Chapter 160: The Gathering Place

The refugee settlement wasn’t far from the Baishui River. Beyond the barren lands north of the river lay dense mountain forests, where the displaced hid, eking out a harsh existence on the sparse food the woods could offer.

These forests formed where the Tanzan mines met the eastern hills. The rolling terrain softened the wind’s force, allowing seeds carried by the breeze to take root and sprout. Over time, this created a patchy, thin woodland scattered along the low slopes—land that once had an owner.

Long ago, a short-lived family named Karg ruled over these woods and the wasteland north of Baishui River. But a devastating plague wiped them out centuries ago. Since then, nature has erased all traces of human civilization here. The ruins of the Karg family’s collapsed castle lie hidden behind some unknown hill, while these woods and wilds, lying too close to the Dark Mountains, have become places no one dares to tread.

Whenever a noble family along the Dark Mountains falls, everyone agrees it’s the curse and chaotic magic spilling out from the ruins of Gondor’s wastelands. As a result, unclaimed lands like this are scattered all across the far south. Though this place borders the Tanzan mines—just a mountain ridge away from Viscount Andrew Lesley’s domain—the viscount has never sent anyone to cross the vast Tanzan range and develop the lands beyond.

Cecil’s soldiers wore lightweight enchanted armor designed for mobility, armed with new thermal ray guns and magic-powered combat backpacks. Following their prior training, they moved cautiously but swiftly through the forest. They had been away from their territory for over a day and night, having just rested and eaten not long ago. Their minds and bodies were in peak condition, and the refugees’ hiding place was close.

Once inside the forest, horses became difficult to maneuver. Gawain dismounted, leading his steed alongside Sir Philip, while Amber clung to the broad back of his Krieg warhorse, dozing off in a lopsided fashion.

“Clinging” was the right word—this half-elf’s riding skills were so poor she’d strapped herself to the saddle with multiple leather belts and buckles to avoid falling off. In an emergency, she could always roll into the shadows, so being tied down wouldn’t hinder her escape.

A half-elf who couldn’t even communicate with her horse—truly a disgrace to her kind.

“We’re almost there,” Sir Philip said, eyes fixed ahead. “There are actually several refugee camps in this area, all hidden in hard-to-find spots. But if we find one, it’ll be easy to contact the others.”

Gawain nodded slightly but furrowed his brow. “Something about this feels off.”

“Off?” Philip looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Few people conduct large-scale slave raids after the Frost Moon,” Gawain explained. “After the Frost Moon, temperatures drop, farming stops, and there’s little need for labor. Most people enter a phase of consuming stored food. Capturing slaves then doesn’t make sense—they’d just be a drain, needing to be fed without contributing work. Unless it’s a mine that operates year-round, but the biggest mine here is Tanzan, and Viscount Andrew hasn’t shown any interest in increasing slave labor… Besides, he seems disdainful of such lowly slave raids.”

“Who knows whose coin those mercenaries took?” Philip said. “Maybe they’re selling slaves to the central regions, where mines and merchants abound. Slave prices are high there, and many risk buying ‘private slaves’ on the black market.”

Gawain said nothing, but soon a faint metallic tang of blood drifted into his nostrils.

“Stop!” he signaled sharply. The squad leaders hushed their troops, and everyone tensed.

Even Amber, half-asleep on horseback, instantly sensed the shift in atmosphere—her alertness, at least, was fitting for her bloodline, though it seemed more like cowardice than courage. She snapped her eyes open and transformed into a shadowy blur, darting to Gawain’s side. “There’s the smell of blood ahead!”

“By the Holy Light!” the accompanying priest, Leight, traced a sacred symbol over his chest. “Someone’s bleeding out.”

Under Gawain’s lead, the soldiers pushed through the trees and bushes, revealing the refugee camp.

The mercenaries had already struck.

A crude fence of broken wood and thorns surrounded the camp, but it hadn’t held against these blade-wielding beasts. Between a handful of tattered tents lay a wide clearing where eighty or ninety ragged, gaunt refugees were herded together. Over twenty fully armed mercenaries split into two groups—half guarding the perimeter, the other half brandishing swords and knives, pressing down on the gathered refugees. A man clad in black half-plate armor paced among the captives, shouting curses at them.

Scattered around the clearing lay seven or eight bodies, hacked to pieces—clear evidence that some had briefly resisted the mercenary attack, only to be crushed in a brutal, lightning-fast slaughter. These mangled corpses served as a grim warning, preventing further rebellion and keeping the situation under control.

“They’re well-equipped,” Gawain observed, analyzing the scene. “Half of them are mixed in with the civilians. Once fighting breaks out, they might use the refugees as hostages…”

“Hostages? You’re imagining things,” Amber shot him a sideways glance. “These refugees are treated like cattle by nobles and mercenaries alike. Nobles and their armies don’t care if they live or die. Those mercenaries think the same way about us. They wouldn’t bother taking hostages. But they might use them as human shields in a pinch… Still, if we can create a big enough distraction to catch them off guard, the refugees will scatter immediately, and the mercenaries will lose control. Right now, before their hands and feet are bound, is the perfect moment.”

Listening to the half-elf’s sharp analysis, Gawain was momentarily stunned—then realized he was still thinking with his old-world mindset.

Hostages only work when you consider people as people. Here, no villain would hold a knife to a “lowly” refugee’s throat, threatening a noble with “one more step and I’ll kill him.”

Because “normal” nobles would have no hesitation killing both the “lowly” and the bandits alike.

Sighing, Gawain pulled out two crystal grenades. “Then let’s make some noise.”

…

The unknown mercenaries had attacked the camp. Those who instinctively resisted were almost instantly torn apart.

Cries and screams swept through the settlement, then quickly died down as the refugees were driven out of their tents and straw piles like cattle, forced into the central clearing by the sword-wielding bandits.

As refugees, even the last bundle of straw in their arms could be stolen, so they were no strangers to bandits. But seeing these men’s gear and demeanor, anyone with some experience knew these were worse than bandits—they were mercenaries, paid killers.

Tom’s sister—Joan, a dark-haired, dark-eyed girl—huddled in the crowd, carefully avoiding eye contact with the vicious men. She held her injured right arm with her left hand, wincing as dirt and grime seeped into the wound. When the mercenaries first stormed the camp, she had smeared her face with a mixture of charcoal and mud. One of the mercenary leaders had laughed at her “clever disguise,” then whipped her face until half of it was raw and bleeding.

He laughed as he struck, saying it would “fix” her makeup permanently.

Blood mixed with mud dripped to the ground, but Joan felt a flicker of relief. The mercenary leader was cursing in frustration:

“You filthy scum! Lowly mud! Fit only to sleep with whores and bastards in the stinking gutters! Where’s that cripple gone?! I know one of you ran off! Damn it… You’ve already lost eight men—do you know how much that cost me?! Where the hell are you hiding that cripple?!”

Tom had long since left, heading in a different direction to forage for mushrooms and edible moss, avoiding the mercenaries’ gaze. When he returned, he would notice the camp’s distress—and he would run.

Thinking this, Joan lifted her eyes to glance at the armored mercenary leader with the silver longsword at his side. She knew someone nearby would soon crack under the pressure and reveal she was Tom’s sister. She was ready for that—if it came to it, she’d rather die and make these long-legged beasts pay a heavier price. She could see that this group of refugees, herself included, could bring the mercenaries a hefty profit—and every death would only fuel their rage.

Often, this was the greatest resistance “lowly” refugees could offer against nobles and their henchmen.

Just as these thoughts crossed Joan’s mind, a strange sound came from nearby—sharp, distinct thuds landing a few dozen meters away, catching her keen hunter’s ears.

Before she could figure out what the “stones” were, two thunderous explosions erupted behind the mercenaries!

The booming sounds were unfamiliar to everyone. Even the refugees, terrified and driven into the clearing at swordpoint, leapt up in panic and fled desperately toward the camp’s interior—away from the blasts. The mercenaries, though startled, reacted more quickly. Their first thought was clear: enemy attack! Prepare to fight!

That reaction was correct—for them and for Gawain alike.

(End of chapter)