Chapter Thirty: The Elven Ranger—Duncan!

Time flies.

Before he knew it, Duncan had been in the Middle Ages for nearly a month since his arrival.

Anya had reached an agreement with the Duke of Tintagel. She intended to rebuild her family business on the island of Britain, and with Severus acting as her escort, she was already preparing to contact a fleet to transport the exiles she had recruited.

Initially, there wouldn't be many—just a private legion of about three hundred men.

What the Duke of Tintagel perceived as a strong pillar of support was actually the combined resources of two people. While Anya did indeed have a fleet in North Africa, her original private army had belonged to her late husband; after his unexpected death in battle, she was left with no personal guard and had to hire mercenaries at a high price. That retired Imperial guardsman had been infatuated with her wealth and beauty, but Anya had no interest in him.

The two pillars were: first, Anya, with her financial resources, trade caravans, and connections; and second, Duncan, who had absorbed hundreds of exiles in a single battle. Most were young and strong, and with some training and reorganization, they would form a formidable private legion.

In the Empire, such a small force would be nothing—likely suppressed before it could even gather momentum—but on the island of Britain, through integration and reorganization, they could field a force of nearly a thousand men.

The Duke of Tintagel was a crafty old fox. Reluctant to carve out any part of his own territory, he used the pretext of an alliance to grant Duncan and his group a piece of land already occupied by the Saxons. At the peak of his power, the Duke’s influence had reached near Winchester, so he waved his hand and gave them Southampton, which was currently under Saxon control. Despite his appearance of sincerely wanting to recruit Duncan, when it came to actually handing over land, he would likely only have parted with a village or two. The fertile lands of Britain were in the east, around London; he didn't have much high-quality land under his own control, and he was even less willing to part with it. It would have pained him more than cutting his own flesh. Sentiment was fine, but land was off-limits.

"This old fox is just using us to reclaim his lost territory," Anya said, gritting her teeth. From Cornwall to Southampton, all these places had been conquered by the Saxons. If their group could retake the port of Southampton, they would effectively be reclaiming almost all the territory the Duke of Tintagel had lost.

Duncan, however, didn't care at all. Instead, he said with a hint of delight, "It doesn't matter. As long as we have a righteous cause, that's enough."

To Duncan, the most important thing was the status of an ally and the legal ownership of a piece of land, even if it was currently under Saxon control. Lost territory? It didn't matter; they would just find a way to take it back. To him, taking the port of Southampton was equivalent to capturing less than one-fifth of a province—like seizing a few regional cities—and he was confident he could do it in one fell swoop.

Southampton was a vital port in the English region. Geographically, it sat on the southern tip of the island, facing Europe; it would later become one of Britain's most important deep-sea harbors and naval bases. The nearby island was called the Isle of Wight, which reminded Duncan of a certain game.

Severus asked in a deep voice, "Even if we take it, how do we hold it? Even though the Kingdom of Kent is in civil turmoil, we don't have the strength to defend it alone." News had arrived yesterday that the Kingdom of Kent was in chaos, with both uncle and nephew vying for the throne.

Duncan stood up calmly and said, "We don't need to hold it. And we don't need to rush to take it. First, we train the troops." He turned to look at the Raven Queen, Tris, and said firmly, "The exiles don't have enough combat power yet. Once we reorganize them, they need training and real-world preparation. When the time is right, we will advance on Southampton in one push."

In his previous life, he was a veteran player of strategy games. It didn't matter if you didn't have territory at the start, as long as you had money, food, and men. If you could train a battalion, you could start a war and seize land at any time. The exile groups weren't just farmers; they were warriors who had only turned to rebellion because they couldn't survive.

Where would the money and food come from? Initially, from Anya's coffers, and later, by surviving through conquest. They would rob the robbers. The Saxons plundered the Britons, so he would lead his troops to plunder the Saxons. In these chaotic times, everyone was risking their lives; no one was more afraid than the next man.

Severus looked hesitant. "Are they really willing to follow us?"

Duncan said confidently, "Don't worry, I have absolute certainty." The exiles were people who were struggling to survive.

The Raven Queen, Tris, seemed to guess what Duncan was thinking. She stood up, shocked, and asked, "Are you intending to..."

Duncan looked at her with a faint smile and calmly uttered two words that carried the weight of a mountain: "Distribute land!"

What did he need so much land for? To be a landlord in the Middle Ages? He would distribute the land. He would give them an identity as free citizens, allowing them to live like human beings, no longer slaves or serfs—to live with dignity and self-respect. In the late Empire, land annexation and slavery had become severe. If they hadn't been driven to the brink, there wouldn't have been so many rebels.

When Duncan said these words, the others fell silent. Everyone present understood the weight of "distributing land." Even the Gallic warriors recruited by Severus, upon understanding his meaning, looked at him with eyes full of fervor. In this era, who wouldn't want to be a free man with land, a home, and a wife? But the world didn't allow for it; even those with martial strength couldn't necessarily possess a piece of land of their own.

Anya looked up, a doubt in her heart: *If the land is all distributed, what about you?* In this era, the wealth of great nobles was accumulated through large estates; the lord was typically the biggest landowner. Duncan smiled but didn't answer. This was the limitation of the era; he didn't need to say too much.

The candlelight flickered. Anya looked at the determined Duncan and bit her lip. "I will leave tomorrow and send word for the fleet in North Africa to come. I will find a way to transport a shipment of grain and weapons." The startup capital still relied on Anya; Duncan had men, but the exiles were a group of paupers.

The Raven Queen, Tris, mused for a long time before suddenly saying, "I have a way to recruit a group of elite troops."

"Oh? Where from?"

Seeing Duncan's curious gaze, Tris said solemnly, "The Temple Guardians who once served the Roman gods. There aren't many of them—about twenty or thirty."

Like an occult order? Duncan's expression shifted, and he said immediately, "That couldn't be better." If he counted them, plus the recruited exiles and some trained farmers, his starting force could reach nearly five hundred men.

As night deepened, Anya retired early for her departure the next day.

Duncan considered his next steps. Seeing the Raven Queen, Tris, staring at the moon from the windowsill, he walked over and draped his coat over her shoulders. A witch's constitution was only slightly better than an ordinary person's; last time, Tris had been shivering from the cold.

Looking at her beautiful profile, which seemed like white porcelain under the moonlight, Duncan asked softly, "What are you thinking about?"

Tris turned her head slightly, leaning against his shoulder. "I'm thinking about that prophecy. You don't believe in prophecies, do you?"

Duncan nodded slowly. He really didn't believe in such things.

Tris gazed into his eyes, deep as an abyss, which made the witch's mind sway slightly. She whispered, "The prophecy has changed."

"Oh?" Duncan was puzzled.

Tris hesitated for a moment before saying, "That prophecy was the final guidance given to me by the gods—that there was a kingdom beyond the sea that could shelter us. But now, it's a bit different."

"How so?"

Tris reached out and touched Duncan's sharp, chiseled face. There was no joy in her voice, only a hint of concern. "Diana has responded to my prayers again."

*What?!* The signal link to the Greco-Roman pantheon was back online? But her next words made Duncan ponder. "But the goddess only gave me a faint response when it involved you."

The last mortal to receive such attention from the Greco-Roman gods was Julian the Apostate—the Emperor who supported the restoration of the polytheistic camp. Tris was genuinely worried for his safety. After all, that pantheon had been dead for so long that she had long since given up. She had just wanted to find that overseas kingdom to provide everyone with a place to live.

Julian the Apostate had died under mysterious circumstances. With so many polytheistic priests protecting him, the Emperor had suddenly died; some even speculated that the spear was a disguised holy relic, the "Spear of Longinus." After receiving the faint response from the goddess, Tris's first reaction wasn't ecstasy, but fear for Duncan's safety. They had already lost. With the Greco-Roman gods—whose coffins had long been nailed shut—suddenly taking such an interest in Duncan, how could she not be worried?

Duncan immediately understood what she meant. He looked down at the witch with the moon-like beauty, his intense gaze making her cheeks flush. Finally, he kissed her lightly and said, "Let everything take its course. Don't worry too much about it."

Duncan already carried the status of "Odin's Gaze." A few more debts wouldn't break him. It was just another gaze from Diana or Artemis. Tris's words made him realize that the Greco-Roman pantheon might not have been completely extinguished; they were in a state of defeat, exiled gods cut off from faith and sacrifice in the real world. As long as someone could re-establish the sacrifices, they could pry open their coffins and return. Of course, they still wouldn't be able to defeat the Church. The slumbering Diana had likely placed her bets on Duncan, hoping he could help restore her faith and sacrifice in the real world, which was why she responded to prayers involving him.

*It seems the Greco-Roman camp wants to use my power to restore themselves once more?* That was the conclusion Duncan reached. He was like the next Julian the Apostate, the final straw for a fallen pantheon. Whatever, he would use them if he could. He still wore Diana's emblem and carried "Odin's Gaze"; unless a true god descended into the real world, he wasn't worried at all.

Perhaps his confidence influenced Tris. She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him and said, "I will visit Merlin tomorrow."

"Do you want me to escort you?"

Tris shook her head slightly. "No. After entering Britain, my powers have recovered quite a bit. This land is different from other places; the power of the mythological age has not completely faded."

Was it because Severus had regained his druidic supernatural abilities here? Or was there an Avalon in the mist? Duncan hadn't unlocked his mana bar yet and couldn't feel any difference. It was time to find a way to unlock it. He hadn't unlocked it yet—that just meant he hadn't killed enough! If he killed more enemies with spellcasting abilities, maybe he would succeed!

He decided to act immediately. The next day, Duncan headed straight for the Saxon-occupied zone, fully equipped, riding a warhorse, prepared to farm some kills in the war-torn region. Strictly speaking, his first-stage mission of escorting the Raven Queen to Britain was complete. Now, it was time to establish a foothold.

It was time to head out solo!

In a lush forest, Duncan emerged from the southwest, his warhorse grazing leisurely behind him. Through his "God's-eye" view, a few kilometers away, there was a small town marked as Devon. The strategy map clearly showed hundreds of hostile units.

"Must be a town occupied by the Saxons." Duncan checked the sky and prepared to act at night.

As night fell, Duncan adjusted his projection in his vision; the dark night became as clear as day, and he crept toward the town. The population was about two or three thousand. Most were marked as neutral; the hostile markers were all soldiers. Ordinary Saxon civilians were neutral, meaning they wouldn't attack on sight.

The town was surrounded by a wooden wall, similar to a fence, with guard towers at the entrances manned by patrols—Saxon militia spearmen.

*Whoosh!*

An arrow pierced the air. Duncan quietly drew his bow and shot the barbarian soldier in the guard tower, killing him instantly.

"About three or four meters high." He estimated the height, then accelerated, leaped, grabbed the fence, and pivoted his body 360 degrees. His powerful core strength allowed him to vault onto the wooden wall with surprising agility. He had learned this move from George the Witcher; he didn't expect his current physique to be capable of it, even if it wasn't as smooth as the original.

"Hunting time has begun!"

Duncan landed silently, scanned the map, cleared the guard tower, and headed toward a place near the camp. A Frankish throwing axe spun in his palm.

*Thwack!*

It split a skull. Duncan rushed forward and dragged the corpse of an Anglo-Saxon axeman into a dark alley.

On the map, a dense cluster of markers appeared: "British prisoners and slaves." They were kept in a place like a livestock shed. Nearby were about twenty Saxon barbarian soldiers; some were resting, others were on guard.

*Whoosh!*

An arrow flew. A guard clutching his throat fell, the arrow piercing his windpipe, blood bubbling out. He fired in quick succession. The noise attracted three patrolling barbarian soldiers. Duncan didn't hesitate, firing several arrows in one breath. In the darkness, there was only the sound of bodies hitting the ground; in the blink of an eye, they were all dead.

*Clang!*

He drew his sword and rushed forward. As a nearby door opened, the "Oathkeeper" flashed with a cold light, decapitating a barbarian axeman on the spot. Blood sprayed everywhere. The strong smell of blood alarmed the shed ahead; pairs of terrified eyes looked over.

"Shh!" Under the firelight, Duncan held a finger to his lips.

The shed was packed with seventy or eighty people. At that moment, not a single one dared to make a sound, all of them holding their breath. These British slaves wore only thin, tattered clothes and were chained together.

*Clang!*

The Oathkeeper sword severed a man's shackles. His target marker changed to "British Legion Infantry." Duncan threw him an axe and said in a low voice, "Find the keys. Unlock the shackles. Take the others and escape through the western gate; I’ve already cleared the guard post there."

In an instant, in that foul-smelling shed, more than half of the British slaves turned into green-marked units. The infantryman trembled, gripping the axe, his voice hoarse. "Who are you?"

Duncan smiled and turned to leave. "Call me the Ranger. I’ll set a fire to cover your escape and buy you time. Don't hesitate! Leave immediately."

In the crowd, a fierce-looking man with several whip marks on his face stood up. "What about you? Aren't you coming with us? I can stay and help you!" (Sarmatian Rider - Captive).

Duncan didn't stop. "Don't worry. If I want to leave, no one can stop me. Follow the river into the forest, then escape toward Cornwall."

Ten minutes later, a fire broke out in the southwest of the town, and a group of captives who had seized weapons, along with dozens of slaves, rushed toward the western gate. Duncan stood on a rooftop like a ruthless hunter in the dark.

At a distance of 150 meters, he fired a shot at a 45-degree angle, killing the barbarian soldier who had spotted their escape.

*Thump.*

The British infantryman, who was prepared to fight to the death, paused and looked back, but he saw nothing. The night was pitch-black, and in the distance, flames rose, throwing the whole town into chaos. He knew it was the Ranger who had saved them. *Who is he? Daring to storm a town occupied by Saxon barbarians alone?*

"Go!" The rescued captives didn't hesitate, forced their way through the gate, and vanished into the dark wilderness without looking back.

On a rooftop near the barracks, Duncan slid down like an elf ranger, nocked an arrow, and shot a one-star target marked "Saxon Elite Axeman" who had rushed out in a panic. The man had been awakened from his sleep and hadn't even had time to put on his armor.

"It's chaotic now."

The whole town was in turmoil because of him. After confirming that the enemies were all pouring out, he ran, leaped to a rooftop, jumped a distance of nearly six meters, landed on the other side of the street, and headed straight for the target marked "Priest" behind the barracks.

*Creak.*

A heavy door opened, and the smell of blood mixed with herbs wafted out. Many mysterious symbols appeared under the firelight. In the center were various divination and sacrificial tools, with runes carved into bones.

(Durga - Priest unit).

The Saxon barbarian priest opened the door and called out to his panicked servants. Before he could speak, an arrow pierced his throat. *Whoosh!* A second arrow followed, nailing his head to the doorframe.

"That's enough."

Duncan left two arrows unused. He blended into the chaotic crowd, glanced at the barbarian soldiers assembling in a panic, and left without looking back. He wanted to see how many days these Saxon barbarians could hold out; he wouldn't engage in a prolonged battle anyway. He would retreat as soon as the enemy assembled, and retreat if he encountered someone tough—these ragged wooden walls couldn't stop him.

Sixteen heads—not one more, not one less. Duncan wasn't greedy. After vaulting over the fence again, he headed straight for his warhorse and plunged into the dense forest.

One bite at a time. One task at a time.

I'll be back tomorrow!