Hard Carried by My Sword-Chapter 132

There was not a soul on the entire continent who didn’t know the name of the Clyde Empire.

The Empire had fought for nearly a century after its founding, conquering the entire northern continent. From the continent’s central lands all the way north, there was no soil untouched by the Empire’s influence—or so the saying went.

A great empire in name and in truth, an undisputed hegemon. Though its golden age had passed two centuries ago, its power had not waned, and its reputation as a great and feared state still remained.

Tributary demands and crushing tariffs on neighboring nations were the norm. Whenever it had excess strength to spend, the Empire would invoke “conquest of monster zones” as a pretext, conscripting armies and forcing surrounding nations to participate.

Only Jugend dared resist those unreasonable demands. No other nation could bring itself to provoke the Empire.

The oppression was also not just limited to the outside. Domestically, the absolute monarchy propped up by the Emperor and a rigid caste system stood unchallenged. The highest someone who was born as a commoner could rise was only as high as a quasi-noble rank, unless they became a Swordmaster.

Once established, a hierarchy did not fall easily. There was only one way to overturn it.

Rebellion.

To drag the ruling class from their seats, seize their wealth and power, and become masters instead of slaves to the system. The pinnacle of insurrection, the quickest, simplest, and yet never truly easy way for the dispossessed to become the possessors.

Why else had the privileged class reigned for centuries? Because they possessed the wealth, power, and violence to defend their positions. A well-trained soldier could cut down half a dozen farmers without effort, and even a newly knighted warrior, unpolished in skill, could fight like a hundred against untrained men.

Unfortunately, the powerless were powerless even to resist—stripped of everything, even their final desperation meant nothing.

However, something was different this time.

“Kill all who bow to nobles! Burn every field!”

The tide had twisted unnaturally.

“Every soldier is a dog raised by nobles! Leave none alive! Drag out their kin and behead them all!”

The territory of Baron Redmond was not particularly wealthy, but it was stable and well-run. That was, until now, as it was being reduced to ash.

Crops nearly ripe turned to cinders, and the palisades around the village were torn down. The damage would take months, perhaps even years, to repair.

It was an absurd, baseless disaster. Riots were rare, but not unheard of, but something about this was fundamentally wrong.

A farmer, watching his field burn, shoved one rioter and shouted, “What is the reason for this? What have we done wrong?!”

It was a natural reaction. Riots usually broke out when rulers squeezed their people too hard, or when drought or flood left lives in peril. To rise up when food and shelter were secure was nearly unheard of.

The enraged farmer continued, “This year was the first good harvest in ten years! We could have reaped three times the usual, and you ruined it all!”

“Our lord taxes us less than the neighboring domains!” another joined in.

“Yeah! And what did the soldiers ever do wrong?!”

Villagers gathered, shouting down the rioters, the anger swelling until it looked as though, with weapons, they might charge. However, they weren’t the ones with weapons. A tragic squelch sounded.

At the sound, the farmer who first raised his voice looked down at his chest, stunned, then spat up a mouthful of blood. A rioter had run him through without hesitation. Twisting his face in malice, the man ripped his spear back out and spat a curse.

“Damn dog filling noble granaries, and you dare complain about our cause? You all deserve to die!”

His sclera flushed red as if drugged, his voice dripping with bloodlust. With that as the spark, the rioters shifted—hatred once aimed at crops, buildings, soldiers, and their families went overboard and turned indiscriminately on everyone.

Armed with spears and blades, already soaked in murder, they fell upon the villagers. Even bodies hardened by farm work could not stand against men who lived by slaughter.

“Kaaagh!”

“Run! These maniacs—kugh!”

“Spare me! Please, don’t kill me!”

The more blood spilled and the more corpses piled, the greater their frenzy grew. A peaceful village turned into a charnel ground within hours.

Golden rice fields became ash. Wagons once used for fodder and manure were piled high with mangled bodies.

However, not all resistance was absent.

“Damn you bastards! Get a taste of my sword!”

An old knight named Hans, who had retired to the countryside, cut down several rioters. His career had been humble, but a knight was still a knight.

Aura Wielders were practically superhuman. Hans’s level wasn’t high, but decades of experience and skill undoubtedly carried weight. Perhaps enough to stand against three or four common knights.

“Kehaha! A noble’s dog—a knight!”

Stepping past the retreating rioters came a giant of a man, muscles like a bandit chief, a logging axe in hand. Even after watching Hans fight, he strode forward, roaring.

“Filthy noble lapdog! Even so old, you still bark your loyalty? I’ll smash that skull of yours!”

“Try me, wretch!”

“Gladly!”

The giant and the old knight clashed. Sword and axe met with blue sparks, each blow aimed for a vital spot, leaving afterimages in the air.

On the sixth exchange, the axe shattered the longsword like glass, sweeping through Hans’s white beard and severing his head. The brute’s power was many times greater than Hans had braced for—too much for his aged body to withstand.

“Feeble old man! Must’ve missed a few meals of dog chow!”

The giant, leader of the rioters, laughed harshly and kicked Hans’s severed head. His followers echoed him, cheering with bloodstained weapons in hand.

Madness—there was no other word for it. And then, Hans’s rolling head came to rest against someone’s greave, staining the silver coating with blood.

The man who looked down at it spoke softly.

“Well fought, my knight. Rest now.”

He bent on one knee, closing Hans’s pained eyes, giving honor to one who had remained faithful until the end. As knights gave their duty and honor, so must rulers give gratitude and reward. That was the proper bond between lord and retainer.

Beneath golden hair, blue eyes glimmered. It was Lyon. The rioter leader finally noticed him, barking roughly.

“And who the hell are you?”

But Lyon didn’t even glance his way. He only asked, “Why?”

“What?”

“Why burn the fields? Why slaughter the villagers? If it was nobles you hated, there was no need to raise your blades against them.”

The leader sneered, wiping muck from his axe.

“Keh! Noble boy, you really don’t know how the world works.”

It was plain he meant to attack at any moment, but Lyon only stared at the ground, his face unreadable.

“It’s all wrong—filling noble storehouses without knowing you’re slaves, guarding their homes like chained dogs, boasting of your collars as knights! Those who can’t repent must be killed, so they can’t make the same mistakes again!”

“So by your logic, everyone should rise up?”

“Oho, surprisingly reasonable, aren’t you? If you weren’t a noble brat, I might have even spared you!” the rioter leader sneered, baring his teeth. “But sorry—no noble blood can remain! You die here, noble boy! Fire!”

At his shout, the rioters all drew their bows at once. While he had been stalling with words, they had surrounded Lyon and now unleashed a storm of arrows.

A rain of shafts came from every direction, not just bows but crossbows too, strong enough to punch through armor. However—

“You’ve only dug your own graves, fools.”

Lyon’s longsword swung faster than anything else, its blade releasing a flood of light that clashed against the arrowstorm.

A blade of light, a transparent wave of brilliance, shattered dozens of arrows, then surged on to engulf the rioters. There was no mercy in his strike. Sharp and swift, the luminous cuts cleaved through them, severing bodies by the dozen and spraying blood in fountains across the ground.

The encirclement was ripped apart in one blow. Lyon calmly fixed his gaze on the lone survivor.

“Yes, it’s that power.”

The riot leader’s eyes burned with madness, his harsh tone gone, replaced by something like feverish conviction.

“You nobles are always the same! Born with everything, never sparing a thought to share, flaunting your unjust rights! You made this rotten world—you keep it alive!”

“...”

“That’s why I’ll kill you all! Nobles, and those who bent to nobles! I’ll slaughter until this unjust order crumbles—!”

He charged, not caring for his life. Pouring every drop of Aura into his body, driving his weight and momentum into one decisive blow. A strike powerful enough to fell massive trees in one swing. However, their skill difference was greater still.

With Lyon’s slash, the giant’s arms, axe and all, flew skyward, red blood spraying as they crashed to the ground.

Lyon looked down on the toppled brute and asked, “Who’s behind this?”

“Ke... Kehehe... think there’d be... such a thing?”

Evasion or truth, it was unsatisfying. Lyon drove his sword into the man’s thigh.

The rioter groaned, then wheezed a laugh.

“Useless... We... won’t yield. Until... a world of... equality... for all... comes... we’ll fight... to the last... one...”

“Did you just say ‘we’?”

“...”

“He died...”

Flipping the man over, Lyon closed his eyes. A clue had flickered before him, only to vanish as if mocking him.

If there was a “we,” then a group or organization surely existed. A riot this extreme couldn’t be a mere chance.

“Sir Gilbert.”

The old knight who had appeared behind him replied, “Yes.”

“The suppression?”

“Nearly done. There were about five hundred in all—once subdued, fewer than a hundred will remain.”

“We don’t need prisoners. They’re all insane,” Lyon said as he gestured coldly toward the fallen leader. “If they were after wealth or power, they’d fear death. But these men acted as though they had none to lose. Like zealots offering up their lives as sacrifice.”

“Do you think this is the Evil Order?” Gilbert asked.

“At this point, it’s only a suspicion. There’s no proof, and they’re too sloppy for the Evil Order. Maybe Chaos was involved.”

As the two strategists spoke, someone hurried over. Dropping to one knee, the man gave a respectful bow.

“Thank you, Your Highness! Without your rescue, the Redmond territory and all my people would surely have been slaughtered!”

“There’s no need to thank me, Baron Redmond.” Lyon accepted the words naturally, replying, “As royalty, watching over the Empire’s vassals is my duty. I won’t cheapen it by calling it a favor.”

“Oh, boundless grace, Your Highness!”

“More importantly, I’d like your answer to my earlier offer. Will you join my banner, Baron?”

The casual words froze Redmond in place. Pale, clearly conflicted, he clenched his jaw, then bowed again with a resolute face.

“Yes, Your Highness. I, and the other three lords of the western frontier, will wholeheartedly support you.”

“You are quicker to decide than I expected. May I hear your reason?”

Baron Redmond’s expression darkened.

“His Majesty the Emperor—no, the Mad Emperor—has abandoned us. Even before, he had disdain for provincial lords, but this time, he had crossed the line. Already three territories have burned at the hands of rabble, and yet no legion, not even a knightly order, has been mobilized!”

“He left potential rebels to rampage unchecked? Why?” Lyon asked.

“I do not know, Your Highness. Perhaps expecting reason from a lunatic was a mistake.”

Still bowing, Redmond bit his lip until it bled. In truth, he hadn’t cared much for the struggle over the throne. If the Emperor had dispatched troops to crush the riots, Redmond would have sold Lyon out instantly.

However, the Emperor sat idle while the border and its lords suffered, and so Redmond had been forced to choose Lyon as his shield.

“I will follow you, Prince Lyon,” Redmond finally spoke his honest heart. “Until the day Your Highness reclaims the throne and restores light to the Clyde Empire. Let Colin Redmond march under your banner. By my family’s honor and my forefathers’ oath, I swear unwavering loyalty.”

“I, Lyon Cailum Gladius Pon Clyde, rightful heir of the Imperial House, accept Redmond’s fealty.”

Lyon’s design had worked. The four lords of the western frontier—lands farthest from the Emperor’s sight, full of openings to exploit. An unexpected riot had handed him this chance easily, yet the shadow across Lyon’s face did not lift.

Rioters who hate nobles indiscriminately...

He looked down at the dead leader, recalling his shouts. A world equal for all. Rioters unafraid of death. This was no problem that would end quickly.

“Let’s return to base.”

There was nothing more to gain here. Leaving the ruined fields and villages behind, Lyon moved forward with heavy steps.

He could not be a Hero. He had not achieved anything great yet.

However, he had forged power in his hands after much trial and effort. Gathering followers regardless of birth, he would march on the Imperial throne.

To tear apart the Mad Emperor’s corpse and seize that place back—he had already named his cause: Vultures.

That was the name of the armed force that Lyon had created and now commanded.