Ten li out from the central camp, the place was a fortress compared to the Deathsworn Battalion’s ragged sprawl. High watchtowers surveyed every direction, thick log palisades bristled with rows of chevaux-de-frise and deer antlers. Squads of fully armed soldiers patrolled behind the barricades, while outside, cavalry patrols crisscrossed—some returning, others heading out.
When Gabe Quinn was still an arrow’s flight from the camp, he reined in his warhorse, leapt down, tossed the reins to Little Monkey behind him, and strode toward the main gate.
No matter how bold Gabe Quinn was, he wouldn’t dare ride his horse straight to the central camp’s gate—doing so would draw a storm of arrows, and if you got shot dead, there’d be no one to hear your complaint.
The duty captain at the gate, hand on his sword, saw Gabe Quinn approaching and greeted him with a smile and a respectful bow. Both held the rank of captain, but Gabe Quinn was the real commander of a battalion, while the gate captain was just a figurehead—their status couldn’t be compared. Besides, Gabe Quinn’s reputation was legendary: Deathsworn Battalion’s leader, a special presence in the Western Frontier Army. Though they were sent to die, their fighting power was unmatched. To other units, the Deathsworn were a pack of madmen—no one wanted to provoke a rabid dog, because they could bite you at any moment.
Walking up to the central command tent, Gabe Quinn looked up. Compared to his own tent, it was the difference between a mansion and a straw hut. The command tent covered over a hundred square meters, and just standing before it made people instinctively feel solemn and awed.
But Gabe Quinn felt little reverence. He’d once overturned the Grand Marshal’s desk in this very tent—and only gotten twenty strokes of the rod for it. Striding boldly, he headed inside. Rows of soldiers surrounded the tent, silent and still, tighter than usual. Maybe he was late again? Well, it couldn’t be helped—his battalion was far from here. Being late was normal.
Long used to this, Gabe Quinn didn’t mind. He pressed his hand to his sword and walked inside as usual.
With a metallic clang, two blades suddenly appeared, crossed in front of Gabe Quinn.
“Stop! Central camp. Intruders will be executed.” The harsh, low warning sounded in Gabe Quinn’s ear.
Gabe Quinn grunted, lifted his head to look at the two guards who had drawn their swords on him. His narrow eyes slowly squinted—a sign, known to those familiar with him, that he was about to explode. He’d come to the central camp countless times; even the Grand Marshal’s adjutant wouldn’t dare draw on him.
But today, Gabe Quinn didn’t explode as usual—because he realized these two were strangers. Though they wore Western Frontier Army uniforms, they definitely weren’t from the Grand Marshal’s central guard. Gabe knew almost every face in that unit, and even if he didn’t, they’d at least look familiar.
"Who are you?" Gabe Quinn asked, tapping the two blades in front of him as he spoke. The crisp sound deepened his suspicion—these blades were good, much better quality than the standard issue for the Western Frontier Army.
"Step back. Intruders will be cut down." The two soldiers ignored Gabe’s question, their voices low and threatening.
Gabe Quinn tilted his head, then suddenly grinned. "Is that so?"
Before the words left his mouth, his hands flashed out like lightning, sliding along the blades to the soldiers’ wrists. With a quick twist, both men cried out in pain, dropping their weapons. Gabe snatched the blades easily, leaving the soldiers doubled over.
That stirred up a hornet’s nest. The other guards outside the tent drew their swords with a metallic ring, surging toward Gabe. Not a single familiar face among them. Gabe laughed loudly, "Grand Marshal, I’ve come to rescue you!"
His twin blades danced, steel clashing everywhere. As swords fell to the ground, Gabe reached the tent entrance with ease. Behind him, a crowd of soldiers clutched their wrists, glaring at the officer in Deathsworn Battalion uniform. Cries of "Catch the assassin!" erupted all around.
Gabe Quinn laughed, just about to lift the flap and enter, when the tent curtain suddenly flew up. A flash of swordlight shot out from within, aiming straight for his face.
Like a duck grabbed by the throat, his laughter cut off abruptly—the sword was too fast. Gabe hadn’t expected it, and he jerked back in alarm. Left hand braced on the ground, right hand raised his saber—clang! The blade scraped past his nose. As he straightened, a whoosh sounded behind him—the sword had circled back for another attack.
"Sword-control technique!" Sweat broke out across Gabe’s skin as he shouted. He spun, crossing his two sabers in an X. A sickening screech echoed as the sword was trapped between his blades. Only now did Gabe see it was a short sword, barely a foot long, twisting like a venomous snake between his sabers. Fine cracks spidered across the blade surfaces, and with two sharp snaps, the front halves shattered into fragments.
He let go, letting the broken hilts fall to the ground. Gabe turned sideways and reached out, grabbing the short sword. A violent tremor ran through his hand as the blade twisted, trying to escape. Gabe grinned, and a flash of dark-gold light surged from his palm—the sword’s glow vanished instantly. Inside the tent, someone coughed violently.
"Gabe Quinn, stop it, you bastard! Will you ever behave yourself?" came Marcus Lawson’s angry shout from inside the tent.
Gabe Quinn just smiled, lifted the tent flap, and strode inside.
Inside, twenty battalion commanders of the Western Frontier Army sat upright, eyes fixed straight ahead. Marcus Lawson sat at the center, his usually scholarly face dark and grim as he glared at the unconcerned Gabe. Sometimes Gabe thought Marcus looked more like a bookish scholar than a warlord who could sentence thousands to death with a word.
[SKIP]
What surprised Gabe was the chair beside Marcus’s desk—a woman sat there, her face veiled with light gauze.
A woman in the army was rare enough, but one seated beside the Grand Marshal was unheard of. Gabe only glanced at her, then clasped his fists in salute to Marcus. "Grand Marshal, I saw unfamiliar guards at the tent, thought something was wrong, so I came to check. Then this sword flew out at me."
He straightened, tossing the short sword up and down in his hand, eyes fixed on the young man behind the woman—flushed and clutching his chest. Clearly, the sword belonged to him. Young as he was, he could kill with sword-control; impressive skill. The youth glared at Gabe with animal ferocity.
Gabe Quinn dismissed the glare—he’d seen fiercer looks on the battlefield. So what if the kid stared? You can’t kill someone with a glare.
"You’re getting bolder. This is the central command tent, not your lawless Deathsworn Battalion. Who dares cause trouble here? Are the rest of the generals just eating porridge?" Marcus Lawson snapped.
Gabe Quinn coughed twice, clasped his fists, and bowed to the officers around him. "Gentlemen, apologies, apologies. I was worried for the Grand Marshal’s safety and forgot everyone else was just eating porridge."
The tent erupted in laughter. Gabe Quinn’s taboo-breaking ways were nothing new to these men. Even the veiled woman beside Marcus let out a soft laugh.
Marcus Lawson snorted, and the tent fell silent. The officers straightened their faces, though a few captains still made odd noises. Gabe glanced at them—old comrades from the Deathsworn Battalion: Wolf, Panther, Little Cat, now all promoted to battalion commanders.
"The Grand Marshal is strict indeed!" the old man behind the woman sneered. "Meeting you is not as impressive as your reputation."
Marcus Lawson gave a dry laugh, turning to the old man. "Elder Grant, you may not know—this is Gabe Quinn, captain of the Deathsworn Battalion. A wild man, unused to etiquette, always unruly."
"So you’re the famous Gabe Quinn of the Deathsworn Battalion?" The woman at the desk turned, her eyes shining. "Your reputation hardly matches your presence." Her voice was clear and pleasant, and her figure was striking even seated. Gabe’s eyes rudely swept over her.
"Gabe Quinn, pay your respects to the princess. She’s Princess Aurora, sent by imperial command from the capital to inspect and comfort the Western Frontier Army," Marcus said gravely.
Princess? Inspecting the army? Gabe Quinn was stunned—he’d never heard of such a thing.
"Greetings, Princess." Gabe stepped forward, clasped his fists, and bowed to the woman.
"Bold! You see the princess and don’t kneel?" the young swordsman snapped, his face still red.
Gabe Quinn straightened, looked at him, and said, "This is the Grand Marshal’s command tent—military law applies. Even before the Grand Marshal, we only bow with clasped fists."
"Let it go, Captain Quinn is right. Military law rules here," Princess Aurora said, her voice clear and pleasant. "Captain Quinn, could you return the sword to my guard?"
Gabe Quinn held the short sword in both hands and offered it to the young guard. "It’s a fine blade."
A fine blade, but not necessarily a fine swordsman—everyone caught the meaning. Someone laughed again, especially Little Cat, the Deathsworn veteran who loved to laugh most.
The young guard’s face was so red it looked ready to bleed. With a gesture, the sword flew from Gabe’s hands back to him like a bird returning to its nest. Gabe was furious—he’d returned the sword honestly, and the kid was so rude. He’d find a chance to teach him a lesson. Sword-control technique? So what?