Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters-Chapter 989 - 49 Another Hunt (Final)_2
Chapter 989: Chapter 49 Another Hunt (Final)_2
After dismounting, Little Hernan, who had just tied up his horse, hurried over to Farnan with his cap in hand: “Did I miss anything?”
“No.” Farnan bowed deeply, still watching the arena: “Thank you for your assistance, Lord Little Hernan.”
“Aren’t you tired of being so polite all the time?” Little Hernan affectionately hooked his arm around Farnan’s shoulder: “But that’s all the help I could give him. The final blow that will kill the buffalo must still be delivered by his own hands. Still… if Earl Harlan messes up, come work for me! What do you say?”
Farnan cleverly stepped back half a step, keeping a distance of an arm’s length from Little Hernan.
Little Hernan shrugged regretfully and turned his gaze back to the ring: “You don’t need to worry too much. Earl Harlan has already exhausted a lot of the buffalo’s strength, and it has lost a fair amount of blood. I also led the buffalo on a run for a while. Its strength and speed are now far from what they were in the beginning, so I reckon Earl Harlan’s chances are about…”
Little Hernan optimistically judged: “Fifty-fifty.”
Farnan silently gripped the handle of his sword.
“So really, if Earl Harlan screws it up, you might as well become my lieutenant.” Little Hernan proudly slapped his chest: “My father is the Empire’s Marshal, you know!”
…
[Inside the ring]
Unknown to him, Siegfried was unaware of someone trying to poach his lieutenant.
He was gradually entering a state of absolute focus.
Each round of the struggle, each clash, had made him increasingly “familiar” with this bull.
At this moment, Siegfried understood his opponent as one would a friend, as one would an enemy:
The width and direction of its horns, its reactions when attacked, the speed at which it turned, its habitual movements…
Siegfried raised his curved sword and unfolded his cloak.
Little Hernan’s assistants originally wanted to give Earl Harlan more time to breathe, but seeing Siegfried prepared once again, the assistants exchanged glances and lured the bull back to Earl Harlan.
Another absolutely perilous confrontation occurred, with the horns even closer than before.
Siegfried leaped and lunged with his sword.
Still no good!
The thrust was deeper than before, but it stopped less than a foot in, likely stuck in a crevice of bone.
Siegfried endured the intense pain in his palm and withdrew the curved sword as the bull turned.
The assistants quickly stepped forward and led the bull away again.
…
[Outside the hunting grounds]
“Damn!” Little Hernan suddenly exclaimed: “[A continuous flow of intense, surprised Castilian expletives]!”
Farnan turned his head sharply.
Little Hernan’s eyes widened as he asked: “Is Earl Harlan left-handed?”
“Yes.” Farnan replied without hesitation: “Is there a problem?”
Little Hernan quickly placed his hands on Farnan’s chest and explained rapidly: “The buffalo’s heart is also on the left side, you get it? A gladiator must use their right hand to thrust the sword in! Since Earl Harlan is left-handed, with the cloak in his right hand, he can only dodge to the left, a position from which the sword cannot enter!”
Hearing this, Farnan immediately looked towards the hunting grounds.
Little Hernan was extremely frustrated: “Earlier, I said Earl Harlan had a fifty percent chance of winning. Now he might not even have ten percent…”
…
[Inside the hunting grounds]
The assistants had just lured the buffalo away, and Siegfried was already prepared once more.
Under his right rib was a new, superficial bleeding wound—a souvenir left by the bull in their recent clash.
Had it not been for Siegfried’s shirt already having been fully cut open and removed by Farnan, this attack from the bull could have sent him flying.
Siegfried did not waste a second longer, as if he was unwilling to rest for even a moment.
He shook off his gloves, and the accumulated blood within was also flung out.
He stood on his tiptoes slightly, fully extending his left arm which held a sword, the tip aiming straight at the bull, while his eyes intensely followed the blade, focusing on the bull’s back.
Sweat trickled from his forehead, gliding across his eyebrows and finally dripping from the tip of his nose, falling drop by drop onto the dusty ground.
Siegfried remained utterly motionless, as if his heartbeat and breathing had entirely ceased.
He had entered a state of extreme mental concentration, where nothing in the world existed other than his opponent.
He stood there in the center of the hunting ground, his bare upper body glistening with a special sheen from the mixture of blood, sweat, and dirt.
He stood there like a bronze statue, his arms, chest, and every muscular contour a marvel of craftsmanship.
He was no longer simply in control of the audience’s emotions; by just standing there, he had already made everyone hold their breath.
The bull came, and Siegfried waited quietly. This time, he did not move to the left.
He stretched his cloak in front of him, holding it low.
As he could feel the warmth of the bull’s breath, he abruptly lifted the cloak, covering the bull’s eyes, without even jumping or moving a step.
His feet firmly planted, his left hand thrust the sword forward, piercing straight into the hump between the bull’s shoulders, until the hilt was buried.
The bull’s massive horns had now become a disadvantage because their span perfectly accommodated Siegfried’s body.
In that instant, many spectators had the illusion that the man and the bull merged into one, indistinguishable and whole.
But it seemed only to be an illusion, for when they closed their eyes and opened them again, the blond man had been thrown flying by the bull.
Yet the scene had made such an impression that noblemen and women watching could see the same thought mirrored in each other’s eyes.
Inside the arena, the bull majestically stood at the center of the hunting ground, while the blond man lay on the ground, life and death unknown.
Outside the arena, there was dead silence.
The bull took a few steps towards the blond man, then suddenly its knees buckled and its hind legs bent.
The wild creature slowly lay on the ground, collapsing thunderously.
And from the dust raised by the carcass of the bull, a golden-haired figure struggled to stand erect.
The source of this c𝐨ntent is freeweɓnovēl.coɱ.
In an instant, the cheers were thunderous, reaching for the heavens.
At that moment, the Royal Hunting Grounds were conquered by the man standing at its center, sending the nobility of the Castile Peninsula into complete frenzy.
The men cheered until their cheeks flushed, the ladies, discarding all decorum and restraints, threw handkerchiefs, veils, scarves, and anything else they could toss into the arena. Numerous young men leaped into the enclosure, racing to embrace the new legendary Gladiator.
In the crowd, nobody was happier than Little Hernan who, in extreme excitement, shook Farnan’s shoulders and shrieked, “He did it! He really did it! Hahaha… ”
On the Royal stand, Earl Lothaire was brimming with delight.
Looking at the Castilian people celebrating inside and outside the hunting ground, he laughed and said to his nephew, “This scene, it really does remind me of your bear-wrestling, lion-stabbing, beast-conquering days. I remember the Castilians were just as crazed! My God, I nearly went deaf!”
“I’m not as good as him; his challenge was tougher,” the Emperor commented, without any visible joy but clearly in good spirits, evident from his use of address, “Uncle.”
Earl Lothaire’s mind stirred and with feigned nonchalance he joked, “Surely Earl Harlan couldn’t really be your illegitimate child, could he?”
The Royal stand instantly fell silent, while just below, the hunting ground was like a sea of joy.
In sharp contrast, the atmosphere on the Royal stand turned extremely eerie—the question posed by Earl Lothaire was an absolute taboo, even within the Royal Family.
Suddenly, the Emperor burst into laughter, leaning back and forth, and it had been so long since anyone had seen him laugh so heartily.
Even when glass bottles filled with Northern waters and sands were presented, even when the Empire’s Navy defeated the Flemish and reclaimed Rhodes Island, even when the native Emperor of the Western Colonies kneeled before him, the Emperor had never laughed like this.
The Emperor waved his hand with a chuckle, “No.”
His voice was neither too loud nor too quiet, just enough for everyone to hear clearly.
The Royal stand returned to the previous atmosphere—cheering for Earl Harlan, laughing, celebrating.
In the midst of the jubilant atmosphere, only the Emperor seated at the front seemed somewhat melancholic.
Resting his chin on his hand, leaning against the throne, there was a trace of warmth and a touch of regret in his eyes—Earl Lothaire felt as if he was looking once more at the young man of the past who had not yet lost his humanity.
“If only I had a son like him,” the Emperor murmured softly.
