Tải xuống ứng dụng
63.26% Nanotechnology: Reborn As A Prince Of Wales / Chapter 31: Chapter 30 Arrival

Chương 31: Chapter 30 Arrival

Two Weeks Later

Harlech Castle

"RING THE BELLS!" The cry echoed across the ramparts, urgent. A guard's voice cracked through the air, panic threading each syllable. The bells rang loud and clear, their sound vibrating the very stone beneath the feet of the soldiers.

Inside, Edmund was hunched over his workbench with other smiths, his eyes fixed on the designs for the canister cannons. Sweat beaded on his brow as he worked tirelessly overseeing the production.

Edmund wiped his face with the back of his hand and stood up, staring at the designs before him one last time. The sound of the bells reverberated through the castle's stone walls, drowning out everything else. He had no time to wait. The enemy was here. Early.

His boots echoed on the stone floors as he moved up the winding staircase that led to the higher battlements. The wind whipped his hair as he stepped out onto the parapet, and his eyes scanned the horizon, his gaze narrowing as he saw the English army approach. Hundreds, no, thousands of them, blackening the land with their numbers. He clenched his jaw.

"They're here!" Edmund shouted to those within earshot, his voice booming over the noise of the wind.

At the castle's heart, Owain Glyndŵr stood grim, his face drawn tight with concern. His eyes, tired from the constant strain of leadership, flicked upward as Edmund's voice reached him.

"Maredudd isn't back yet?" Owain asked, his voice low, almost imperceptible against the rising tension in the castle.

Edmund shook his head, his expression clouded with uncertainty. "No, Lord. No word from the scouts."

Owain's jaw tightened, his brow furrowing. He looked out at the advancing army, his gaze hardened by years of battle. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath.

His eyes returned to the approaching enemy, his mind calculating the options. "They're not attacking from the sea," he said aloud, his voice solemn, as though trying to convince himself. "This is good. Underestimating us are they."

He turned to Edmund, his eyes sharp despite the weariness that lingered in them. "How are the canons coming along?"

"Thankfully, we've been able to rely on the skill of our smiths," Edmund replied, his voice gruff but proud. "They haven't slept in days, but the cannons are ready."

Owain allowed himself a small, bitter laugh, the sound hollow in the air. He raised his hand to his temple, his fingers massaging the tension there. "I can't believe I'll be relying on Ieuan designs to work for us...Life truly is... interesting."

Edmund's eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing.

Owain turned to face the stone wall behind him, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "If the castle falls… take the family down the tunnel and escape. Get them to safety."

Edmund nodded, a heavy lump of dread rising in his throat.

A guard burst into the scene, his voice urgent and strained. "Your Grace, they have a prisoner at the gates."

Owain's heart sank, his fists tightening instinctively. He exchanged a tense glance with Edmund, dread filling his gut. "Don't tell me…" he whispered, his voice low and hard.

Without hesitation, Owain stormed from the room, donning his chainmail with practiced speed. His footsteps echoed heavily against the stone floors, a grim prelude to the scene awaiting him. His mind raced with dark thoughts.

At the gates, two mounted knights stood in stark contrast against the dark sky. Their armor gleamed under the light, casting long shadows across the ground. Between them, slumped and bound, was Maredudd. His face was a canvas of bruises, his once bright eyes now clouded with pain, yet defiance still burned within them.

The lead knight, his face a cruel mask, guided his horse forward. His voice rang out, sharp and cutting, as he addressed the battlements. "Owain Glyndŵr, the rebel," he declared, a sneer twisting his lips. "We have your son. Surrender now, or watch as we place his head on a spike."

Maredudd struggled against his bonds, lifting his head despite the pain. "No, Father! Don't—"

Before he could say more, the second knight silenced him with a harsh gag, his movements rough and merciless. Sir Thomas's smile widened, cruel satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "You have until dawn," he continued, his tone mocking. "To decide."

Owain's knuckles turned white, his fists clenched so tightly that they trembled. His body was a taut wire of rage and anguish, his gaze locked on his son's battered form.

From the crowd atop, Marred and Catrin pushed through, their faces etched with horror. Marred's sobs were heart-wrenching as she reached for Owain, her fingers clutching at his arm in desperation. "My son!" she cried, her voice breaking with grief. "We must save him. Please, Owain… he's our child."

Owain remained rigid, his breath heavy and labored. His mind churned with the unbearable choices laid before him.

---

Corwen, North Wales

The manor of Corwen reeked of ale and sweat. Lord Cadogan ap Rhys reclined on a worn chair, his tunic half-open, a leg draped lazily over the armrest. Around him, the soft laughter of barely-clad women mixed with the clink of goblets. His ruddy face gleamed with grease as he tore into a hunk of roasted meat, eyes glazed with the stupor of indulgence.

Peter entered abruptly, the heavy oak doors groaning in protest. His footsteps echoed against the stone floor, sharp and purposeful. Beside him, Talog shuffled in, his eyes darting nervously, the firelight casting shadows across his gaunt features. The guard at the door gave Peter a curt nod before pulling the doors closed with a thud.

"Is my father inside?" Peter asked, though the raucous laughter from within had already answered him.

Cadogan's eyes lifted sluggishly from the cleavage of a departing woman. His lips spread into a wide, mocking grin. "Ah, my prodigious son!" His voice was thick with mockery and the slur of too much drink. "While your father shits, eats, and fucks, you run this little town in my stead!" He raised his goblet, spilling wine over the rim. The women around him tittered as they slipped away, their bare feet padding softly on the cold stone.

As they passed, Talog's gaze lingered, his throat bobbing in a hard swallow. Peter caught the look and gave him a sharp nudge, pulling him back to focus.

Peter approached the throne-like chair, standing tall over his seated father. "Father, I bring a visitor from Bala."

Cadogan's eyes, heavy-lidded, turned lazily to Talog. He leaned forward slightly, swirling the dregs of his wine. "And what news does this shit-faced fucker bring from Bala?" he sneered, his tone dripping with disdain.

Talog's fingers twitched at his sides. His mouth opened, but before he could speak, Peter stepped in, his voice cold and deliberate. "Glyndŵr's bastard son is the new lord."

Cadogan bit off another chunk of meat, chewing thoughtfully as the juice dripped down his chin. He swallowed heavily, reaching again for his cup. "What of it?" he mumbled, lifting the goblet to his lips.

Peter's hand shot out, snatching the cup from his father's grasp and slamming it down onto the table. The sharp clatter reverberated through the room, silencing the crackle of the fire. Cadogan's eyes widened slightly in surprise, focusing now, albeit reluctantly, on his son.

"Can't you see, Father?" Peter's voice was low, seething with suppressed frustration. "This is a chance. If we give the English his head and take the town…"

Cadogan leaned back in his chair, a hand stroking his bearded chin. His eyes narrowed in contemplation. "And what of his older brother? Last I heard, he's with that Tudur in Llangollen." His gaze flicked to Talog, scrutinizing. "Can we even trust this man?"

Peter turned to Talog, his eyes urging him to speak. Talog cleared his throat, the words catching before he managed to force them out. "Lord... the bastard has recruited farmers and youngsters. It would be easy to take the town and it is not fortified heavily."

Cadogan's lips curled into a sneer. He rubbed his jaw, the rough bristle of his beard scratching against his palm. "We refused to send our men to Bala after Gruffudd's request....this would make our treason even more despicable."

Peter leaned in, his eyes alight with ambition. "Father, we aren't the only ones who have turned their backs on Glyndŵr. That poor old fart will lose his last castle. This is our chance!" His voice dropped, his breath quickening with the vision of English gold and glory.

Cadogan's sneer turned into a slow, deliberate smile. He nodded, his decision made. "Alright gather the men. But we must act fast."

Talog's lips twitched into a grin, a dark satisfaction curling in his chest. As the firelight flickered across his face, his eyes gleamed with malice. Just wait, you little monster, he thought, the image of Ieuan's severed head vivid in his mind. I'll have your head, Ieuan ap Owain Glyndŵr.


Chương 32: Chapter 31 Malice

Bala, North Wales

The warband's encampment buzzed with quiet anticipation. A clearing in the woods had been transformed into a makeshift base. Rows of tents flanked by neatly stacked crates of supplies painted a picture of order amidst the wilds.

All eyes were fixed on Tarwyn. He stood a few paces away from a wooden target, clutching the sleek air rifle in his hands. His breath was slow, measured, as the world seemed to fall silent. The only sound was the soft creak of the trigger as he prepared to fire.

A chorus of murmurs rippled through the crowd of onlookers. Bets had been made, coins clutched in eager hands.

Tarwyn exhaled slowly, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Crack!

The sharp report of the rifle echoed through the woods. The projectile struck the target dead center, splintering the wood and leaving a clean hole in its wake. A moment of stunned silence passed before the crowd erupted into cheers and groans.

"By the gods, he did it!" someone shouted as those who had bet on Tarwyn cheered, their laughter mingling with the curses of the losers.

Callwen, sitting off to the side with his arms crossed, let out a wry chuckle. He slung his own rifle over his shoulder. "Still can't believe that smug prick is our commander."

Oswald, standing beside him, smirked and gave an exaggerated bow toward Tarwyn. "To be fair, he's a damn good shot."

Callwen rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I'll give him that. But if it were up to me—"

Oswald cut him off with a pat on the back. "It's not. So quit sulking and start practicing, or next time you'll lose more than a few coins.".

---

Glyn trudged through the fields, his boots sinking into the soft earth. The early morning sun cast a golden light across the landscape.

His eyes widened as he dropped to his knees, running his fingers over the stalks of wheat that stretched across the sprawling 400-acre field. The plants were impossibly tall, their golden heads heavy with grain.

"This... this isn't possible," he whispered, his voice trembling.

Pwyll approached, his face calm but his eyes betraying a hint of unease. "Nothing surprises me anymore," he said, placing a hand on Glyn's shoulder.

Glyn grabbed a stalk of wheat, rubbing it between his fingers and sniffing it like a jeweler inspecting a rare gem. "The texture, the smell... I've never seen anything like this! It's perfect!"

Pwyll laughed, though there was an edge of disbelief in his voice. "Grown in two weeks, and enough to keep us fed for a year." He shook his head, muttering to himself. Word will soon reach the ears of vipers.... And when it does, i want to see how you react Lord Ieuan.

---

Three women emerged from Ethan's chambers, their faces pale and drawn. They clutched their clothing tightly, wrapping their nakedness in hurried modesty. Their eyes darted around nervously as they made their way down the hall.

Beca, waiting near the door, watched them with a mix of pity and unease. Her thoughts swirled. This devil… he hasn't stopped for days.

She pressed a small pouch of coins into their hands. "For your service," she muttered.

Inside the chamber, Ethan stood shirtless, his hair disheveled and his expression grim. He paced like a caged animal, running a hand through his hair.

"What is this hunger?" he growled, his voice raw. "I've taken woman after woman, like a damned beast, but it won't go away!" He slammed his fist against the table, rattling the room.

After dressing, he stormed out of the manor.

Beca followed after him. "Lord, are you going out alone again?" she called.

"Yes. I need air," Ethan barked over his shoulder.

"Where to?"

"Fishing," he snapped.

"Fishing? First it was sunbathing, now fishing?!" Beca's voice faded as Ethan disappeared into the bustling town.

---

The streets of Bala buzzed with activity. Workers toiled to pave the roads with the new cement, sweat glistening on their brows. Ethan passed by, his sharp eyes scanning the progress.

A ball flew as he let it hit him and he crouched to pick it up. A small boy came running after it, wide-eyed and nervous.

Ethan handed it to him, ruffling the boy's hair. "Be careful next time, some strangers won't like that."

The boy's mother approached, "I told you to stop playing and come wash!" She turned to Ethan, bowing her head. "I'm sorry, my lord."

Ethan smiled faintly. "Listen to your mother, lad," he said, watching them walk away.

As he approached the lake, a fisherman greeted him, holding up a net brimming with white fish. "Good day, Lord. Looking for fish?"

Ethan shook his head, tossing the man a few coins. "I'll rent your boat."

The fisherman eagerly cleared his catch and handed over the small vessel.

Ethan rowed out into the middle of the lake, the water shimmering like molten glass. He leaned back, gazing at the surrounding hills and forests. The serenity was short-lived as his mind churned.

Hydroelectric power… harnessing the flow of the River Dee. But damming it..Llyn Tegid is the symbol of this place

He was jolted from his thoughts by the sight of an eagle swooping low, snatching a fish from the water with talons as sharp as daggers. Its wings beat furiously as it ascended, the catch clutched firmly in its grasp.

Ethan's lips curled into a smile. He had an inspiration.

---

Father Solomon stood by the church steps, his sharp eyes narrowing as carriages rolled by, heavy with sacks of grain. The golden wheat peeked through the burlap, gleaming unnaturally in the morning light.

The clerk at his side muttered, his voice low and incredulous. "How, in God's name, have they grown wheat in the eastern plains so quickly? It's unnatural…"

"It is," Solomon hissed, his lips curling. He spat on the ground, the gesture sharp and angry. "And it has to do with that heathen. Haven't you heard the rumors?"

The clerk looked uneasy, shifting on his feet. "The strange weapons his men use?"

"Not just that," Solomon snapped, his voice laced with contempt. "The boy defies God's order. He refuses to kneel in church, rejects our invitations, and preaches change. He encourages peasants to bathe, to use soap! What's next teaching them to read and write!? " He laughed bitterly, the sound cold and hollow. "Do you know what that does? It undermines the natural hierarchy—God's hierarchy."

The clerk swallowed hard, his unease growing. Solomon's eyes burned with a cold malice as he turned to him. "Send word to the Bishop in Bangor."


Load failed, please RETRY

Tình trạng nguồn điện hàng tuần

Đặt mua hàng loạt

Mục lục

Cài đặt hiển thị

Nền

Phông

Kích thước

Việc quản lý bình luận chương

Viết đánh giá Trạng thái đọc: C31
Không đăng được. Vui lòng thử lại
  • Chất lượng bài viết
  • Tính ổn định của các bản cập nhật
  • Phát triển câu chuyện
  • Thiết kế nhân vật
  • Bối cảnh thế giới

Tổng điểm 0.0

Đánh giá được đăng thành công! Đọc thêm đánh giá
Bình chọn với Đá sức mạnh
Rank 200+ Bảng xếp hạng PS
Stone 0 Power Stone
Báo cáo nội dung không phù hợp
lỗi Mẹo

Báo cáo hành động bất lương

Chú thích đoạn văn

Đăng nhập

tip bình luận đoạn văn

Tính năng bình luận đoạn văn hiện đã có trên Web! Di chuyển chuột qua bất kỳ đoạn nào và nhấp vào biểu tượng để thêm nhận xét của bạn.

Ngoài ra, bạn luôn có thể tắt / bật nó trong Cài đặt.

ĐÃ NHẬN ĐƯỢC