Chapter 38 | Has the Empire's Sword Who Married to the Countryside Fallen Today?

The land under the empire's rule was vast, and its laws were strict.

Over the years, although there had been occasional disturbances from lowlifes, things had generally remained peaceful.

After setting out from the small town, Klein and Ophelia hurried along the road.

Horse hooves treaded over the dirt surface, kicking up sparks of dust. The afternoon sun spilled through the forest canopy, casting mottled shadows on the ground.

Klein had calculated that the entire journey would take no more than three days.

He originally thought there wouldn't be any accidents.

The road conditions were decent, and it was an imperial highway; no matter how arrogant bandits were, they wouldn't dare to act so flagrantly in a territory directly under imperial jurisdiction.

But an accident happened anyway.

On the afternoon of the second day, as they crested a gentle slope and were heading along a forest path.

Commotion drifted from ahead.

It wasn't the usual shouting of a merchant caravan; the voices were laced with curses and screams, as well as the neighing of horses and the dull thud of heavy objects hitting the ground.

Klein pulled on the reins, and Ophelia's horse had already come to a stop.

She turned her head, her golden eyes looking toward the direction of the sound, her brow furrowing slightly.

"Someone is being attacked," she said softly.

Klein nodded.

"Something sounds wrong."

The two of them instinctively squeezed their horses' flanks and sped up.

The forest path rounded a bend, and their field of vision suddenly opened up.

In a clearing ahead, a merchant caravan was being surrounded.

Three carriages filled with goods were blocked in the middle of the road, the curtains on the wagons half-torn, revealing the sacks and wooden crates inside.

Some goods had already been thrown to the ground; sacks had burst, spilling white coarse salt all over the floor.

Seven or eight bandits surrounded the caravan, clutching machetes and short axes. A few of them were climbing onto the carriages, tearing down goods and tossing them onto the ground.

Their movements were crude, and they cursed incessantly; they had clearly done this many times before.

A middle-aged man wearing a patched short-sleeved shirt knelt on the ground, his arm bleeding. Blood dripped from his elbow onto the dirt, spreading into a dark red stain.

He kept begging for mercy, his voice hoarse and filled with despair.

Two young men stood behind him—likely his sons or apprentices—their faces pale. They held wooden sticks, but their hands were shaking, and they didn't dare to step forward.

One of the young men had a bloody gash on his forehead, evidently having just been struck.

The bandit leader was a lean, bald fellow with a scar stretching from the corner of his left eye down to his chin, making him look exceptionally fierce.

He was stepping on a wooden crate, looking down at the caravan leader with a playful smirk.

"I'm asking you, where's the money?"

"Everything we have is here, it's all yours, all yours!"

The caravan leader's voice trembled, almost crying as he spoke.

"These goods were all bought with borrowed money. I beg you, have mercy..."

"Shut the hell up!"

The bald fellow kicked the caravan leader's shoulder, knocking him over directly.

The caravan leader tumbled to the ground with a cry of pain, his injured arm pinned beneath him, his face contorting in agony.

"Who's asking about these rags and junk? Gold coins! Where's your caravan's toll?"

The bald fellow crouched down, grabbed the caravan leader's collar, and hauled him up.

"You don't know my rules? If you walk this road without paying a toll, no one passes!"

"We really... really don't have much on us. Just a few silver coins, they're... they're all in my pocket..."

The caravan leader tremblingly pulled a cloth bag from his chest and held it out with both hands.

The bald fellow took the bag, weighed it, and his expression darkened.

"Just this much?"

He tore open the bag and poured it out; three silver coins fell to the ground.

"Are you fucking treating me like a beggar?"

The bald fellow raised his foot and stomped on the back of the caravan leader's hand.

"Argh—"

The caravan leader let out a scream.

"My lord, spare me! There really is nothing else! My whole family is counting on this trip..."

"I don't give a damn about your family!"

The bald fellow stomped again, then let go and turned to look at the carriages.

"Search them! Turn everything valuable out!"

A few bandits moved at his command and began to rummage through the goods even more violently.

Klein and Ophelia glanced at each other.

Without saying a word, the two had already reached an agreement.

Klein was not the type of person who could sit by and watch.

Ophelia even less so.

She was a knight.

Naturally, the Knight's Code included protecting the weak.

Ophelia flipped off her horse, her movements sharp and efficient.

She didn't draw her sword immediately, only loosening the scabbard at her waist with a slight metallic rasp, and then strode toward the caravan.

Her pace was steady, each step firm, her boots making clear sounds as they hit the ground.

Klein followed behind her, his fingers twitching slightly as mana gathered at his fingertips, ready to cast a spell at any moment.

He could feel the aura emanating from Ophelia—the pressure belonging to a knight: calm, firm, and unquestionable.

They didn't walk particularly fast or slow, but their footsteps were distinct.

The bandits quickly noticed them.

"Hmm?"

The bald fellow stopped what he was doing and turned around.

His gaze first landed on Klein—a young man dressed in a sophisticated black robe, carrying a bulging pack, looking like a scholar or a minor noble.

Then his gaze moved to Ophelia.

Golden hair, high ponytail, dark blue vest, leather boots, bracers.

Her entire demeanor was that of a knight.

And a formal knight at that, not the kind an impostor could fake.

The bald fellow narrowed his eyes, the smile on his face fading slightly.

"Where are you from?"

His subordinates also gathered around, their machetes and short axes glinting in the sunlight.

One of the bandits licked his lips, his eyes scanning Ophelia with a hint of ill intent.

"Boss, this wench looks pretty good..."

The bald fellow raised a hand to stop him.

"Shut up."

He stared at Ophelia, a flash of wariness in his eyes.

Anyone dressed like this was either a real knight or a lunatic who didn't fear death.

Regardless of which one she was, she wouldn't be easy to deal with.

But it was only a bit more trouble.

Ophelia didn't answer.

She simply continued walking until she was less than ten paces from the bandits.

Then she stopped.

"Release them."

Her voice was calm, without fluctuation, as if stating a fact that required no questioning.

It wasn't a request or a negotiation; it was a command.

The bald fellow paused for a moment, then laughed.

"Wench, are you talking to me?"

He took two steps forward, his smile returning, but his gaze turned cold.

"Do you know whose territory this is?"

"Release them."

Ophelia repeated.

Her tone didn't change, but Klein could sense that her right hand was already resting on the hilt, her fingers lightly gripping the notches of the hilt.

It was the preparation for drawing her sword.

The bald fellow's smile vanished.

He took another two steps forward, his expression turning gloomy.

"I'm in a bad mood today, so get lost if you know what's good for you."

He raised his hand and pointed at Ophelia.

"Don't think you're something special just because you're wearing a suit of armor. I've seen plenty of knights!"

"I'll say it again. Release them."

Ophelia's voice remained calm, but a chill had risen in her golden eyes.

The bald fellow swung his hand violently.

"Kill her!"

Before he could finish his sentence, three bandits had already lunged forward.

A short axe chopped down, a machete swept across, and a spear thrust forward—their movements were fierce and well-coordinated, clearly not their first time working together.

Ophelia moved.

Her figure suddenly shot forward, so fast it was almost a blur.

She drew her sword, the blade tracing a golden light in the air and bringing with it a whistling sound.

Before the first bandit's short axe could descend, it was struck precisely on the handle by her blade.

"Crack—"

The handle snapped, and the short axe flew off, spinning several times in the air before embedding itself in a nearby tree trunk.

The bandit lost his balance and stumbled back three steps, falling onto his backside.

The second bandit's machete swept toward her, but Ophelia sidestepped it and slammed the back of her sword against his wrist.

"Argh—"

The bandit cried out in pain as his blade dropped. He clutched his wrist and fell to his knees, his face turning pale.

The third bandit reacted the fastest, trying to circle to the side for a sneak attack.

But Ophelia had already turned. She stepped forward with her left foot and lashed out with her right leg like a whip, kicking him square in the knee.

"Crack—"

A crisp snap followed.

The bandit's knee buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, his face pale and cold sweat dripping from his forehead.

From the moment she drew her sword to the end, barely three seconds had passed.

And Klein hadn't even had the chance to act.

He watched as Ophelia sheathed her sword, the corner of his mouth curving upward.

This Knightess didn't need his help at all.

However... seeing her fight really was quite impressive.

The bald fellow's expression changed.

He stared at Ophelia, the disdain in his eyes gone, replaced by wariness and alarm.

"You really are a knight?"

His voice lowered slightly.

"A formal knight?"

Ophelia didn't answer.

She just looked at him, her golden eyes devoid of any emotion, as if she were looking at a dead man.

The bald fellow bit his lip and suddenly blew a whistle.

The sharp sound echoed through the woods.

Two figures lunged out from the trees.

One held a crossbow, while the other clutched a long spear.

They moved quickly and were clearly well-trained—not just ordinary mountain brigands or bandits.

Klein's brow furrowed.

There was an ambush.

Furthermore, these people's coordination was clearly the result of training.

The crossbowman raised his weapon, aiming the bolt at Ophelia's chest.

The spearman circled to the side, blocking her retreat, his spear pointed diagonally as he prepared to thrust.

The bald fellow sneered.

"Think you're special because you're a knight? I've killed plenty of knights!"

He took two steps back to a safe distance.

"Fire!"

The crossbowman pulled the trigger.

"Whoosh—"

The bolt whistled through the air.

Ophelia didn't move.

She simply stood in place, her right hand resting on the hilt once more.

Klein let out a sigh.

Even though he knew Ophelia didn't need help, he couldn't exactly do nothing, could he?

He raised his hand, mana coalescing at his fingertips as a faint ripple appeared in the air.

An invisible force burst from his fingertip, heading straight for the crossbowman.

The crossbow in the man's hand suddenly became searing hot, making him cry out in shock.

"Ah—hot! It's hot!"

The crossbow fell to the ground, and the bolt veered off course, thudding into the nearby mud.

At the same time, Ophelia moved.

Her figure surged forward again, faster than before.

The blade left its sheath, tracing a dazzling golden light in the sun as it went straight for the bald fellow.

The bald fellow's expression changed drastically as he tried to dodge, but it was already too late.

The battle qi in his body surged wildly, forming a layer of protection over his skin.

But it was useless.

The blade broke through his battle qi defense in an instant, as if cutting through thin paper.

The tip of the sword stopped an inch from his throat.

The bald fellow froze.

He could feel the chill emanating from the sword tip—the scent of death.

Ophelia's voice rang out, still calm.

"I said, release them."

The surroundings fell silent.

All the bandits stood stunned, not daring to move.

The caravan leader knelt on the ground, his eyes wide in disbelief at everything before him.

Even with a sword at his throat, the bald fellow didn't show the slightest sign of backing down.

He grinned, revealing a row of yellow teeth.

"Kill me if you have the guts."

His voice was coarse, carrying a desperate, reckless ferocity.

"Wench, do you dare?"

Ophelia's sword did not move.

She looked at him, her golden eyes completely flat.

"Are you sure?"

The bald fellow laughed.

His laughter was raspy, filled with reckless grit and a hint of madness.

"Wench, do you know who's backing me?"

Even with the sword at his throat, he didn't retreat an inch; instead, he leaned in closer.

"The Vice Commander of the Third Battalion of the Imperial West Border Patrol Division is my cousin."

He grinned, showing his yellow teeth, a smug light gleaming in his eyes.

"I'm one of his men. Every caravan in this area has to pay me. Why do you think I dare to operate on the imperial highway?"

His voice grew louder and more arrogant.

"Because I have someone covering for me!"

Ophelia's sword did not move.

"And?"

Her voice was still calm, but Klein noticed her brow furrowed slightly.

It was a rare flicker of emotion from her.

"So if you touch a single hair on my head, someone will come looking for you tomorrow."

The bald fellow's voice was full of smugness and a hint of a threat.

"An imperial knight? Hah, I've seen plenty. You people are most afraid of getting tangled up in legal trouble."

He leaned in further, the sword tip piercing the skin of his throat and drawing a bit of blood.

But he didn't care.

"Kill me if you have the guts."

His eyes fixed on Ophelia, shining with a manic light.

"Do you dare? Kill me, and the Patrol Division will come to arrest you tomorrow. When that happens, you won't be able to keep your status as a knight."