When the Saintess Arrives, No King Exist
Chapter 97 - 95: The Last Barrier

Chapter 97: Chapter 95: The Last Barrier

"Xiangshu Village direction? Are you sure?"

Cléante looked at the refugee in front of him in surprise, while the refugee timidly glanced at the scout beside him.

The scout immediately stepped forward and said, "Boss Cléante, I’ve checked, there are indeed wheel traces and footprints there. They tried to cover them up, but I found them anyway."

"Good, once this is over, you’ll receive an extra pay."

"Toot toot toot." Cléante blew his copper whistle immediately, "Get up, you slackers, no more resting."

The mountain mercenaries resting by the King’s Path rose reluctantly, dragging themselves into formation.

"Marching at night..."

"It’s so dark, those country bumpkin villagers surely can’t move now. Let’s pursue them in the morning."

"Yeah, they’re probably resting too, it won’t make a difference."

But the mountain mercenaries’ complaints did not sway Cléante’s determination in the slightest; he whipped the lazy mercenaries to get them moving.

Amid the roars, the mercenaries staggered towards the trail.

Leading the mercenaries up the slope, through the woods, to a narrow path, Cléante indeed found wheel imprints on the ground.

And an unexpected guest.

"Cléante, what are you doing here?"

"Pursuing the rebels," Cléante looked at Belard in front of him.

"I tracked them from the source, how did you find them?"

"Didn’t find anything on the King’s Path, so I decided to search the smaller roads. Hey, don’t you doubt, I actually found them."

"You found them?" Belard asked sarcastically.

In the clearing among the trees, the irises gently swayed.

The two groups of mercenaries stood behind their leaders, gripping their gunblades, glaring fiercely at each other.

The plain mercenaries looked down on the noisy mountain mercenaries, while the mountain mercenaries despised the pretentious plain mercenaries.

On this muddy path, their gazes seemed to duel in the air.

"Alright, I don’t want to argue with you, or else we’ll let the rebels escape again." Cléante said magnanimously, waving his hand.

He stepped forward to a fork in the road, pointing at the footprints and wheel traces on the ground, "There are two sets of traces here. They must have split their forces. You choose one way, I’ll choose the other, no interference."

Belard approached, crouched down, and closely examined the depth of the wheel imprints.

After a moment, he pointed at a path with deeper tracks and said to Cléante, "I’ll choose this one, you don’t mind, right?"

Cléante crouched, pinched a bit of soil between his fingers, chuckled lightly, "Go ahead."

The two hundred White Maple Mercenaries followed Belard into the forest path.

Watching Belard’s departing figure, Cléante sneered, "Fool, new sand atop old, clearly rolled over twice. The carriage must’ve turned back; they surely went this way. Let’s go."

The mountain mercenaries immediately followed Cléante onto another small path.

The full moon gradually rose overhead, the gentle breeze brushing against the branches.

Belard stood by the spot where the wheel imprints suddenly vanished, his chest heaving wildly.

"Head back,"

He gritted his teeth, turned, and ran back with his men.

The mercenaries jogged back along their path to the original fork.

Without stopping, Belard turned and ran toward Cléante’s chosen path.

Before he got close, he heard the indistinct sounds of horse neighs.

Belard’s face changed dramatically, knowing Cléante didn’t have horses when entering the forest.

Waving his hand for the soldiers to slow, Belard strained a composed expression, standing there waiting.

From a bend, three stone-filled wagons appeared first, Cléante sat at the side, his face ashen.

He raised his head and met Belard’s gaze, both stunned.

"Didn’t find the rebels?"

"Why are you here?"

Both spoke at once.

Sensing something, their faces changed again simultaneously,

"Hurry, get to the fork!"

"Don’t fall behind them! Run, you idiots, run faster."

Just like their first confrontation, they crowded shoulder to shoulder at the fork, shoving and jostling, moving slower than walking separately.

Back at the previous fork, unable to sort their ranks, they trampled each other, racing towards the third path.

Curses, tripping and elbowing flew between the two bickering mercenary lines.

About half an hour later, both groups returned humiliated, with branches and leaves tangled in their hair.

Standing at the fork, they gazed bewildered around.

"Where’d they go then?"

"Beats me."

Moonlight shone on their heads, they raised their faces in confusion.

Did they fly away?

Meanwhile, moonlight also gleamed on Horn’s men.

Streams submerged their knees and wheels, the night water exuded a biting chill; ripples reflected fragmented moonlight as each wrinkled foot emerged from water.

"Push, push hard!"

"One, two, three!"

Seven or eight black-clad soldiers stood behind the wagon, pushing against it, as the carriage horses neighed, shoulders braced against the cart, they pushed it ashore.

In the trapezoid riverbank under vague moonlight, over a thousand varied villagers trudged through the icy creek.

The Child Soldiers swiftly navigated the crowd, conveying commands and information to the elders directing the crossing villagers.

These villagers must climb a steep slope after crossing, reaching their destination — the King’s Path.

Sitting on a large rock resting, Horn looked up, watching the moonlight overhead, silently calculating time.

"Your Grace," a soaked youth, accompanied by several Child Soldiers, approached Horn.

"Raphael, so how is it, took the bait?"

"Got them, caught two big fish," Raphael replied with a smile.

"Good," Horn stood up, gave Raphael a few instructions to join the team, then climbed up the slope.

After learning from scouts that their path was discovered by Belard, Horn immediately assembled the bishop elders, deciding to head back along the previous wheel tracks, through the forest, avoiding the Xiangshu Village route, advancing via the King’s Path.

Those carriages and refugees were Horn’s arrangement, specifically to mislead the pursuers.

Early at the fork, they had returned along the wheel imprints, unbeknownst to Belard, too young to distinguish fresh and old soil.

Cléante took shortcuts, unnoticed the previous wheel tracks.

Must admit, this trick worked wonders.

Horn originally hoped one would fall for it with two paths laid, surprised that both were fooled.

Supporting the ground, Horn climbed to the top, glanced into the distance.

About two hundred meters away, a road fit for four carriages lay bathed in moonlight.

Three to five miles west on the King’s Path, a Wandou Bridge stood, alongside a checkpoint.

Crossing the wooden Wandou Bridge, not taking the main road, cutting through the gorge, heading south seven to eight miles more, reaches the Path of Blood and Sweat entrance.

Horn could already faintly see the checkpoint tower lurking behind the hills and trees.

Only this last checkpoint remains.