Chapter Thirty-One: Outrageous Rumors!

The wind whispers.

After Duncan shot and killed the priest of the Germanic barbarians with a single arrow, he began to feel something different—a subtle, faint surge of magical power.

In the "God's Eye" view, a small blue mana bar appeared on the projected interface.

"Is it really that short?"

Compared to Duncan's vitality bar, which was twice that of an ordinary person, the unlocked mana bar was merely a tiny sliver, easily overlooked if one did not look closely.

"Is everyone's mana this scarce, or is it just me?"

After entering the forest, Duncan stopped to sense it for a while. With his eyes closed, he could indeed perceive the flow of magic within him, but the moment he made contact with the outside world, the mana seemed to become sluggish and lethargic, like a candle flickering in the wind, ready to be extinguished at any second.

"Can I cast spells? No, wait! I don't seem to know any spells yet."

Duncan attempted to mobilize the mana in his body. A phantom-like breeze seemed to sweep past, lifting fallen leaves a meter into the air before his mana bar was completely exhausted.

How pathetic!

If this was the casting ability of an ordinary priest, then the witches were indeed dangerous supernatural beings, as at least they could perform some decent tricks. Duncan felt it wasn't that he was incapable; rather, there was something wrong with this world.

Yes. It was all the world’s fault!

— "Runic Mastery (Occultism): Occult knowledge derived from the Norse pantheon. Unlike ordinary writing, the runes mastered by priests possess a certain supernatural power. You can now read and master some simple runes."

In Norse mythology, Odin, the All-Father, hung himself from a tree for nine days and nine nights in search of greater wisdom, contemplating the mysteries of the universe. When he descended from the World Tree, he grasped the secrets of the runes.

Runes can be regarded as a form of spellcasting material.

Tris, the Raven Queen, once said that true magic requires rituals, tools, external forces, and other factors.

For the priests of the Church, the most essential element is devout faith. Yet, most of them lack casting abilities; the monks of the hidden orders must rely on holy relics to perform true miracles. In Duncan’s view, this is the distinction between a priest and a warlock—the priest’s power is largely derived from faith in a deity.

Eastern sorcery is similar, with part of the power coming from one's own mana and part borrowed through rituals (such as the Taoist altars and spirit-invoking ceremonies).

As long as the mana bar is unlocked, everything else can be managed.

Duncan began with the physique of an ordinary man, but now he was even more formidable than a barbarian berserker.

He checked the strategic map in the God's Eye view and was surprised to find that the liberated slaves and captives had not traveled far, and some had even lingered at the edge of the forest.

"We cannot just leave."

The burly warrior with a whip scar on his face said, "The ranger who saved us may not be out of danger yet. We must stay here to support him."

Sarmatian riders.

After their own tribal clans were destroyed, they became part of the Empire, serving it for over two hundred years. These men were loyal mercenaries, their reputation far better than the barbarian foreign legions.

A British legion infantryman hesitated, saying, "He said he didn't need our help."

The Sarmatian rider shook his head. "Then you go first. I will stay behind alone. In case he is pursued by the Saxons, I might be able to help."

A man of courage!

The fleeing slaves and captives hesitated for a moment, and to their surprise, four or five of them decided to stay with him.

A breeze swept through the forest, leaving many shivering in the cold.

By the time Duncan approached their position, most of the slaves had already left, but the British legionary had stayed behind. Clutching a short spear, he climbed a tree to scan the distant firelight and whispered, "The fire has started."

"The Saxons are in chaos; they shouldn't be able to stop that ranger."

Just then, a low male voice echoed in the darkness: "Why haven't you left yet?"

The Sarmatian rider gripped his battle-axe, alert. Seeing Duncan's silhouette in the dark, he relaxed and bowed respectfully, "We were afraid you might be pursued by the barbarians, my lord, so we decided to stay and lend a hand."

Duncan stepped out of the shadows, unable to help but take another look at the man.

Blood and guts!

He smiled, thoughtful, and asked, "What are your plans now?"

The captives exchanged glances. Before the British legionary could speak, the Sarmatian rider said in a deep voice, "Revenge! Take back our homes!"

"Whoever can lead us against the Saxons, we will follow!"

He had become completely disillusioned with the Duke of Tintagel. More than three thousand men fighting a thousand, only to be defeated so miserably that the army was almost annihilated. This defeat had driven many to turn toward King Uther. Regardless of everything, the Great Dragon, Uther, was a capable fighter—at least he could trade blows with the Saxons without suffering defeat after defeat.

Duncan mused, "I am currently recruiting men, preparing to counterattack Southampton."

Upon hearing this, the Sarmatian rider’s eyes lit up. Without hesitation, he knelt on one knee: "In the name of the ancestral dragon banner, I, Criggan of Ham, am willing to follow you!"

Ignoring everyone else present, he instantly became a marked unit in green.

The other captives were caught off guard. They didn’t know who Duncan was; even if the Duke of Tintagel was incompetent, they were more inclined to defect to King Uther.

Interesting.

Duncan looked down at the kneeling Criggan. The man bore five or six whip scars and a gunshot wound on his bare chest, looking every bit the veteran rider.

Even wounded, he remained as fierce as a lone wolf. The Sarmatians were indeed formidable!

Duncan seemed to recall something. Ignoring the hesitation of the others, he drew his sword, Oathkeeper, with a sharp clang. Under the pale moonlight, the Damascus steel blade gleamed with a chilling, murderous edge. Duncan rested the blade on the shoulder of the kneeling Sarmatian rider.

"Humility, compassion, valor, sacrifice, honor!"

Duncan spoke only those five words, then locked his gaze—deep as an abyss—onto Criggan. The piercing intensity of his look filled the hardy rider with awe, yet he courageously kept his head held high, his chest out, his spine straight. He trembled slightly, as if realizing something profound.

Duncan looked around, then raised his hand and slapped the man across the face. A crisp sound rang out, echoing far into the night. With a solemn and grave expression, he said, "I am Duncan, from the Empire of Pannonia."

"Lord of Southampton."

"Ally of the Duke of Tintagel! The leader who responded to the covenant to help the Britons repel the invading barbarians! The one who shot down the King of Kent at Tintagel!"

"In the name of God and the Gods, I dub thee Knight!"

In the dark forest, the other captives stood frozen, especially the British legionary, who was filled with shock and regret. The impact of the information was too sudden.

He was a lord? An ally sought by the Duke of Tintagel? The reinforcements who came to the Empire's aid? And he was the one who shot the King of Kent?

No wonder the barbarian soldiers in Devon were so panicked.

Before anyone else could react, Criggan had already stood up excitedly, moving to stand behind Duncan like a personal guard. Whether the others believed it or not, he did. A man bold enough to break into a Saxon-occupied town alone had no need to deceive them with such claims.

The British legionary quickly knelt, and the other captives followed suit, looking at Duncan with anticipation.

But there was no "and then."

Criggan was the first to swear allegiance and possessed great bravery, which was why he was knighted. To Duncan, the other captives were mere common soldiers, not worth the title. One had to remember that knighthood meant granting a substantial piece of land. He couldn't afford to run out of territory before he had even captured Southampton.

Duncan looked at the other captives and said indifferently, "Since you are all willing to follow me, go with Criggan to Cornwall."

"My fleet will soon bring food and weapons from Carthage."

With that, he looked at Criggan, who was standing tall beside him, and ordered in a deep voice, "I have a private imperial legion in Gaul, about three hundred men, some of whom are newly conscripted. Since you have been knighted, take charge of organizing and training them."

The Sarmatians were the legion instructors of Britain; the imperial military tradition dictated that they train the cavalry and, occasionally, the infantry. Whenever the dragon banner appeared on the battlefield, a crack cavalry unit was sure to follow.

From now on, the cavalry would fly the Imperial Dragon Banner.

"Yes, my lord!" Criggan replied without hesitation, striking his chest with his right fist.

Phew.

Only after Criggan left with the other disappointed captives did Duncan have time to ponder his pitifully short mana bar.

His human avatar was a blacksmith's apprentice. He had imagined this scene long ago, but he hadn't expected to use it in this way. It was a case of "buying a horse's bones with a thousand gold pieces"—a gesture to attract talent.

In this era, knighthood carried actual power, unlike in the Middle Ages where titles were cheap. A knight now was effectively a minor landlord, similar to the titles of the Qin and Han dynasties, directly linked to land.

Duncan did not intend to move too quickly. His plan was to establish a hierarchy of knights, freemen, and tenant farmers, minimizing the impact of slavery as much as possible. Abolishing slavery in the current era was impossible, but he could at least reduce the number of civilians being reduced to slaves.

"Indeed," Duncan thought, "I am no different from the people on the internet in my past life—wanting to be an emperor but unwilling to deal with the drudgery of governance. To put it bluntly, I just want to be a carefree prince with imperial authority, without the headache of managing the state."

As Duncan began to build his foundation, he found himself grateful for the presence of Tris, Anya, and Severus. If he had to handle every trivial matter himself, he wouldn't know how he would manage.

He had brought two quivers of arrows, about 120, and left them in a tree hollow nearby. Now, he needed to replenish his supply.

Morning light fell.

The town of Devon was in chaos, with traces of fire still smoldering nearby.

Blood-Axe Nydron was so furious his eyes were bloodshot. He watched his soldiers haul out the corpses of his tribesmen. At the front lay the barbarian priest, killed instantly by an arrow through the throat and another through the forehead. The others were much the same, felled by precise shots, while two had their skulls split open by Frankish throwing axes.

"It was that imperial knight!"

Duncan was too conspicuous on the battlefield; some remembered the knight with the peerless archery.

Blood-Axe Nydron said in a low voice, "Was it just him alone?"

A centurion nearby said, "It should be."

"But he let some of the captives and slaves go."

He came and went as he pleased. The man was like a monster—sneaking in, slaughtering, and retreating immediately, leaving not even a shadow. No high walls or fortresses could stop him.

Blood-Axe Nydron looked grim, gazing at his terrified and demoralized soldiers, not knowing what to do. The man had come knocking alone!

He could only roar, "Increase the guard! Double the patrols on the watchtowers!"

His intuition told him that the man might return tonight.

In just one night of slaughter, rumors spread through Devon. Whether it was the enslaved Britons or the migrating Germanic barbarians, they all spoke of a nightmarish, ghostly ranger who sneaked in silently, fueled by the fires of vengeance, killing many Saxon soldiers before vanishing into the night.

Because the King of Kent had died suddenly not long ago, these factors caused the rumors to grow more intense.

The rumors among the Britons were even more outrageous. They said the ranger was an elf, which explained his ghostly mobility. He was the Elven Prince of Britain, the son of the Fairy King Oberon and Titania. Because the Saxons had invaded and slaughtered the Britons, the legendary fairies could no longer stand by. Thus, they sent this elven prince, disguised as a human, to help them resist the Saxon barbarian invasion.

Of course, there was another version: that the ranger was from the mists of Avalon, the offspring of a fairy. Some even claimed he was a descendant of Queen Maeve, the legendary queen from ancient Irish mythology known for her bravery and many lovers.

In the chaotic web of rumors, the Britons collectively linked Duncan to legendary mythological figures. They had suffered for too long.

Among all the rumors, the one most widely accepted was that Duncan came from Avalon and was the prince of the Fairy King Oberon.

As for the fact that Duncan actually came from the Empire? That didn't matter.

There was an even more outlandish rumor in Britain: that the Fairy King Oberon was actually the son of the Imperial leader, Gaius Julius Caesar. When Caesar conquered Britain, he met a goddess of the mythological age in the wild; Caesar fell in love at first sight, and thus the legendary Fairy King Oberon was born.

Official history isn't always accurate, but folklore is always wild!

Caesar was a romantic figure, after all; if he could be seduced by Cleopatra in Egypt, why couldn't a British fairy captivate him?

Of course, this rumor was not recognized by the Empire, as Caesar's legitimate heir was Octavian. Who was this "Fairy King Oberon," anyway?

Night fell.

Duncan leaned against a large tree, pretending to doze, until the night deepened, and he stepped out of the forest.

He did not yet know the absurd rumors about himself. He only intended to harass the enemy, harvest some heads, and further hone his basic combat skills. With his current physique, he didn't fear anyone unless he encountered a legendary figure. As long as he wasn't greedy and avoided the main enemy force, he could easily retreat.

Duncan estimated he wasn't quite ready to take on a war mammoth—he was roughly at 0.6 the strength of an elven prince. After all, the combat skills and agility shown by the elven prince in some fragments were superhuman, more exaggerated than a three-star Witcher.

"I wonder how strong those legendary monsters are."

"Beowulf must have fought with his life against the giants, right? I still need to develop further!"

Duncan was confident against ordinary humans, but slightly apprehensive about anything related to giants. The trolls of the Middle Ages were not the creatures from his past life's games; they were mythological monsters with blood ties to giants. Strictly speaking, they should be translated as "ogres." Cave giants, trolls, and Thor-giants all referred to the same type of being. They were the prototypes for the trolls in Dungeons & Dragons, extremely difficult to kill.

If Duncan were to face one, he would likely need to ask the Raven Queen, Tris, for help. Besides, in legend, Beowulf didn't fight alone—he brought a whole team of elite soldiers.

A dark, windy night for killing.

Duncan watched the guards in Devon double in number, but he remained calm, quietly waiting for midnight, when the enemy would grow weary.

As long as the enemy didn't retreat, he would continue to reap heads. He could always retreat to Cornwall anyway.

However, today was different. When Duncan began his slaughter at midnight, a figure invisible to the naked eye suddenly appeared in mid-air.

— A Valkyrie.

This was the first time Duncan had seen her outside of a battlefield. The Valkyrie, in her silver helmet with bird wings, floated quietly above the town, as if waiting for Duncan to rack up more merit for Valhalla.

"Wait."

"Has my reputation really reached Valhalla? Are the Valkyries standing guard specifically for me?"

Duncan was surprised, but his hands didn't stop. He shot a patrolling soldier, then headshot another with a throwing axe. He leaped down, and Oathkeeper flashed with a cold light, decapitating a Saxon axeman.

In the God's Eye view, the phantom of the Valkyrie circled above him.

As soon as Duncan left, the Valkyrie flew down to carry away the soul of a barbarian warrior. Ever since she met Duncan, her "performance" for Valhalla had been skyrocketing.