Chapter 21

Chapter 21

"Come out! Do you really think hiding behind closed doors will save you?

Mark my words, we’ll break this door down soon, and no one inside will live to see another day." The thug growled, kicking the manor gate with brute force, knocking loose chunks of mortar from the stone walls on either side.

The potters hiding inside trembled at the threats, their hands and feet went numb with terror.

Glancing at their own guards, their hearts dropped into their guts. If they hadn’t reacted quickly enough to bar the gate, these bandits would have already stormed in.

The only problem was that they had too few armed guards—only four.

This bandit gang had over thirty men, many of them armed with blades and clubs.

In the brief clash earlier, one of their guards had already been killed. Of the remaining three, one lay severely wounded on a bed, a gaping wound across his ribs still bleeding profusely.

The other two—one with an arrow lodged in his shoulder, the other with a broken arm—could barely lift a weapon.

They had already made up their minds: if the bandits truly broke in, they would fight back with shovels, tongs—whatever they could grab!

Since coming to this manor, they had never gone hungry. In fact, they even had extra silver to buy things for their wives and children.

Here, they were paid per piece—the more they made, the more they earned, and the pay per pot wasn't bad either.

The Church had even promised that if they performed well, they would get proper houses and allowed to bring their families to live here.

To them, their current lives were better off than some damn shopkeepers.

Those merchants had to travel constantly, always on guard against bandits and thieves.

Sure, making money was a joy, but one bad deal could clean them out—how devastating would that be?

Unlike their own work—steady as sunrise, where every extra piece made was pure profit.

If they let these bandits in now, never mind if the bastards kept promises and spared them—just the exposure of this incident alone, would the Church still allow them to work here?

Some might scheme, thinking of taking the skills they learned here elsewhere—but were the Church's Knights just for show?

If caught, if they were lucky, just a beating—the unlucky ones would lose their lives!

It was common knowledge now: cross anyone but the damn Church, for the gods would punish betrayers. Weren’t the Knights the very instruments of divine retribution?

To be truly forsaken by the gods meant disease, disability, starvation—every misfortune would creep in silently, and by then, regret would be too late.

These bandits dared to steal what belonged to the gods—they would surely face the gods' wrath.

The potters held little faith in the tools in their hands. Their only hope now was for divine punishment to strike swiftly and strike these godless shits down.

Seeing that those inside remained silent as if playing dead, the bandit leader’s frustration grew. He pushed his man aside who was kicking the gate and laid into it with two bone-shaking kicks himself—only to numb his own foot.

Who knew what they had piled behind the door? Normally, it would have given way by now.

Had they climbed the stone walls to peek inside, they would have seen over a dozen sandbags worth their weight in stone stacked behind the gate—each heavy enough to crush a man.

Scratching his thick beard, the bandit leader snarled to his men to ready the ladders. Thankfully, they had hauled those damned ladders along—otherwise, they’d be stuck outside, standing around like idiots.

Truth be told, they could have tried scaling the wall by forming a human ladder—two men crouching below while the rest stepped on their hands to climb over.

But someone had come up with a "vicious" idea—the top of the wall was studded with sharp, broken pottery shards. Press a hand against that, and it’d be shredded to hell.

Seeing the extra length of objects protruding from the wall, the potters huddled together were already trembling in fear.

Ning Chan, wanting to avoid unnecessary trouble, had initially instructed them to recruit only honest and simple-minded potters.

Clumsy hands could be trained, but a wicked mind would plant a lasting danger.

This resulted in these potters, who carried clay sacks every day, strong as oxen but lacking guts to engage in real combat with others.

"Wh-what do we do?" Little Ke, one of the potters, cast a questioning glance at their foreman, watching him grip a bare wooden pole. He considered handing over his iron tongs—at least those could deal a deadlier blow.

Guang Wu swallowed hard and tightened his grip on the pole. "If—if any of them dares to climb up, I'll knock them right off."

As if to prove his words, Guang Wu spotted a tuft of yellow hair appear over the wall, followed by a pale forehead. His head spun, and without thinking, he shut his eyes and thrust the pole upward with all his might.

Billy, the bandit who hadn’t even gotten a glimpse of the courtyard, felt a sharp impact on his forehead and flipped backward helplessly.

With a *thud*, Billy landed flat on his back, a red mark now centered on his forehead. Had they known anything about Eastern Buddhism, they might have thought he bore an uncanny resemblance to a Bodhisattva at that moment.

"Damn it! Looks like you’re itching for a fight. Let’s see how long you can hold out," the bandit leader snarled, ordering his men to light torches and hurl them over the wall.

Fortunately, those inside were alert. Seeing the torches fly in, they quickly dodged.

Of course, they didn’t just let the torches burn. After all, there was no shortage of dirt here.

Whether wet or dry, a hefty clump of dirt smothered the flames, leaving only a pitiful wisp of smoke.

Peering through the gaps in the stone wall, the bandit leader Peter saw the flames fail to catch and bared his teeth like a rabid dog.

Just as the bandits were about to fight the potters to their last breath, the sound of galloping hooves echoed in the distance.

From afar, they spotted a group of armored knights on horseback approaching, followed by a gilded carriage.

Recognizing them as the Church’s men, Peter frowned and was about to order his men to retreat—until he counted only ten knights, far fewer than his own group.

Peter put no faith in gods—only his own two hands. Begging got you nowhere; if you wanted something, you had to fight for it. Praying was pointless.

So, upon seeing the Church’s Knights, Peter’s fingers itched for their armor.

After all, they couldn’t leave empty-handed. And with that carriage here, who knew what high-and-mighty noble was inside? If they attacked, the knights would surely hesitate, making their task easier.

So they switched targets, turning their attention to Ning Chan and his group.

As the bandits charged toward them, clearly out for blood, Hector hurriedly reported the situation to Ning Chan.

Had the Lord Holy Son not been present, they might have held their own. But with him here, worrying about his safety—hold on—since when did the Lord Holy Son need protecting?

Even if he died here, the Lord Holy Son wouldn’t lose a single hair.

Wiping out these bandits would take less than a snap of the Lord Holy Son’s fingers.

Ning Chan glanced at the bandits, his face twisting in annoyance. He could sense their malice and bloodlust.

With healthy bodies, why couldn’t they earn an honest living? Farming or gathering herbs would’ve been better than picking a fight with him.

"If they dare to pick a fight, then fight them. I believe in your abilities," Ning Chan said, shooting a glance at Kane. The kid must’ve jinxed them—no sooner had he promised protection than trouble arrived.

Meeting Ning Chan’s gaze, Kane swelled up like a banty rooster and brandished his short sword. "Don’t worry, I’ll protect you."

Ning Chan: *Try saying that without shaking like a leaf.*

Seeing Ning Chan’s resolve, Hector gritted his teeth and barked at his men to fall in, preparing for battle.

He could only hope this devil—no, this divine envoy—wouldn’t let them all die before lifting a finger.