Chapter 50: Straight to the Point

When Ambrose finally found Allen Watson, the once-proud paladin was sitting on the ground in utter defeat.

His longsword lay beside him, the blade chipped and cracked all over, a testament to the brutal fight that had occurred.

His face was a mess of swelling bruises; his handsome features were now completely unrecognizable. Yet even that wasn't the worst of it. His spirit seemed utterly crushed. The light in his eyes was gone, leaving him looking decades older.

Gareth stood nearby, calmly polishing his fingernails.

"What did you do to him?" Ambrose asked in disbelief.

The knight shook his head and said with mild disdain, "Just gave him a little lesson. Paladins these days are pathetic. To think someone like this would dare go adventuring on his own... The Lyon Empire really has fallen."

Ambrose raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a personal grudge."

Gareth grunted. "His father's the High Inquisitor of the Lyon Empire. Bad luck for him."

"You've got a grudge with James Watson too?" Ambrose asked, surprised.

The knight didn't look like a scholar. He could hardly have had his manuscript rejected by that old bigot, could he?

"James Watson? Who's that? I'm talking about Moody. He's the one who signed the bounty order against me."

Ambrose: "..."

So this was some ancient vendetta from who-knew-how-many generations ago—and Allen had simply inherited that misfortune.

"Having fun picking on kids?" Ambrose asked dryly.

Before the knight could answer, Allen interjected. "He didn't... He didn't use his full strength. Mr. Gareth kept his power and speed equal to mine. Even then, I couldn't land a single hit."

Ambrose sighed sympathetically. "That's normal. You've no idea how long he's been alive. His skill with the sword surpassed mortal limits long ago."

"Mortal..." Allen gave a bitter laugh.

He had been trained since childhood to be a paladin of the Lyon Empire. Among the younger generation, his swordsmanship was among the best; the emperor himself had personally knighted him, calling him a pillar of the Empire's future.

Yet against this disheveled-looking middle-aged man, Allen had suffered the first crushing defeat of his life.

Crushing was no exaggeration. The man hadn't even drawn a sword. A single fingernail was all it took.

Every time Allen tried to move, a razor-sharp nail was already at his throat, his eyes, his heart. His swordsmanship, honed from decades of training, was laid bare, unraveled. Gareth exposed the subtle flaws he'd never noticed before.

To add insult to injury, Gareth had toyed with him, slamming him face-first into the ground each time, breaking his nose and loosening his teeth. His wounds were hardly fatal, but the humiliation went deep.

He had suffered an utter defeat.

Ambrose's evaluation was like adding insult to injury.

He had been called a prodigy; but to the truly strong, he was nothing more than "mortal."

Once Ambrose was certain Allen wasn't in any life-threatening danger, he lost interest in him and dragged Gareth out of the cell.

He shared the seven fragments of prophecy he had seen, hoping Gareth might offer some insight.

The knight was hardly a scholar, but he had lived far longer than Ambrose, and his perspective might prove useful.

Unfortunately, Gareth's only reaction was concern for one particular vision: the one with the ruined bar.

"Tiga, is that prophecy going to come true for sure? Isn't there a way to change it?" he asked urgently.

"Worried about your orc girlfriend?" Ambrose teased.

"Una is innocent," Gareth said solemnly, with surprising sincerity.

Ambrose paused for two seconds, then muttered, "If you tell your wife that, she's going to be twice as upset."

Still, seeing how distressed the knight looked, Ambrose offered some advice of his own.

"I can't say whether prophecies can be changed or not. I'm too much a coward to challenge fate myself. But there's always another way to face the future. The prophecy only showed the bar in ruins, but not Una's corpse. Her death isn't set in stone.

"Alkhemia's going to be half-destroyed soon enough. Why not just convince her to leave early? As long as she's alive, she can rebuild her bar."

Gareth's spirits lifted instantly.

"Tiga, you truly are wise! I'll go tell her right now and persuade her to leave the city at once!"

He turned to go, but Ambrose stopped him.

"Wait. Pass her a message from me. If she's planning to sell the bar, I'll take it off her hands—at a discounted price, of course."

Gareth frowned. "Didn't you just say it's about to be destroyed? Why would you buy it? You'll just lose money."

Ambrose shot back, "What else am I supposed to do? Have you got any money on you? If she abandons the bar, how's she supposed to survive? You think she doesn't need food and water just because you don't? I buy the bar, she gets money to start over. Simple."

Gareth was so moved he threw his arms around Ambrose. "Bro, I'll never forget this kindness. Don't worry. Whoever chops off your head, I, Gareth, will be the first to avenge you!"

"...How about you protect me before someone chops my head off?"

"You said it yourself: prophecies always come true."

Ambrose: "..."

Ambrose's soulfire flickered with irritation. He hated prophecies, especially the bad ones.

After Gareth left, Ambrose began preparing for his meeting with the representative from the Alchemists' Council.

Not too long later, a massive airship descended before his castle.

A stern-faced middle-aged man disembarked, dressed in a gold-and-crimson robe. The design matched those of the administrators Ambrose had met before, though the embroidery on his was far more ornate.

Ambrose assumed his human guise and greeted him with a smile.

"My dear Flynn, long time no see. It's been, oh, decades since our last meeting, hasn't it?"

Gustavo Flynn held the sixth seat on the Alchemists' Council. He was a true heavyweight, a legendary alchemist whose collected works could fill Ambrose's entire library.

For Alkhemia to send him personally meant Allen Watson was a matter of real importance.

Flynn's face remained expressionless. "I know you well, old friend. Let's not waste time. Name your price. That paladin is valuable to us."

Ambrose's grin widened. "That's what I've always liked about you, Flynn. You cut straight to the chase. Twenty million gold, and he's all yours."