Chapter 72: The Man behind the Mask Again!

The lead bandit let out a sharp gasp, his eyes rolling back as he flew backward and crashed hard into the dirt.

The other three bandits froze in complete shock.

"Who else wants to discuss my cargo?" the scar faced man asked, resting the iron scabbard on his shoulder again.

One of the remaining bandits looked at his knocked out leader, then looked up at the scar faced man. "He is crazy! Fall back!"

The three bandits turned around instantly, dropping their rusted weapons and sprinting into the dense forest as fast as their legs could carry them, leaving their leader unconscious in the dirt.

The scar faced man watched them run away, shaking his head with a quiet grunt. "These morons. They didn’t even help me pull my wagon out of the ditch."

He turned his head slowly, his sharp gray eyes snapping directly toward the rock where I was hiding.

"You can come out now, kid," he said loudly, his deep voice cutting through the quiet forest. "I knew you were standing behind that rock five minutes ago."

I paused for a second, then wiped a spot of dirt off my sleeve and stepped out from behind the rock. I walked toward the wagon with my hands resting casually near my belt.

"Your reaction time is pretty fast for an old guy with a bad back," I said, offering a small nod.

The man looked down at me, his eyebrows raising in genuine surprise when he saw my small frame. He took in my brown traveling coat, my sturdy hiking boots, and my small leather pack.

"A kid?" he muttered, scratching his short gray hair. "What is a boy doing walking through a bandit infested forest all by himself?"

"I am ten," I corrected him flatly. "And I am a traveling merchant heading toward the coast."

The man stared at me for three long seconds, then suddenly burst into a loud, booming laugh that echoed through the trees.

"I know you. You’ve grown up an inch!" he laughed, wiping a tear from his eye. "By the gods, Novaria really is going to the dogs if they are sending children out to do trade runs!"

"I am independent," I said, walking around his tilted wagon to look at the broken rear wheel. "And right now, this independent merchant is looking at a very heavy wagon with a snapped iron axle pin. Hey, you said you know me?"

The man stopped laughing, stepping over to look down at the muddy wheel with me.

"I already said it once kid. You also know about axles?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Ofcourse! I am a locksmith," I replied, pulling a small iron lever tool from my pouch. "I know about anything made of metal, pins, and wood. If you help me lift the wagon frame for two minutes, I can fix that pin so you do not have to sleep in the mud."

The scar faced man looked at me, then looked at my iron tool, a faint grin forming on his scarred cheek.

"Wait. You’re the man behind the silver mask years ago!" I remember now. He is the unknown smuggler from the tunnels. The one who gave me Space Crystals and saved me from death. The infamous exiled king of Novaria.

"That’s right. Well now," he said, setting his heavy sword against the wagon wall. "It seems I stumbled upon a very useful little business partner."

We worked together for the next fifteen minutes.

The man was unnaturally strong, lifting the heavy wooden corner of the wagon with his bare hands while I slid beneath the axle, using my iron lever to realign the bent pin and securing it with a spare bolt from my pouch.

When we finished, the wagon wheel rolled out of the muddy ditch with a clean, smooth thud.

The man wiped his dirty hands on his trousers, looking down at me with a nod of real approval.

"Not bad, kid," he said. "Not bad at all. I am Xavier by the way."

"Silvester here. It’s really good to see you again." I replied, shaking his large, calloused hand.

As I looked at him up close, my Locksmith’s Eye picked up something strange. Beneath his worn leather vest and dirty coat, Xavier was wearing a fine silk undershirt, and his posture was far too rigid and formal for a simple wagon driver.

His broadsword handle bore a faded, polished crest that had been intentionally scratched out with a file.

"So, Xavier," I said, leaning against the wagon frame and looking him in the eye. "What kind of simple merchant carries a full crate of military grade steel broadswords to the border?"

Xavier froze for a tiny second, his gray eyes narrowing slightly before he let out a short, amused chuckle.

"You have sharp eyes for a kid, Silvester," Xavier murmured, sitting down on the wooden wagon seat and patting the space beside him. "Get up and sit here. The road to the coast is long, and it is much easier to talk while riding than walking."

I hopped up onto the wooden seat beside him, wrapping my coat tighter as the evening wind began to blow.

As the wagon began to roll slowly down the forest trail, Xavier looked out at the dark trees ahead, his expression turning quiet and thoughtful.

"You asked about my swords," Xavier said softly. "The truth is, I am not a real merchant. I used to be someone important in this kingdom."

"How important? Come on, I already know who you are." I said while my eyes still fixed on the rough road.

Xavier let out a dry, bitter laugh. "Important enough that my own blood brother decided to frame me for murder just to take my crown."

My eyes widened slightly. I looked at his short gray hair, the long scar on his cheek, and the scratched out crest on his sword handle.

"You are Xavier Novaria," I said, the realization hitting me. "The exiled king."

Xavier looked down at me, a sad, weary smile gracing his face. "Aye, kid. That is me. The king who lost his throne to a traitor brother, now driving a dirty wagon through the woods."

I sat on the wooden wagon seat for a long time, staring at the scarred face of the man sitting beside me.

The horses kept up a slow, steady trot down the dirt road, their iron shoes making a rhythmic crunching sound against the gravel.

"An exiled king," I said slowly, letting the words settle in the cool evening air. "I knew you were too loud and arrogant to be a normal wagon driver."

Xavier let out another deep, raspy laugh, shaking his head. "Arrogant? I prefer to call it royal confidence, kid. Though I suppose it did not do me much good when my own guards marched me out of the castle."

"How does a king get kicked out of his own kingdom without a massive war?" I asked, leaning back against the wooden seat back. "Usually when royalty fights, half the capital ends up burning down."

Xavier’s face turned serious, the faint grin disappearing from his lips. He adjusted his grip on the leather reins, staring out at the dark trees ahead as if he were looking back in time.

"My younger brother was always clever," Xavier said quietly, his gravelly voice dropping an octave. "While I was out leading our troops near the border, he was sitting in the capital making friends with rich nobles and buying off council members. Fifteen years ago, right after our father passed away, he decided he did not want to be second in line anymore."

That was five years before I came into this world. It’s such along time. If I was here and already met here at that time I would definitely help him get the throne back.

"So what did he do?" I propped my chin on my hand, listening closely.

"He set up a trap," Xavier replied, spitting over the side of the wagon frame. "Our uncle was the chief treasurer of the kingdom, a good man who kept the books honest. One morning, the guards found our uncle dead in his private office, stabbed through the heart with my personal hunting dagger. Before I could even ask what was going on, my brother brought out five high nobles who all swore under official oath that they saw me arguing with our uncle the night before."

I gritted my teeth slightly. "Framed for murder."

"Worse than that," Xavier muttered. "He framed me for murdering my own family for gold. Half the royal guards were loyal to me, and the other half were loyal to him. If I stayed and fought to prove my innocence, the capital would have turned into a bloodbath. Hundreds of innocent people would have died in the streets just so two brothers could see who sat on a gold chair."

"So you just walked away?" I asked.

"I accepted the exile," Xavier said softly. "I told my loyal commanders to stand down, packed a small sack of clothes, and walked out the back gate. My brother took the crown, erased my name from the history books, and told the kingdom I ran away like a coward."

"That sounds like a terrible deal," I remarked flatly. "If someone tried to frame me for breaking a lock, I would have set their house on fire."

Xavier looked down at me and laughed loudly, slapping his knee with his thick palm. "You are funny, Silvester! You really are a ruthless little demon, aren’t you?"

"I am a practical locksmith," I corrected him. "Bad locks should be replaced, and bad brothers should be dealt with before they ruin the workshop."

"Well, you are not wrong," Xavier admitted, his gray eyes shining with bitter amusement. "I spent the last ten years wandering outside the borders, taking mercenary jobs, trading goods, and gathering loyal men in the shadows. These broadswords in the back are part of that trade. The Vhaltrar Empire pays top coin for high-grade steel, and I need gold if I ever want to buy enough favors to clear my name."

We spent the next three days traveling together down the winding coastal roads. It was a surprisingly pleasant journey.

Xavier turned out to be a great traveling partner, even if he complained endlessly about his sore back and the hard wooden wagon seat.

During the long hours under the sun, we talked about everything. I told him about my safe business, Victoria’s naggy mornings, and Ignatius getting his sword belt stuck backward.

In return, Xavier taught me basic military tactics, how to read weather patterns in the clouds, and how to spot ambush points in dense valleys.

By the end of the third day, the smell of salty air began to fill the breeze, and the distant sound of crashing waves echoed over the hills.

We reached the top of a grassy ridge, and Port Venician appeared below us.

It was a massive coastal city built inside a crescent shaped bay.

High stone walls surrounded the harbor, guarded by heavy iron watchtowers that pointed large ballistas out toward the water.

Hundreds of ships rested in the docks, their tall wooden masts looking like a forest of bare trees against the blue sky.

"There it is," Xavier said, pulling the horses to a stop. "The only open gate into Vhaltrar."

"Because of the war along the land borders?" I asked, looking down at the crowded port roads.

"Aye," Xavier nodded. "The empire closed every mountain pass and river bridge across the eastern border. If anyone wants to trade with them legally right now, they have to put their wagons on a ship and sail into their southern ports. That means the guards down there are twice as strict as usual."

He was not exaggerating. As we drove the wagon down toward the main harbor gate, we ended up sitting in a massive line of over fifty trade wagons.

Heavy armored guards wearing Vhaltrar military uniforms walked down the line, checking every crate, opening every barrel, and reading every piece of parchment with cold, suspicious eyes.

It took us nearly two hours just to reach the front of the checkpoint.

A tall guard captain with a thick black mustache and a heavy steel chestplate stepped up to our wagon. He held a long iron spear in his hand, and his sharp eyes scanned Xavier’s scarred face before dropping down to look at me.

"State your business and present your travel papers," the guard captain demanded, his voice flat and bored.