Chapter 212: Ulrich’s Decision

The sound of hooves striking packed dirt followed Ulrich through the forest.

His horse moved at a hard, even pace beneath him, its breath rising in pale clouds through the cold night air. The animal had been one of the few surviving mounts left near the ruined camp. Ulrich had taken it without saddle adjustments, without supplies, and without waiting for Hendrick or Rina to object.

He needed speed.

Valdris and the Valmorian soldiers had taken Airam in a carriage.

Ulrich had seen the tracks after he left the area of the forest: the deep marks of wheels, the hoofprints of several horses, and the disturbed earth left by armored soldiers moving alongside the road. They had prepared their leave before attacking. The carriage had likely been waiting somewhere beyond the forest while Valdris’s men broke through the crimson barrier and fought the Rubenhart knights.

Once Valdris had taken Airam, they had moved immediately.

If Ulrich had remained at the camp until dawn, he would never have caught them.

The horse leapt over a fallen branch.

Ulrich lowered himself closer to its neck as they entered a narrow path between old trees. Branches snapped against his shoulders and pulled at his tied-back crimson hair. His injuries burned beneath the bandages, and every jolt of the horse’s movement sent pain through his ribs.

He ignored it.

The tracks were clear enough at first.

A carriage could not move through wet forest ground without leaving a trail. The wheels carved deep lines through the mud, and the horses had churned up the earth wherever the road softened near the streambeds. Valdris’s soldiers had also traveled in number. Their boots and armor had disturbed the ground along both sides of the carriage route.

But the trail became harder to follow whenever the road split.

At each crossing, Ulrich slowed his horse only long enough to study the ground. If the marks remained clear, he continued. When the forest path became too dry or too rocky for the tracks to show, he raised his hand.

Crimson mana gathered above his palm.

A small circular spell appeared.

Inside the ring, a single crimson dot moved faintly through the darkness.

Airam.

The tracking spell had a wide range, but it was not perfect.

It could become unstable if Ulrich used it too often. The farther Airam moved from him, the weaker the signal became. The spell could also be discovered if someone examined her mana closely enough. A skilled mage, a witch with sharp senses, or Valdris himself might notice the foreign thread of mana attached to her.

That was why Ulrich activated it only for brief moments.

A glance.

A direction.

Then he closed his hand and let the ring disappear.

He did not allow the spell to remain active long enough for its presence to become obvious.

The tracking magic itself was simple.

Almost insultingly simple.

It did not bind Airam. It did not control her body or mind. It did not interfere with her witchcraft. It was only a faint crimson thread connected to a marker he had placed upon her mana.

Yet simple spells often became powerful in the hands of someone who understood how to use them.

Ulrich had hidden the mark deeply.

He had woven it into the remnants of his own crimson mana when he caught Airam before she left with Valdris. She had been exhausted from witchcraft. Her emotions had been turned toward Hermione and Esther. The camp was burning. Valdris stood waiting. Hendrick and Ria had been pulling the younger sisters away.

No one had noticed.

Not Valdris.

Not the Valmorian soldiers.

Not even Airam.

If she had known, she might have destroyed it.

Airam was observant. She would have understood what Ulrich intended the moment she felt a foreign tracking spell resting within her mana. She might have cut it away with witchcraft even if doing so put her own control at risk.

But she had been too distracted.

Or perhaps, somewhere beneath the fear and anger she had shown him, she had understood.

Ulrich did not know.

He had placed the spell the moment Airam offered herself to Valdris.

He had already considered what would happen.

Airam would try to save Hermione and Esther. She would bargain with Valdris. She would offer herself because she believed she had the greatest value to the Emperor and because she could not bear the thought of her sisters returning to Valmoris.

Ulrich had known her well enough to expect it.

He had prepared for that possibility.

And he had always intended to follow.

The decision to let Airam go had not been surrender.

It had been a delay.

A cruel one.

A choice that had forced Hermione and Esther to watch their eldest sister leave with the people their mother feared. A choice that had made the younger girls hate him. Their words still remained clear in Ulrich’s mind.

"I hate you."

"You promised to protect us."

"I want eldest sister back."

He did not regret the plan in the slightest, however.

Before Airam stepped toward Valdris, Ulrich had been close to using the Hollow Core.

He had considered releasing it in the middle of the camp. The Hollow Core could have changed the battle.

It might have given him enough raw strength to slaughter Valdris’s soldiers and force the commander back. It might have given him enough mana to destroy the anti-magic advantage they held over him.

It might also have killed him.

Ulrich had no control over that power.

The last times he had used it, the mana had poured through his body with such force that he could barely contain it.

This time was different.

He was surrounded.

He had fought Valdris.

He had fought ten serum-enhanced knights.

He had taken an Advanced lightning spell directly.

He had lost blood, spent mana, and pushed his body past its limits. If he awakened the Hollow Core in that state, he might win the battle only to collapse afterward. Worse, he might lose control before Valdris died.

What would victory mean if he killed the enemy and died before getting the sisters home?

What would saving Airam mean if Hermione and Esther were left without him, without Hendrick’s full strength, and without anyone able to protect them from the Valmorian Empire afterward?

Ulrich could not gamble everything on power he did not fully command, especially when Valdris had summoned even more knights.

Airam’s decision had changed the battlefield.

She had bought him time.

She had forced Valdris to withdraw with fewer conditions than the commander wanted. She had kept Hermione and Esther from being taken. She had made Valdris promise to leave Ulrich alive.

And it gave Ulrich the chance to recover.

Not fully.

But enough.

He had used every healing vial he could take without poisoning himself. The potions had closed some of his wounds and slowed the bleeding. Mana vials had restored enough energy for him to cast, track, and fight if he had to.

Their effects were never pleasant.

The healing potion had left heat in his stomach and a numb ache beneath his skin. The mana vials made his limbs feel falsely light for a time, though exhaustion still sat beneath that sensation. They restored mana, not strength. They could not replace blood. They could not repair torn muscles immediately or erase the pain of having lightning driven through one’s body.

And there was nothing that could restore stamina.

No vial existed for that.

Stamina came from food, sleep, rest, and time.

Ulrich had none of those.

His body wanted to stop.

His arms ached every time he pulled the reins. His ribs hurt every time the horse landed after clearing bumpy ground. His wounds pulled beneath the bandages. His mind had begun to feel distant at the edges, as though sleep waited just beyond his next breath.

Still, he continued.

Ulrich had always possessed greater mental resilience than most people.

When he decided upon something, he did not stop simply because his body complained. He did not rest because a task became dangerous. He did not turn away because the odds were poor.

Once he had chosen a course, he followed it to the end.

The crimson tracking ring flickered in his mind.

Airam was still ahead.

Ulrich urged the horse faster.

The branches blurred past him.

Was this pride?

He had asked himself the question more than once since leaving the camp.

He had given the sisters his word.

He had told them he would protect them.

As a Count, as the head of his House, and as the man who had taken responsibility for them after Anna-Maria’s death, he could not allow Airam to be carried away while he remained behind.

Valdris’s words still carried their own insult.

"A mere Count."

Know your place."

Ulrich’s fingers tightened around the reins.

Pride mattered.

The pride of House Rubenhart mattered.

He had been born into a noble family. His name had obligations attached to it. He had made promises beneath that name, and a promise from a Count was not something he could discard when keeping it became costly.

But pride was not the only reason.

If it were only pride, he could have stayed with Hermione and Esther.

That would have been practical.

He could have returned to the Estate. He could have trained the younger sisters. He could have made certain that no one took them again.

Airam would be gone.

But Hermione and Esther would remain alive.

He would preserve part of what he had promised.

It would be the safer decision.

The smarter decision.

Ulrich understood that.

He was a practical man.

He had allowed Airam to leave because practicality demanded it. He had needed time to heal, time to restore mana, and a chance to come back with a better plan and better armed. Airam’s sacrifice had given him all of that.

So why was he riding alone through the forest with a damaged body, a stolen anti-magic sword, and no certainty that he would survive the night?

Why not accept the result?

Why not return to the Estate and protect the two sisters who remained?

The answer came before he could fully form the question.

Because Airam was one of them.

Because she had stood in front of Esther and Hermione from the moment Ulrich met her.

Because she had taken responsibility for her sisters long before anyone asked her to.

Because she had argued with him, challenged him, watched him carefully, and trusted him enough to ask him to protect the people she loved most.

Because he had watched her walk toward Valdris alone, emotionless but inwardly broken and fearful.

Ulrich’s expression hardened.

He was riding after her because he cared.

The realization was simple.

His care was for them and for the word he had given them, but also for the dying Anna-Maria.