Chapter 8: ChivalryTaylor's undeserved reputation had grown. Though his team clashed only lightly with cult members, most believed he had known of the cult's presence in advance—and had boldly confronted their leader.
When the Freeblade arrived by communication, the decisive female warrior unleashed her Knight Mech to obliterate the remaining villages.
Residents were imprisoned in dungeons, to be interrogated later.
It was the first time Taylor witnessed such a massive spectacle: a towering red metal beast smashing thatched and brick homes like twigs.
The whirlwind it created choked the air, showcasing the Empire's raw strength.
Yet the Ork clan which forced such a proud feudal Knight family into retreat had to be enormous.
Now, the proud Freeblade was slumped from her Mech with the Mechanical Priest's aid.
Sweat soaked her armor, but she grinned.
"Ha, let those cultists see the power of the God of All Things."
Her eyes flicked sideways to Taylor.
"Squire, you did well this time."
Her cheeks flushed faintly, but Taylor knew it wasn't romance—it was the predatory gleam of a wild wolf craving the next hunt.
Recognized at last? Taylor wasn't sure.
To him, this woman was no longer fully human.
Compared to her, the Slaanesh-worshipping cultist seemed almost endearing.
Taylor licked his lips—strange how terrible things sometimes seemed better by comparison.
Fortunately, Freeblade kept busy, which was a blessing for Taylor: finally some respite.
At the camp's tavern, he traded a few imperial rations—unpalatable but rare—to locals for cheap Amsett wine and snacks.
He used patrols and tricks to root out troublemakers in his team.
Rubbing his hands, he savored rare peace, eating with homemade chopsticks from cheap plates.
He shed armor and lasgun, carrying only a tactical dagger and concealed laser pistol.
Imperial personnel swarmed the camp, giving Taylor space to rest as food arrived.
As a revered but often scorned figure, Taylor was a topic of whispers—some praised, others sneered, doubted, or adored him.
Yet Taylor's desire was simple: peace.
A few boiled beans and watered liquor were enough to fool this imperial hero—whether good or bad, who could say?
Still, calm was elusive.
A knight in shining plate approached, despite Taylor's efforts to find solitude.
"Sergeant Taylor?"
Taylor saw the red dragon crest of a feudal knight dynasty—the same as at his pajama meeting.
He nodded weakly.
The knight sat confidently.
"We all serve the Empire, sir, but I admire you—a foreigner without mounts—who crafts such vivid metaphors."
"Will you fight beside me? I want to learn how to detect the Imperium's foes as keenly as you."
"I can do much for you. Even if you refuse, I'll petition the Supreme King to lift your punishment and reinstate you."
He babbled eagerly; to Taylor, the youth was bound by ambition and passion.
When Taylor remained indifferent, the knight called a servant for a bottle of purple Amsett, a fine dry red wine.
As the cork popped, Taylor, unused to luxury, spoke.
"Believe it or not, trouble and war always find men like me."
The knight's ears perked. "A warrior like you must often be trapped behind enemy lines."
"I heard of your Genestealer encounter. Those vile Tyranids couldn't touch you."
He poured wine, declaring, "My lord, I offer respect and friendship."
Taylor sipped the wine—it was fine—but he asked, "Sir Knight, what do you want?"
The youth answered gravely, "Gong Ji."
"The High King ages."
Taylor understood quickly: the eldest brother neared death, and a challenge for succession brewed.
In noble families, rank came by age.
This knight competed with Freeblade for power.
Needed Taylor to forge achievements, growth, and favor—like when he crushed cultists.
Dreams Taylor now avoided.
Discharged in four years, an Astra Militarum veteran, married with children—how could he join such struggles?
"I'm an outsider," Taylor snarled. "What's it to me?"
"Chance brought cults to you, not foresight. Return to your origin."
Amused, the young knight pressed, "As expected of an Imperial called Knight, by the Emperor."
"You grow on me. Come be my chief of staff. I'll give you what the Guard cannot."
Taylor's interest rose. "And that is?"
"Honor—more honor! You may snub honor in the Senate, but you're a true warrior who won't refuse chances to crush the Empire's enemies."
"I'll grant more battles than the Guard. Your skill will bring success soon."
Pale, Taylor rose without a word and left, leaving behind a bewildered young knight.
Gazing at the moon, he muttered fearfully,
"Struggles tougher than the Guard? The average Guardsman lasts fifteen hours!"
He recalled the Freeblade's frightening smile, her destruction of the village.
Leaning against a fence, soaked in cold sweat, he cursed,
"The natives here are all mad! War maniacs! I want to return to Skadi! Cultists and Genestealers seem kinder!"