Milestone Complete

In the bandit stronghold.

Though dawn had only just broken, people had already risen and begun their work.

People of this era had no nightlife. They went to bed early and woke early as well.

The boy tightly gripped the wooden sword his father had made for him, constantly gazing toward the village entrance with a hopeful expression. "Grandpa, Father still hasn't come back?"

In front of the small wooden hut, the lame old man was sharpening the machete in his hand. Hearing this, he too grew worried.

It had been an entire night. Could they have been caught by those noble lords' guards?

Yet he still forced a smile and comforted him, "He'll be back soon. Don't worry. This time, your father will definitely bring back lots of meat and coins. Then I'll go to the tailor's shop in town and have a new outfit made for you."

The boy immediately revealed a grin with one front tooth missing. "No, I don't want new clothes. I want Father to make Grandpa a pair of crutches first."

The wrinkles on the old man's face creased into a smile. "What a filial grandson. But this leg of mine isn't a problem. We should get you new clothes first."

The grandfather and grandson chatted and laughed.

But the boy's expression suddenly froze. He pointed behind the old man in terror. "Grandpa, it's a devil! The devil is here!"

The lame old man turned around and saw a terrified villager at the village entrance being kicked to the ground by a man clad in iron armor beneath a red surcoat.

Dark red blood dripped from the blade in the iron-clad man's hand.

Gripping his bloodstained sword, the man slowly walked into the village like a devil from hell.

The lame old man almost immediately recalled the arrogant knight who had once been in the village. This very leg of his had been broken by that knight.

No one knew better than him how terrifying a knight was!

"Go, hurry! Hide in the cupboard inside the house!"

The lame old man shoved the boy along and whispered harshly.

Lothar exerted both arms and brought his sword down.

The sharp blade of the hand-and-a-half sword seemed to meet no resistance at all, cleanly cleaving through half the bandit's shoulder along with the wooden spear he had tried to use to block it.

"Ah—"

A piercing scream rang out.

The intense pain made the bandit roll about continuously on the ground.

Blood spread across the ground, pooling into a small puddle.

A trace of pity flashed through Lothar's eyes beneath his Bucket Helm. He gripped the sword with both hands and steadily plunged it into the man's heart.

The scream stopped abruptly.

The slick sensation of metal scraping against flesh traveled up through the sword tip.

He pulled out the hand-and-a-half sword and slashed again at the two bandits charging toward him.

Prajna stood at his side, following him like a shadow.

At first, she did not make a move. These frail and feeble bandits were not worth her attention.

Until one bandit apparently took her for an easy target and tried to seize Prajna hostage, hoping to make the terrifying knight who ran rampant hesitate to act.

But before he could even get close, a spray of blood blossomed from his neck.

Blood dripped from the three points of the Demon-faced triangular shield. Prajna turned aside to avoid the spurting blood, and her expression remained entirely unchanged.

The blood gradually seeped into the shield.

The demon-face relief upon it revealed a satisfied smile and immediately sent out an urging thought, trying to make Prajna kill more living people.

But Prajna still did not move. She merely followed silently at Lothar's side, betraying no emotion.

The young and able-bodied bandits were gradually wiped out.

Lothar raised his foot and kicked over an old farmer holding a pitchfork, his gaze sweeping over the man's aged face.

Then, without hesitation, he thrust his sword through the man's heart.

He did not dare underestimate such a laughable weapon as a pitchfork.

Because it was said that a Witcher had once been killed by one.

Since one held a weapon, one should be prepared to die beneath his sword, regardless of whether they were old, weak, women, or children.

Hans and Moder covered each other as they fought the enemy.

Both their martial skill and equipment far surpassed those of these people.

Moreover, caught entirely off guard upon waking that morning, no one in this bandit stronghold could withstand even a single exchange against the two working together.

Bang—

Hans raised his shield and smashed a lame old man to the ground, then kicked the machete from his hand. At his side, Moder thrust out his sword, piercing the man's throat.

"Ghk—ghk—"

The old man still wanted to say something, but the blood gushing from his neck clogged his windpipe.

He collapsed helplessly to the ground, his eyes turning toward his grandson hidden in the wooden hut. Then he breathed his last.

"No!"

"Grandpa!"

The boy, tears in his eyes and hatred written across his face, rushed out of the cabin.

He picked up the woodcutter's axe the old man had dropped and charged at Hans.

Hans hesitated for only a moment, nearly getting struck by the axe. Moder stepped forward in time and blocked the blow with his shield.

"You horned demon, I'll kill you!"

"I'll kill you!"

The boy roared, desperately hacking with his weapon.

But the axe was too dull, and he lacked the strength.

Once Hans had his guard up, he held his shield before him. No matter how frantically the boy hacked, it was like an ant trying to shake a tree.

"Stop, boy! Drop your weapon at once!"

Moder shouted angrily, "As long as you stop attacking us, we'll spare your life for the sake of your youth."

"My lord, what should I do?"

Beneath his horned greathelm, Hans looked somewhat lost.

By then, the sounds of battle had already died down.

The bandits left behind were all old, weak, sick, or disabled. Even the few carrying hunting bows had arrows tipped with bone or wood, posing no threat at all to the four of them.

It had been an utterly one-sided slaughter.

Moder was growing impatient. In his view, a brat too stubborn to know better ought to be cut down with a single stroke.

They were bandit spawn anyway. Raised amid such influence, he would surely grow into a villain fit for the gallows.

Yet Moder hesitated.

His lord was clearly a benevolent ruler. If he committed such a massacre of children, would it make him seem too bloody and cold-hearted, unworthy of knightly virtue?

After all, his lord had said only last night that he might one day knight them!

This wavering uncertainty kept Moder from acting.

Not far away, Lothar flicked the blood from his blade and walked over at an unhurried pace.

With a brief glance, he understood what had happened.

After a moment of silence, he said, "The moment you take up a weapon, you become an enemy."

"Squire Hans, Sergeant Moder, do I need to teach you what to do with enemies?"

Smack—

Moder struck with his shield, knocking the little boy flat on his backside.

Lothar looked at the hatred on the boy's face with a trace of pity. "When your father slaughtered other people's fathers, he must have seen such expressions too."

"When you ate bread your father had dipped in other people's blood, you surely never thought it was evil. You probably looked at him with admiration and thought he was wonderful."

"Am I right?"

Lothar raised one finger, his expression cold. "I'll give you one last chance. Drop your weapon."

The little boy stubbornly gripped his axe, teeth clenched. The hatred in his eyes seemed ready to spill out like ink.

Lothar shook his head and turned away.

"Do it, Hans."

Hans gritted his teeth and raised his hand-and-a-half sword high.

Swish—

Blood streamed freely across the ground.

Lothar lowered his head slightly and traced a cross before himself. "Heavenly Father above, whether they are guilty or not is for You to judge. I cannot distinguish each case in detail, nor can I judge whether their crimes deserve death. So I can only send them to meet You. Amen."

"Continue. Anyone holding a weapon and still daring to resist—if they cannot be persuaded, deal with them all."

Lothar gave the order.

A short while later, the quiet little village, once like an earthly paradise, had been utterly transformed.

Corpses lay everywhere, and blood flowed freely.

Women and children screamed as they fled into a building that looked like a council hall.

"My lord, are we any different from those bandits?"

Hans looked lost.

So did Lothar.

He did not know whether what he was doing was right.

But he knew he could not show even a hint of uncertainty before Hans, the attendant who admired him.

He said in a deep voice, "Everyone has to pay the price for what they've done. Besides, we only killed those who bore weapons and did not implicate anyone else. That was already the greatest mercy, wasn't it?"

He did not order an assault on the hall where the women and children were gathered. Instead, he instructed, "The enemy has basically been wiped out. Moder, go notify Ryan and the others to come over and take possession of the supplies. Remember to leave some rations and seeds for those who did not resist."

Lothar came before the "assembly hall." Looking at those numb and fearful faces, he did not say anything further to proclaim that he represented justice.

Among these people, there might have been womenfolk who had been abducted, but even more were the bandits' own families.

They, including many of the dead, might all have been innocent and never harmed anyone.

But when they enjoyed the food and wealth brought back by the guilty, they were no longer quite so innocent.

People said that disaster should not extend to one's wife and children, but was a daughter who took an old debtor's money and hid abroad truly innocent?

If she was innocent, then how innocent were those destitute people who had been counting on that money to save their lives?

That was Lothar's way of handling things.

Both merciful and cruel.

At his ear, the notification chime for a completed milestone rang out.

With a grave expression, Lothar was the first to leave the village.

"Heh, Chivalrous Knight."

Lothar muttered in self-mockery.