Grace Foster finally stopped, gasping for breath as he set the fish basket down in front of him and collapsed to the side, panting heavily.

When he looked up, three knights had already appeared before him. The blood on the saber of the leading knight had already congealed, and the other two also held their blades.

“Why aren’t you eating the fish?”

“Do you still think it’s not clean??”

“I’ll eat it right now.”

Grace Foster awkwardly picked up some branches from around him, piled them up, and took out his flint, placing the fish to the side.

The three knights simply watched the exhausted young man busy himself.

Grace Foster quickly got a fire going. He skewered the fish with a stick, then sat by the fire and began to roast it.

He looked up at the three knights in front of him.

“qrimaan?”

The leader burst out laughing and slowly climbed down from his warhorse.

“Alright, if you’re willing to host us, I’m more than happy.”

The leader walked step by step up to Grace Foster.

In that instant, Grace Foster grabbed the fishing spear beside him, leapt up, and hurled it with all his might.

The wooden shaft whistled through the air, striking the smiling mouth on the knight’s mask head-on.

“Puchi!!!”

Blood sprayed out as the knight fell backward, the fishing spear lodged in his mouth, its tail still buzzing and vibrating.

ps: In the seventh month, the great purge of the Yuan clan began. From Emperor Zhaocheng down, none were spared. Some had fathers or grandfathers who were kings, some were themselves always noble and prominent, some had strong and powerful brothers—all were beheaded at the Eastern Market. Their infants were thrown into the air and caught on spears. In total, 721 people died before and after, all their bodies thrown into the Zhang River. When gutting fish, many claws and nails were found. For a long time, no one in the capital would eat fish. — Book of Northern Qi, Annals of Emperor Wenxuan

Chapter 2 Eating Fish, Eating Fish

Grace Foster turned and dashed into the dense forest by the roadside.

His strides were huge, his thighs thick and powerful beneath his robe, muscles trembling as if he were breaking through the wind ahead, and in an instant, he was swallowed by the forest.

The two knights let out furious roars.

“krγayn!!”

The warhorses galloped like a raging wind, sweeping forward, fallen leaves on the road flying up and shattering in midair from the force.

Two hurricanes thus charged into the dense woods.

The towering trees twisted to meet them, branches and thorns lashing at the intruders.

Armor thudded dully, but soon the branches were snapped, the hurricane scattering all obstacles before it. No matter what stood in the way, it was crushed and shattered beneath the warhorses’ wild charge.

The distance between the lone runner and the two riders closed in an instant.

One knight raised his iron spear high and, with a shout, hurled it.

The iron spear flew with a whistling sound. Grace Foster made a sharp turn, but the spear bit into his arm, tearing flesh and ripping off a chunk before continuing on to embed itself in a large tree ahead. The tree shuddered, and a shower of leaves fell.

Grace Foster kept running, blood spraying and splattering the ground, constantly changing direction, darting through the gaps between the trees.

He no longer looked exhausted as before. He was extremely familiar with this place, not even needing to look ahead—his direction was clear from the start.

The warhorses, however, stopped at each gap, the knights reining them in and circling around.

The forest grew denser, the twisted forms of the trees entwined together, the trunks ever taller, nearly blocking out the sky. The air was thick with the scent of decay and new life.

The two knights galloped on either side of Grace Foster, their eyes, crazed and bloodthirsty beneath their masks, fixed on him.

Through the flickering shadows between the trees, the armored men and horses appeared from time to time.

The warhorse on the left stumbled, its front hooves missing their step, and, unable to stop, it and its rider plunged headlong into a pit.

The knight on the right, seeing his comrade suddenly disappear, hurriedly reined in his horse, turned it around, and rushed to help.

There were many traps here.

The left knight’s warhorse lay with its head twisted, several wooden spikes piercing its saddle armor, one spike jutting from its neck—it was already dead.

As for its rider, his head was twisted at a terrible angle, hanging limply at his neck. Though he lay sprawled before his horse, his mask faced his fallen comrade.

His armor had protected him from the spikes, but the fall from the horse had broken his neck.

The last remaining knight now grew uneasy.

Even his warhorse began to paw the ground nervously, snorting in distress.

The knight looked up, glancing around.

There was no sign of Grace Foster anywhere.

The forest was eerily silent.

He could even hear his own heavy breathing.

Suddenly, the shrill cries of birds rang out in the distance, and a great flock of birds burst into the air.

The knight jerked his head in that direction.

His warhorse took a few steps forward, then refused to go any further.

Some strange, mournful cries sounded again in the distance, sending chills down the knight’s spine. He quickly looked that way, his saber trembling slightly in his hand.

He had no idea how many more pig-killing traps might be hidden around.

Cautiously, he urged his warhorse, deciding to retrace his path.

It seemed as if dark shadows flickered all around him.