Kingdom Building Game: Starting Out With A Million Upgrade Points!-Chapter 138: Bringing In The Traitors

Ralford Coastal Territory – Stormwake Passage

The night air was thick with salt and damp, clinging to the Imperial Knights like a second skin as they thundered toward Stormwake Passage.

Their torches flickered in the darkness, casting jagged shadows against the towering stone walls that loomed over the narrow street.

Esten rode at the front, his fingers taut around the hilt of his sword. He could smell the city now—the mingling stench of brine, rotting wood, and fish left too long in the sun they were now rotting. The passage ahead was a warren of alleyways, twisting corridors barely wide enough for two men to pass at a time, perfect for smugglers, thieves, and—tonight—traitors.

Lady Morwen Ralford.

Her family had played their hand boldly, rallying banners and besieging the capital like they were still kings of old. But they had failed. The Crown had struck back, and now House Ralford stood on the edge of Ruin.

"The streets are too quiet," a knight muttered. "No beggars, no dockhands. Even the whores have vanished."

Esten narrowed his eyes. He had expected some resistance, but this was different. Silence was an omen in a place like this.

Then—

A glint of steel.

"AMBUSH!"

The cry barely left Esten's lips before they noticed motion.

Figures burst from the shadows above, cloaked men perched atop rooftops and wooden balconies. Crossbows twanged, loosing iron bolts into the street.

One knight reeled back, a arrow shot deep in his throat. Another fell from his horse, clutching a bolt lodged in the seam of his armor.

Then came the fire.

A flaming bottle arced through the air, crashing against a knight's breastplate.

Glass shattered, and oil spread in a searing wave, igniting his cloak and armor. His screams filled the street as he toppled from the saddle, rolling desperately to smother the flames.

Esten did not hesitate.

"SHIELDS UP! MOVE!"

The knights reacted, wheeling their horses into a tighter formation. The clatter of steel on steel rang out as swords were drawn, shields raised. More men emerged from shadows of the alleys—mercenaries, likely paid in Ralford gold.

They charged with daggers, axes, and rusted blades, their war cries lost in the clash of battle.

Esten's sword flashed, cutting down a man who lunged at him with a spear. Blood sprayed across his gauntlet as he kicked the dying man off his blade.

More came.

A brute with a woodcutter's axe swung for his head, but Esten ducked, thrusting his sword deep into the man's gut. The mercenary let out a choked gasp before collapsing.

To his left, a knight was pulled from his saddle, vanishing beneath a throng of attackers. His screams were brief, silenced as his throw was slit.

The fight was brutal, fast. Lilly a delaying tactic.

And it was working.

Esten could feel time slipping through his fingers like sand. Morwen Ralford was getting away.

"Break through!" he roared. "FORWARD! CUT THEM DOWN!"

The knights pushed hard, their sheer force driving the mercenaries back step by step. Blood slicked the cobblestones, bodies crumpled where they fell.

Then, through the chaos, Esten caught sight of something—or rather, someone.

A hooded figure darted through the alleys, a cloak billowing in the night wind. Not a mercenary. The way they ran mad it obvious they didn't do so often.

Lady Morwen.

Esten's pulse pounded in his ears. He spurred his horse forward, driving through the fray with sheer force. His sword lashed out, cutting down anyone in his path.

A crossbowman on the balcony above took aim, but before he could loose his shot, an Imperial knight hurled a spear impaling the man against the wall.

The way ahead was clearing.

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Morwen had reached the edge of Stormwake Passage, slipping into the maze of docks beyond.

Esten would not let her escape.

He kicked his horse into a gallop, tearing down the alley as the last of the ambushers fell behind.

The docks opened before him—a sprawl of wooden piers, creaking gangways, and ships moored under the ghostly glow of lantern light. The tide sloshed against the pylons, a rhythmic chorus to the night's violence.

And there—at the farthest dock—a ship was waiting.

A small vessel, barely more than a smuggler's cutter, rocking in the shifting tide. A handful of men were already aboard, hauling ropes, preparing to cast off.

On the pier, her hood thrown back, stood Morwen Ralford.

She was young, younger than Esten had expected, barely past twenty. Strands of auburn hair fell loose from her braid, framing a face carved from noble blood and stubborn defiance. Her sea-blue eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, time slowed.

Then she turned and ran.

Esten launched from his saddle, hitting the dock at a dead sprint. "MORWEN RALFORD! STOP!"

She didn't.

She darted toward the ship, her boots pounding against the wooden planks. A sailor reached for her hand, ready to pull her aboard.

Too slow.

Esten closed the gap on an instant, grabbing her wrist in a vice grip. He yanked her back, spinning her into him. Morwen twisted, a dagger flashing in her free hand—

Esten caught it mid-thrust, twisting her arm. The blade clattered to the dock, and she gasped as he wrenched her around, locking her in place.

"It's over," he growled. "Yield."

She fought. Kicked, clawed, spat in his face. "You think you've won?" she snarled. "Ralford is not finished! My father—"

Esten struck her hard across the face. Not out of anger, but necessity. She staggered, dazed.

Behind him, the ship's captain shouted orders. The sails unfurled.

Morwen saw it too. Desperation flashed in her eyes.

She tried to break free.

Esten slammed her against a piling, pressing a dagger to her throat. "Enough."

She froze. Chest heaving, fury blazing in her gaze.

Hoofbeats echoed down the dock. His knights had caught up, bloodied but victorious.

"Secure her."

Two knights dismounted, shackles in hand.

Morwen laughed bitterly as the iron closed around her wrists. "Dose Arkanos think it will be this easy? My family has connections beyond the empire, wait till they catch word of this." she whispered.

Esten said nothing.

He turned, looking toward the dark horizon where the sea stretched endless and vast.

Lady Morwen Ralford had been captured.

But the night was not yet done.

....

....

The Assault on Damarion Estate

The night was still, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and distant fires.

A heavy mist had settled over the plains surrounding Damarion Estate, curling in the hollows of the land like the breath of some slumbering beast. Above, the moon hung low and pale, casting its silver light over the darkened fields.

Seraphine sat atop her horse, her eyes fixed on the estate ahead. The manor loomed against the horizon—a fortress of stone and iron, its high walls guarded by flickering torchlight. Beyond the battlements, she could see the movement of men, silhouettes shifting against the glow of braziers. They were readying themselves. They knew the empire was coming.

A smile ghosted across her lips. Let them prepare. It would not matter.

She turned to Kael, who sat rigid beside her, his silver armor muted in the moonlight. "We strike now," she said, her voice a whisper of steel. "The longer we wait, the greater their defenses."

Kael nodded, gripping the reins of his horse.

Seraphine raised a gloved hand, signaling the mages who stood at the ready behind them. Robed figures moved into position, their staffs humming with latent power. A ripple of energy coursed through the night air as their chants began—a low, guttural sound that sent a shiver through the ranks of knights.

The mists began to shift, swirling unnaturally as the magic took hold. The fog thickened, rising from the ground like ghosts of the fallen, spreading toward the estate's outer walls. It would mask their approach.

She lowered her hand.

"Advance."

The knights moved as one, their boots silent upon the damp earth, their cloaks swallowed by the mist. The archers took their positions at the rear, their bows strung, arrows glinting

in the moonlight.

Seraphine led them forward, her sword drawn but held low, her breath measured. A single mistake could mean disaster.

They reached the outer palisades—wooden barriers reinforced with iron bands. The sentries atop the wall squinted into the fog, shifting uneasily, sensing something was wrong.

Then—

"INCOMING!"

A shout rang out from above. An alarm bell clanged against the cold night. The mist was no longer enough to shield them.

"Break the gate!" Seraphine commanded.

A mage stepped forward, planting his staff into the ground. Blue lightning crackled up its length before surging forward in a blinding arc. The wooden gates exploded inward, fire licking at the splintered remains.

"CHARGE!"

Seraphine surged forward, her knights behind her, pouring through the shattered entrance like a flood of steel and fury. The clash was immediate—Damarion's guards met them with raised swords.

She cut through the first man in a single stroke, her blade gliding through the gap in his armor. Blood sprayed across the stone. Another rushed her, his axe swinging high—she sidestepped, driving her sword up beneath his ribs.

The battle broke like a storm upon the estate grounds. Knights locked in brutal melee, steel ringing against steel. Arrows whistled from the ramparts, finding flesh.

From the rear, the mages unleashed their wrath. Fire bloomed in the darkness, engulfing watchtowers. Bolts of ice shot forth, freezing men where they stood. The air reeked of scorched flesh and death.

Seraphine pressed forward, cutting down those who barred her path. A guard lunged at her, his spear aimed for her throat—Kael intercepted, his blade slicing the man's arm clean off. The guard screamed, but Kael silenced him with a swift thrust.

"The manor!" Seraphine called. "Secure the noble!"

They fought their way through the courtyard, past dying men and burning wreckage. The great doors of the estate stood before them, barred from within.

A mage stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with mana. With a wave of his hand, the doors groaned, their iron hinges bending. Then—BOOM. They burst inward, revealing the lavish hall beyond.

Lord Damarion stood at the far end, flanked by his last remaining guards. His face was pale, his fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of his sword.

"Seraphine," he spat. "Like a vulture, you come to feast."

She stepped forward, blood dripping from her blade. "Not a vulture, my lord." Her eyes were cold. "Executioner."