The Swordswoman's Revenge Story after Rebirth

Chapter 172 Garrett’s Return

+8 Pearls

In the darkness near Wamond Vale’s cliffside, a bloodied hand grasped a small tree along the path, pulling itself upward. Harlan, barely alive, managed to crawl onto solid ground, his body drenched in sweat and

blood.

Though his wounds were grave, and he had lost so much blood, he managed to tear off his outer garments and bandage his abdomen, staunching the flow of blood–just barely. But after tending to himself, Harlan collapsed, slipping into unconsciousness as the night wore on.

As dawn broke, several carriages and a long procession of men came down the road. Ahead of the group. two light cavalrymen rode, holding torches. They were the first to spot the bloody trail and the still body lying in the road.

The cavalrymen raised a hand, signaling the carriages to stop. One rider dismounted and knelt beside Harlan, checking his pulse. “He’s still breathing, he said, turning to his companion. “Go report to Great Marshal Sharp.”

The second man immediately spurred his horse back to a green carriage and dismounted, quickly approaching the carriage to bow and report, “Great Marshal Sharp, a wounded man is up ahead. He has a severe abdominal wound, but he’s still alive–barely.”

The carriage door swung open, and a tall man stepped out–a broad, dark–skinned figure with a full beard. He moved quickly, followed by his aides, who held torches and kept a hand on their weapons.

The man, after taking a quick look at the injured body, raised his eyebrows in recognition. “Harlan?”

“You know him?” one of his aides asked.

You

“Quickly, fetch the Consumption Pills!” the man, now identified as Great Marshal Sharp, barked.

One of his aides rushed back to the carriage, rummaging through it until he retrieved several vials. The Great Marshal knelt beside Harlan, directing his aide to gently raise his head. He crushed the pills between his fingers until they turned to powder, then poured the mixture into Harlan’s mouth, followed by a sip of water from a flask.

The aide quickly produced more supplies–healing balms and herbs–to treat Harlan’s deep wound. As he worked, he muttered, “This wound is deep and severe. It could be fatal,”

“Harlan, Harlan,” Great Marshal Sharp called, slapping Harlan’s face gently..

Harlan’s eyes suddenly snapped open. The light from the torches burned his vision, and for a moment, he couldn’t make out who was before him. But he gripped the Great Marshal’s hand tightly, his voice hoarse and desperate. “Please… save Isolde. She’s at the bottom of the cliff.”

Great Marshal Sharp narrowed his eyes. “Isolde? Snowy?”

descending the cliffside. The follo carriage stopped, and an

in place by an ornate wooden pin. Despite her age, she stood tall and alert, exuding quiet

road, paused in surprise. Her sham eves narrowed

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bring her out here in this

old woman, Natasha, tightly gripped his hand, her voice filled with concern.

Harlan?

fine. There’s nothing

fooled. She glanced toward the men still descending the cliff and frowned. “Garrett,

wife, and in her youth, she had been a formidable figure in the business world. helping her

“Harlan just woke up and mentioned that someone had fallen down

“First, get Harlan into the carriage. The ground is cold

cliff carefully lifted Harlan into the carriage,

the rest of the men returned.

one of his

order. “Find a way. Twist the rope

below is Briswin River. If someone falls, they’ll end up in the river. What if

thought, he gave his command. “Leave two teams here to keep searching down the cliff. There’s a path nearby that may lead down further. We’ll see how far we can get. In the meantime, send twenty men to Carigval Town. They’ll follow the river’s path, searching

were dripping with authority–a brutal, commanding tone that spoke volumes about the man’s resolve.

Argentum, and as they

in his study, holding a portrait of Prunella in

gone now, he thought bitterly. I’ve finally sent her

quieted. There was no more chaos,

There’s no place for her at the Duke’s estate anymore. You can rest easy. He muttered, his fingers brushing over Prunella’s likeness on the portrait, lost

death. Sixteen years of aching, gnawing pain–one that never

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in life, could become complete strangers. He couldn’t shake the feeling that with Isolde gone, he had lost