Preparing for Battle

Over the next few days, an increasingly heavy unease permeated the village of Sauron, known as "Gray Wolf Valley."

Derek organized two more large-scale searches, expanding the search area to several valleys and streams where hunters frequently hunted.

This time, they didn't just call out names; they examined every suspicious trace as carefully as if they were combing hair.

Finally, on a secluded gravel beach in a creek valley, far from the usual trails, they found several dried but dark-colored bloodstains that had seeped into the crevices of the rocks and the soil.

The bloodstains were scattered in a somewhat messy manner, unlike those left by a wild animal fight. They looked more like drops or splattered blood from a person struggling or moving after being injured.

More importantly, behind a bush near the bloodstains that was not easily noticed, they found traces of a trap that had been set up and then hastily dismantled or triggered, several thin, flexible branches that had been cleverly bent and then bounced back, and several shallow pits on the ground that had been carefully buried but whose edges still showed signs of being disturbed.

Experienced hunters recognized it as a simple trap designed to trip or slow down pursuers, something neither wild animals nor ordinary hunters would set up.

The evidence is irrefutable.

When the villagers who discovered these traces brought back to the village the gravel stained with dark brown mud and faintly visible human blood, along with the branches used to make the trap, and showed them to Derek and the wives of the three hunters, their last glimmer of hope vanished.

When Annie and the other two women saw the bloodstained stones and connected them to the traces of the trap, they almost instantly broke down.

They collapsed to the ground, letting out heart-wrenching cries that echoed through the village at dusk, filled with despair and the pain of losing loved ones.

The other villagers stood by, watching silently, their faces filled with sympathy, but even more so with a sense of fear, like the fear of losing a rabbit.

The three strongest hunters vanished without a trace, leaving only this cold evidence.

Derek's face was so dark it could drip water. He picked up a bloodstained pebble, weighed it in his palm, and ran his rough fingers along its dark color.

His doubts did not lessen; on the contrary, they deepened.

"They are Carnford soldiers, no doubt about it," he said hoarsely to the village elders who had gathered around. "Hunters wouldn't use such elaborate traps, much less clean up the scene after killing someone and try to cover it up."

"But... what is their purpose?" Derek frowned, a wary and puzzled glint in his single eye. "Did they just happen to run into Barton and his men in the woods and kill them to silence them? Or... were they already operating there, Barton and his men were just unlucky enough to run into their line of fire, or rather, were they in their way?"

Whichever possibility it may be, it points to a more terrifying conclusion: the Carnford People are no longer content with passively defending their castles and farmlands.

Their tentacles, their soldiers, have silently infiltrated the mountains and forests that belong to the Sauron.

Killing the three hunters might have been a casual act, or it might have been to eliminate spies on the periphery and clear obstacles for a larger operation.

"Whatever the reason," Derek slammed the rock to the ground with a dull thud, "It means those Broomflower bastards in the south are definitely going to start making moves against us! The previous calm was just a facade before the storm!"

His previous sliver of hope that "it might just be an accident" vanished completely.

Instead, a cold, increasingly intense sense of crisis has taken its place.

The other side has already made their move, and their methods are clean and efficient, clearly the work of well-trained soldiers.

This is by no means an isolated incident; it is very likely the prelude to a larger-scale attack.

"We can't wait any longer!" Derek roared at a nimble young man beside him. "You, take two men and set off immediately on horseback! Go to Blackwater Bay, Oak Valley, and the barracks in the mountains, and tell the other chieftains about our situation here!"

"Tell them that Carnford's claws have reached in and killed our men! Make them be on high alert, and it would be best if they could send some reinforcements! Go now!"

The young man accepted the order and immediately turned and ran to prepare.

Derek knew that asking for help might not be of any use.

The nearby Sauron Territory are mostly of similar or even smaller size, and are often preoccupied with their own survival.

Moreover, the various tribes of Sauron were not a monolithic entity. Fighting and killing each other for prey, water, and women was common. However, when faced with a common and clearly more powerful external threat, banding together for mutual support was the only option.

Even if only a dozen or twenty soldiers come, it will be good.

After sending the messenger away, Derek immediately devoted all his energy to preparing for battle.

His territory, "Gray Wolf Valley," had a total of over four hundred men, women, and children. Of these, about three hundred were genuine Sauron, and the remaining one hundred or so were captive Broomflower slaves or dependent refugees.

Among the Sauron, there are about two hundred adult males. Excluding the old and weak, there are about fifty militiamen who can take up arms and fight. These people are his most reliable core force. They are usually responsible for patrolling and hunting, and they have seen blood.

In addition, there were more than seventy strong male laborers who, although they had not received formal military training, were adept at logging, digging pits, and carrying heavy objects. In times of crisis, giving them weapons could also fill the ranks and bolster morale.

These past few days, Derek seems like a completely different person.

He dragged his lame leg and paced irritably around the village, his voice growing hoarse from constant shouting.

He ordered the opening of the nearly rusted old warehouse in the village, which contained several boxes of worn-out weapons and armor that were part of the meager "settlement allowance" given to him by the corps when he was discharged from the army.

Rusty one-handed axes, chipped machetes, badly worn leather armor, fragments of several Chainmail, and even a few poorly maintained hunting bows with their bowstrings almost rotten... These items, which would normally be piled up as junk in a corner, were now being unearthed, cleaned, repaired, and distributed.

Fifty militiamen were given priority to be equipped with usable gear, so at least they looked presentable.

When he ran out of weapons, he mobilized everyone to cut down trees.

Hardwoods as thick as bowls around the village were felled, one end sharpened, and made into simple wooden spears.

If you don't have a metal spearhead, you can harden the tip with fire, which still has some killing power.

Seventy or eighty of these spears were quickly made and distributed to the able-bodied men.

He even took out several thick, tanned bison and bear hides that he had treasured, and had the women and elderly in the village work through the night to sew them into rough but sturdy leather armor for the militiamen and able-bodied men who only had cloth clothes.

Although the protection is limited, it's better than nothing.