rubbed his scaled jaw thoughtfully, murmuring to himself.
At the front of the caravan, Old John guided the lead wagon, his thin frame shivering in the wind. He pulled his cotton coat tighter, shielding the old bone staff at his side.
“King of the Burnt protect us.”
“May this journey go smoothly.”
He stared down the endless stretch of trade road, muttering prayers under his breath. To the merchants, the King of Ashen seemed to wield some divine power—bestowing luck upon them. How else could they have amassed such wealth in just a few short years, driving out all rivals from the Northern Regions?
Over time, men like Old John had grown accustomed to praying before each journey—not out of deep faith, but out of habit, a quiet hope for safety.
Old John had once been a peasant laborer. In his twenties, he’d been sold into the caravan as a merchant slave. Later, when the caravan was captured by the Kingdom’s forces, its leader was executed. But Old John had been lucky—free, and given work as a horseman due to his knowledge of the trade routes.
“Old man,” a voice piped up from the wagon, “how much longer until we get there?”
A small girl’s face peeked out—no more than eight or nine, her hair tied in the latest fashion of the Kingdom: twin braids. Clever and mischievous, she grinned.
“Misha, I told you to stay inside the wagon,” John said sternly, tapping her head gently with the short end of his whip.
“Hmph. Fine, don’t tell me then,” she muttered, rubbing her head and pulling back into the shadows.
She had once been a “commodity” in a Northern noble’s slave caravan—until Old John rescued her and adopted her, naming her Misha. With no children of his own, he treated her like his granddaughter, spending every last coin on her education.
But Misha was headstrong, disobedient. She’d snuck aboard in the cargo, and John was constantly exasperated.
He cracked the reins, muttering under his breath:
“I told you—trade isn’t some game. Bandits, monsters… they’ll kill you in a heartbeat.”
“With the Kingdom’s elites protecting us, what’s there to fear? Besides, I’m already here. Let me experience it. I’ll keep you company!”
John sighed heavily, shaking his head. He couldn’t help but feel both frustrated and touched by the girl’s spirit.
His gaze drifted ahead. His brow furrowed.
“Today’s Magul Trade Route… feels strange.”
“Too quiet. Too still.”
A seasoned veteran, Old John immediately sensed something off. Magul was one of the busiest trade routes in the Northern Regions—usually bustling with other caravans. Yet today, they were utterly alone.
Just a coincidence, he told himself.
But he was only a lowly horseman. He had no say in the caravan’s direction. Everything depended on Hart’s orders.
After all, in the vast Anzeta Wasteland, no sensible being would dare challenge the Kingdom of Ashen’s caravan—except for mindless beasts, and even they posed little threat.
Then the horses began to stir—nervous, restless. John frowned, his lips tightening.
“Wait… what’s that?”
The ground trembled.
A deep, thunderous gallop echoed across the plain.
John spun around—his heart freezing.
Hundreds of cavalry surged down from the hilltops, charging across the earth like a storm. Gleaming armor, rifles glinting with cold steel—forming a tide of iron. The Lion Banner flapped wildly in the wind.
“For the Duchy of Bosk!”
“For the Northern Order!”
Voices roared from afar.
The elite Iron Cavalry of the Northern Regions. The personal guard of the Bosk Family.
“Enemy ambush!”
“It’s the Duchy of Bosk!”
“Who do they think they are? This is an open declaration of war!”
“Damn it—this was planned long ago!”
Chaos erupted through the caravan. Shouts, curses, screams—voices drowned in panic. John’s head spun.
He turned back toward the wagon, sweat pouring down his face despite the cold. He forced his voice low, urgent.
“Misha… promise me. Stay inside. No matter what happens—don’t come out!”
But before he could finish, he was yanked away roughly by Great Goblin soldiers.
In the chaos, Hart took command, ordering the caravan to engage. As a member of the caravan, Old John was dragged into the fray.
Hart stood at the front line, shouting curses as he pointed toward the oncoming cavalry.
“Turn them into sieves!”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Great Goblin soldiers raised their long spears, firing lead bullets. In moments, dozens of armored riders fell—crumpling like sacks.
This had once been an unstoppable tactic—dominating the entire Northern Regions. But now, the flaw was undeniable.
The cavalry was too many. Nearly all elite soldiers of the Bosk family. And the Great Goblins had no cover.
The riders charged forward without fear, trampling over their fallen comrades, driving their long spears through Goblin chests, slashing heads clean off with war swords.
The Goblins switched to spears and bayonets, hacking at horse legs, piercing knights from above.
“Long live the Kingdom of Ashen!”
“For Bosk Duchy!”
The clash turned brutal.
Gunfire roared. Rifle tips pierced flesh. Hooves thundered. Wails. Roars. The battlefield became a symphony of blood and steel—a bloody melody played on the edge of war.
(End of Chapter)
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