1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 146 The Audience on the Cliff

The dark green mountains, like a silent giant wave, completely engulfed Petrettis and his party.

Agrafa mountain area.

The air here is completely different from the dry, warm air of Athens; it's humid, cool, and filled with the heavy smell of decaying leaves, pine needles, and damp earth. Towering ancient trees block out most of the sky, and sunlight filters through the gaps in the branches, casting dappled shadows on the moss-covered ground. The rugged mountain path can hardly be called a path; it's merely a muddy trail trodden by wild animals and mountain dwellers.

Petrettis, however, was like a fish that had returned to the stream. He walked at the head of the group, his hunter's leather vest already soaked with dew. He rarely spoke, only occasionally using a simple gesture or a whistle imitating a bird's call to guide the group away from the soft cliff edge or around the animal traps hidden in the grass. Every movement of his was filled with the rhythm of the mountains and fields, blending seamlessly into the primeval forest.

The young people in the group were students temporarily transferred from the Royal Institute of Technology. They were pale and panting, clearly unprepared for such a arduous journey.

The elderly geological engineer, Zograves, displayed astonishing tenacity. Leaning on a sharpened wooden stick, he took each step with steady, powerful strides. His breathing was somewhat rapid, and his gray hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead, but his eyes did not waver in the slightest. He greedily observed the exposed rock formations around him, pausing occasionally to chip off a piece of rock with his small hammer and put it into his canvas bag.

Like ascetic travelers, the small team silently made its way toward the heart of the mountains.

Three days later, they passed through a dense fir forest, and suddenly the view opened up before them. A wide valley appeared, with a clear stream meandering through its center. The grassy banks were flat and soft, making it an ideal campsite.

The fatigue of several days had allowed the young men to relax, and they were just about to take off their packs when Petrettis, who was walking at the front, suddenly raised his right hand and clenched his fist.

This is a signal to stop and remain quiet.

The entire team froze in that instant.

The only sounds in the valley were the wind and the babbling of the stream; otherwise, it was deathly silent. But it was this excessive quiet that made the air feel thick and sticky.

"sand……"

A very faint sound, like leaves being rustled underfoot, came from the treeline on the left.

Immediately afterwards, from the right, behind, and in front of the pile of rocks, the same grinding sounds rose and fell.

Petrettis slowly turned around, his hands hanging at his sides, not touching the hunting knife at his waist.

One, two, ten...

Dozens of figures silently rose from behind the trees, rocks, and bushes around them, as if they had grown out of the ground.

They were all dressed in dark traditional clothing, their rough wool coats blending seamlessly with the color of the mountain rocks. They carried various old-fashioned firearms, from flintlock muskets to more primitive matchlock guns. The dark muzzles of these guns were aimed at the intruders from all directions.

The faces of these mountain people are etched with the marks of time; their eyes hold no anger, no curiosity, only the wariness and indifference of a wolf pack eyeing its prey.

The young men on the exploration team were drained of color from their faces, their hands and feet ice-cold. One of them instinctively reached for his backpack, wanting to take out a map as proof, but was frozen in place by Petrettis's disapproving look.

In this almost frozen standoff, Zograves, leaning on a wooden stick, slowly walked to the front of the group.

He wasn't panicked like a young man, nor was he wary like Petrified. He was just a weary old man.

He released the stick, letting it fall onto the grass. Then, he slowly raised his hands, palms facing outward, to indicate that he had no weapons.

"I am not a tax collector sent by Athens!"

The old engineer's loud voice pierced the silence of the valley.

"I have come to pay my respects to Lord Leonidas Capsalis on the behalf of a prince!"

The mountain people did not respond. Their expressions were as steady as the muzzles of their guns.

A mountain dweller standing at the front of the group, who appeared to be the leader, pointed his gun barrel towards the cliff on the left. It was a gesture that left no room for argument: "Follow me."

This is a narrow path carved out along a steep cliff, allowing only one person to pass at a time. To the left is a cold rock wall, and to the right is a bottomless abyss shrouded in swirling clouds. The mountain wind howls up from the valley floor, cutting like a knife against your face. With each step, loose stones tumble down and plunge into the unfathomable darkness, their echoes fading for a long time.

This is not just about leading the way, but also a severe trial.

Zograves and Petrifieds exchanged a glance. Petrifieds nodded at him.

Zograves was the first to step onto the cliffside path. He didn't look down at the abyss, but stared at the back of his companion ahead, walking slowly and steadily, step by step.

Petrettis followed closely behind. He walked with effortless ease, even having the strength to help a young teammate who nearly slipped.

Not a single person in the entire group begged for mercy, nor did anyone show any fear. They walked silently in a single file across the abyss, like a group of pilgrims heading towards a holy site.

More than half an hour later, when the last team member stepped onto solid ground, a huge stone village appeared before them.

Built atop the mountain, all the houses were constructed from massive rocks, blending seamlessly into the mountainside. A single path connected them to the trail they had just traversed, surrounded by sheer cliffs. It was less a village and more a veritable fortress.

The villagers led them to the largest stone house in the center of the village.

In the open space in front of the stone house, a huge bearskin was spread out. An old man, as burly as an iron tower, sat in a chair made of beech wood. His face was covered with a thick beard, which was tangled like the roots of an old tree. He wore only a leather vest, revealing his bronze-colored, scarred muscles.

A gleaming Turkish dagger lay across his lap, and he was slowly wiping it with an oilcloth.

He is Leonidas Capsalis, "The Wolf of Agrafa".

His gaze swept across the faces of the uninvited guests, as if he were sizing up a flock of lost lambs. His eyes finally settled on the tired yet stubborn face of the leader, Zograves.

Capsalis stopped what he was doing and put the scimitar aside.

"Gentlemen of Athens," his voice was rough and deep, like the grinding of rocks, "have you finally grown tired of stealing our sheep and started eyeing our rivers?"

Zograves did not answer his question.

He simply bent down and untied the most precious bag on his back. Under the watchful eyes of dozens of vigilant people, he carefully took out a long, rectangular mahogany box from it.

He stopped three steps away from Capusalis, opened the wooden box, and offered its contents with both hands.

"His Highness said that the tokens of a hero should be held by the hero's descendants."

Inside the wooden box lay an ancient flintlock rifle, its barrel gleaming with an oily sheen, the brass trigger guard reflecting the cool light of the mountain peak. On the mahogany stock, the royal griffin emblem remained clearly visible despite the ravages of time.

Leonidas Capusalis's sharp, eagle-like eyes froze at that moment. His rough, calloused right hand hung suspended in mid-air.