Chapter 21: Someone is trying to steal the base!

Deep in the mountain forests, a dilapidated stockade stood, resembling the encampments of early Gaulish barbarians from before the turn of the millennium.

After Aetius suppressed the Bagaudae rebellion, many of the insurgents fled toward Belgic Gaul, burrowing into the deepest, most remote forests they could find. They were a collective of destitute slaves and bankrupts clinging together for survival. Without a place to call home, they would eventually seek refuge with the Franks, the Visigothic Kingdom, or various Germanic tribes, ultimately strengthening these barbarian forces with a massive influx of labor.

Even in the barren depths of the woods, these exiles had forcibly carved out small, rugged plots of land to cultivate meager crops and vegetables. Someone had already returned to notify the others of their arrival.

Duncan led his horse forward, observing a crowd of women and children emerging from the stockade to help haul supplies. Their faces were gaunt, yet their expressions lit up with joy at the sight of the grain.

"There are many women, children, and the elderly among them; the core of these exiles has not yet rotted away." If the stockade were filled only with able-bodied men, their spirit would likely have already soured, necessitating a heavy-handed suppression.

Strictly speaking, they were refugees who had fled here three years ago. Only a small fraction were true rebels; the rest were simply homeless wanderers. The Imperial army had always been ruthless internally, never hesitating to slaughter the towns of its own people. This village numbered only six or seven hundred; any more, and they could not have been sustained.

The exiles were a fragmented group, primarily composed of those who had lost their land over the past few decades and refused to remain slaves or serfs. Every uprising they joined would sweep up peasants, serfs, and herdsmen, only for them to retreat into the mountains upon failure, emerging again once their strength had recovered. Thus, they were numerous but scattered. The Empire constantly produced bankrupts, and the lower classes were squeezed dry; those with a spark of resistance would flee to join the exiles.

"Lord Duncan," Kveto said, leading the horses to be cared for by others, then guiding the group toward the largest wooden structure.

There was no real leader here. The settlement was formed by the convergence of three separate groups of refugees who had chosen to settle nearby after Aetius slaughtered the main body of the rebellion, leaving only small, scattered remnants.

From Duncan’s "God’s-eye" perspective, there were no red hostile markers within the stockade. Most were blue. Some of the exile rebels had shifted from green to blue, though a portion remained green—they had clearly submitted. Without Duncan’s intervention, these rebels would have been completely wiped out.

"Not bad." Within his field of vision, many were labeled as 'Exile Mountaineers.'

As night fell, food was brought. The Raven Queen, Triss, sniffed it and signaled that it was safe. With a druid and two witches in the party, it would take a master of poisons to successfully slip anything into their food—and besides, Duncan saw no hostile markers.

They began to eat. The exiles had slaughtered a sheep, and the cook brought it over roasted. The mountaineers even knelt to present it to Duncan, offering the fattest leg to him and the front leg to the Raven Queen.

The enslaved woman they had rescued stood up to serve them, pouring water, wine, and carving the meat. Triss had a small appetite; before the witch Anya could rise, she had already moved to Duncan’s side, naturally carving the lamb and placing it onto a clay plate. Anya, having just stood up, could only sit back down in frustration, watching Duncan devour the meal at the head of the table. She cast a dark, lingering look at Triss.

Severus drank and ate heartily. He glanced at Triss, then at Anya, and lowered his head to continue gorging himself; he was a wounded man and dared not ask questions.

It started normally enough, but when Duncan finished an entire sheep and several fowl, Anya’s eyes widened in shock. The mountaineers outside the hall gasped; many crept over to peek, whispering in a barbarian tongue—words that roughly translated to 'warrior,' 'hero,' and ancient titles reserved for legendary figures.

They hadn't believed that Duncan had routed the enemy alone. But seeing him consume enough for ten men, they were convinced, for the heroes of barbarian legend—like Beowulf—were said to possess such appetites. Kveto now bowed his head in instinctive reverence whenever he saw Duncan.

"Finally, a full meal." Duncan’s health bar had roughly doubled, matching that of the barbarian berserker he had encountered earlier.

With hunger sated, it was time to rest. Duncan needed to plan his next move, for a chaotic age was fast approaching.

As the night deepened, Duncan sat in his room, pondering his strategy. To remain vigilant, he kept his consciousness in the "God’s-eye" view, while his human body pretended to sleep. The group stayed in the largest cabin, where the mountaineers had laid out fine sheepskins for bedding.

In the projected view, Triss appeared silently outside the door. Duncan immediately had his human body rise and open it.

The witch sat by the window and whispered, "You intend to incorporate these exiles?"

Duncan nodded slightly. "Yes." He sat opposite her and said in a low voice, "Britain faces the Saxon invasion. We cannot hope to establish a foothold there as a mere handful of people." No matter how strong Duncan was, he would still have to tactically retreat if faced with a hundred Saxons. One man’s power was limited in war. "The Celts may not tolerate us, and I have no desire to live under another’s roof. There are many Celtic kingdoms and tribes on the islands. Without our own foundation, how can we stand firm?"

Duncan leaned in, his gaze fixed on Triss. "The wizard Merlin—is he truly willing to help us? He serves a king in Britain, does he not? What can a few of us achieve there? Besides, they have slaughtered wizards before."

Merlin was a baptized mage. Before this, Britain had undergone a purge of wizards, driven by the influence of the Church. The man behind it was King Arthur’s father. Those slaughtered were mostly traditional Celtic priests; the king had sided with the Church, whether as a power grab or to suppress the old priesthood, who were the only ones capable of challenging his authority.

Triss was silent. After a long pause, she looked at Duncan and said slowly, "I will help you make these exiles submit."

Triss was not only a powerful witch but also a High Priestess of the ancient polytheistic faith. She, too, sought to avoid the Church’s reach and carve out a future in Britain. If they could not find the legendary hidden lands, then Britain was the best refuge for witches. The northern barbarians had their own faith, the Empire was torn by war, and the Church was closing in; they had nowhere left to go.

Just as they discussed their next steps, the witch Anya quietly opened the door to her room and crept toward Duncan’s. She wore a silk-like nightgown, her skin glowing white, the traditional Roman court attire revealing a hint of her bosom—a seductive sight. Such expensive fabric was brought via the Silk Road; only the elite could afford it.

In the room, Triss suddenly frowned, turning toward the door with a strange, enigmatic smile. She knew someone was coming. She walked behind the door and caught Duncan’s eye, her expression unreadable.

A light knock sounded. Duncan looked at Triss, who gestured for him to open the door while she remained in the shadows.

*What is this?* Duncan wondered. Anya’s revealing attire suggested a seduction attempt. But what was Triss doing?

Duncan opened the door. Anya breezed in, a wave of intoxicating perfume following her. "Did I disturb your rest?" she asked, her voice sultry.

Triss’s expression was mocking. "Of course not."

Anya’s face changed. Suddenly, Triss raised her fingers, muttering a spell. Anya froze in place. Triss stepped out from the shadows, walked to Anya, and lifted her chin with a playful, condescending finger. A rope-like object, slithering like a snake, bound Anya tightly.

Anya’s face paled with terror. "Lady Triss," she whimpered. She had assumed Duncan was alone.

Triss’s gaze turned icy. She withdrew her hand and spoke in a haunting voice: "Call me High Priestess!"

The title made Anya shudder. In Imperial history, that title was held only by the Emperors. She was truly afraid now. "High Priestess," she trembled.

Triss circled her, looking not at a person, but at a piece of property—a beautiful slave. She turned to Duncan and asked, "Do you like her?"

*Should I like her? Or not?* Duncan swallowed hard, unsure how to answer. Triss’s presence was terrifying; when she had declared herself High Priestess, the candles in the room had flickered. Invisible currents of magic surged.

*Damn.* Triss was imposing, like a high queen. Her narrowed eyes and arched brows held a chilling sharpness that made even Duncan, a veteran of the battlefield, feel a tremor of fear.

Without waiting for an answer, Triss stripped the robe from Anya. "Indeed, beautiful. A true follower of Aphrodite." She brushed a hand over Anya’s chest, causing the witch to tremble in terror.

Turning to Duncan, Triss’s gaze softened, imbued with a gentle, apologetic warmth. "You were right. I must remain pure for the Goddess. Perhaps you should take her as a gift."

Anya’s eyes widened in disbelief. "You heard us?" She had wanted to seduce Duncan, but not like this—not as a gift from Triss. *Why had things become this?*

Triss pushed the witch onto the bed. Her gaze toward Duncan was now as gentle as a lake under moonlight. She took his rough hand in her delicate one, stroking his cheek with the other. "You have suffered on this journey," she whispered. "Since she came to you herself, let her soothe your tired body and mind."

Triss had watched him walk through blood and bone to reach this point. Her voice was as soft as the night wind, filled with love, pity, and maternal tolerance. There was no trace of jealousy.

She led him to the bed and forced Anya’s head down, her tone flat. "What happened to your methods of pleasing men? Did the priestesses of Aphrodite not teach you?"

Duncan was stunned, unable to move, his consciousness fully immersed in his human form. He had never seen Triss like this—it was terrifying, yet intoxicating.

"Triss... you cannot treat me so... I am a founder of the coven...呜..." Anya sobbed, her pride shattered. "I am not your slave... nor a gift!"

Triss looked down at her, her calm, cold eyes crushing Anya’s last bit of defiance. Behind that gaze was true arrogance; as the last High Priestess of the Empire, she had never considered Anya a rival. She was merely a gift that had arrived at the right time to comfort the man she loved. He had carried the weight of blood and fire; only a woman’s touch could soothe that. Since Anya had offered herself, Triss would not refuse.

*It is irrational, but it is Roman.*

"Do you think you can compete with me?" Triss laughed.

A breeze stirred. Triss looked at Duncan, her voice gentle again, like a virtuous wife advising her husband. "Do not let the slaughter consume you. The Spartans perished in their own bloodlust." She gestured to the bed. "Enjoy the gift I have prepared for you... only a woman’s comfort can soothe the killing."

Duncan was paralyzed. He finally understood why his human self would fall in love with her—and why, at the end, he would embrace her corpse as they were consumed by dragon fire.

She was the Raven Queen, Triss, the last High Priestess of the Empire. Unique. Irreplaceable. Her love was deep, her pride boundless, and her spirit beyond that of ordinary mortals.

Triss smiled, seeing the look in Duncan’s eyes. Words were unnecessary. She kissed him, then flicked her wrist; the rope transformed into a whip, lashing out at Anya.

"Is this how your priestesses taught you?" Triss struck her three times, leaving the witch sobbing. She sat by the window, watching the beauty with a calm, detached gaze. "Do not disappoint me. I wish to see the methods of Aphrodite’s cult."

Duncan gasped. He was terrified of her now. Under the moonlight, Triss looked like a goddess of the moon, elegant and satisfied as she watched Anya’s desperate performance.

*Since you dared to come, I will make use of you.*

*Compete with me? You?*