Welcome to the Wasteland

The land within a day's journey north of Koren lay under the Pompey Empire's effective control, dotted with human settlements of all sizes. Conditions there were still fairly good.

But farther north, as they gradually left the range of the security forces' regular patrols, everything began to worsen. Countless tribes, large and small, were scattered across that vast land: humans, Bugbears, Gnolls, Wildlanders, and other nonhuman races.

They normally lived by herding and hunting, but whenever the opportunity arose, they had no objection to playing bandit. Perhaps, to these half-civilized tribes, robbing travelers was no different from hunting elk.

Starting on the second day, a small tail had been trailing the caravan.

At first, it was only a few scattered Wildlanders following behind, hoping to scavenge leftover scraps to fill their stomachs. But before long, the tail snowballed in size.

Their courage was directly proportional to their numbers. When there were only three or five of them, they merely wanted leftovers and could be scared off with a shout. Once their numbers swelled into the dozens, they began openly shadowing the caravan. Even a blind man could tell they were up to no good.

The accompanying mercenaries asked the caravan to turn back and return to safer territory, waiting for a suitable chance to continue. That was how such situations had always been handled.

But Richard refused their request. He only told the mercenaries and drivers to leave the convoy and return to Koren, while he led fifty barbarians deeper into the wilderness.

The small tail behind them continued to grow until it gradually surpassed a hundred people. They apparently already regarded the caravan as prey in a jar and began openly coordinating their movements.

These bandits clearly came from at least three tribes. The Gnolls made up the largest group, numbering seventy or eighty. They were tall and strong but undisciplined. They were more than qualified as bandits, but against a regular army, they would be courting death.

The next largest group was a band of Hobgoblins, around twenty of them. They were generally a little smaller than the Gnolls, but they were said to be the most disciplined military race among Goblins. Their combat strength might actually be greater.

What was somewhat surprising was that this ragtag bunch had somehow recruited three Ogres. These three-meter-tall monsters, with knotted muscles and supposedly powerful regeneration, at least looked imposing.

Despite such a mixed composition, the bandits had somehow achieved uniform dress—all wrapped in filthy strips of cloth so worn their original colors were impossible to discern, armed with wooden sticks, bones, and rusted scraps of iron. They had surpassed the Pompey Empire by a hundred years in achieving equality between officers and soldiers.

"Stop the wagons. Form them into a circle, and keep the livestock inside."

Richard made his decision. If this dragged on, there was no telling how large this band of robbers might grow. Wiping them out here was the safer choice.

Yet the moment they stopped, the previously lively bandit gang stopped as well, seemingly not yet mentally prepared.

There was no need to think about it. Once the caravan set off again, they would resume following at a safe distance. It was a filthy tactic, but not an ineffective one.

"Chief, those things only look scary." Gunther noticed Richard staring at the Ogres and assumed he was wary of them. "We used to kill a few whenever we came across them on the snowfields. It was no trouble at all. Their meat stinks, but it works for baiting seals."

"Gunther!"

Richard braced a hand against the wagon's wooden side, then vaulted onto its roof and looked down at the Highland Barbarians.

He took a tightly wrapped fish-skin bundle from his clothes. When he opened it, it was filled with brown pellets the size of beans, giving off a rich scent of spices.

"Pass these around. One for each person."

"What's this?" Gunther took it and stuffed one into his mouth first. The strange bitter, spicy taste made him grimace.

"A precious Eastern medicine called the Asura Elixir. It can increase strength, nourish the spirit, and transform one's very body."

Standing atop the wagon, Richard swayed his head as he spoke, looking exactly like a charlatan peddling fake medicine.

Gunther held the pill in his half-open mouth, unable to swallow it or spit it out. Merchants occasionally came to the snowfields to sell medicine, but even the boldest fraud would not dare make such outrageous claims. If the speaker had not been his own chief, he would have started swinging his fists already.

"Don't worry. There's nothing in it for me if I trick you." Richard tried his best to keep a solemn expression.

That did have some effect. The foul-smelling dough lumps were handed to every barbarian, who swallowed them with miserable expressions.

Yes, dough lumps.

The main ingredients were the cheapest cooked cassava flour and honey, kneaded into pellets. A few cheap, pungent spices had been added to create a medicinal flavor. The whole batch had cost less than three silver coins. All in all, they could only be described as seasoned dough lumps.

Richard had gotten the name Asura Elixir from a knight novel. It vaguely reminded him of his hometown, which was why it had stayed in his memory.

The main component of this stuff was starch. Filling the stomach was its only real effect. As for increasing strength, nourishing the spirit, and transforming one's body, that was all completely baseless nonsense he had made up on the spot.

Yet Richard was not worried about being exposed—not even a little. The system would cover for him.

Ever since he had defeated Gunther in the arena, the Mounted Warfare System had gradually received enlistment applications from every barbarian. He had left them pending because, even for a race as lacking in common sense as barbarians, something like the system was far too absurd.

They were all seasoned warriors. If they gained a massive boost from the system in a short time, they would definitely notice something was wrong. No matter how simple-minded they were, they were not a loyal army of clones. They could feel fear, betray him, and question unreasonable things.

From the very first day he discovered the Mounted Warfare System, Richard had understood that it was a secret he could only bury inside himself.

So he had to be cautious. He needed to find a reasonable—or at least seemingly reasonable—source for the system's effects. For example—medicine.

If a dough lump looked like an elixir, tasted like an elixir, and produced effects like an elixir after being eaten, then it was undoubtedly an elixir.

After the barbarians swallowed the dough pellets, Richard began rapidly approving their enlistment applications.

Approved.

Approved.

Approved.

The Highland Barbarians' advancement path began with the lowest-ranking Barbarian Militia. From there, it followed a single straight route: Barbarian Hunter, Barbarian Spearman, Barbarian Warrior, Great Axe Guard, and Berserker. It was a monotonous path, but one with considerable potential.

The vast majority of the barbarians were classified as third-tier Barbarian Spearmen, while Gunther became a hero unit in a category of his own within the system.

Halson was a Hobgoblin officer commanding around twenty Hobgoblin warriors. Though their numbers were small, Hobgoblins were a naturally military race, exceptionally skilled in warfare. They were therefore a force not to be ignored in the wilderness.

To be honest, as a Hobgoblin, he looked down on stupid brutes like Ogres and even more on disorderly rabble like Gnolls.

Whether robbing travelers or hunting elk, more discipline and brains were always better. Yet neither of those qualities could be found in Ogres or Gnolls. Rather than allies, Halson thought "tools" was a more fitting term for those incompetent creatures.

Being skilled at using tools was also a Hobgoblin virtue.

Even creatures as stupid as Ogres or Gnolls could serve an appropriate purpose under sensible Hobgoblin command. Once the operation succeeded, large quantities of food and steel weapons would be predictable gains.

He lightly stroked the bronze two-handed sword in his hand. It was fairly good equipment in the wilderness, but bronze could never compare with steel.

The Gnoll leader at one side watched this scene, drool slipping unnaturally from the corner of his mouth. Halson sneered inwardly—Gnolls never understood how to hide their greed, whether for a human caravan or for the precious metal weapon in his hands.

They would never understand that a Greatsword Assault Trooper needed at least five competent spearmen working with him to unleash his full power. Such complex tactics were beyond the impoverished minds of Gnolls. Giving them greatswords would be useless, yet they still desired this sword without the slightest attempt at concealment.

The scouts reported that the human caravan had stopped, and Halson immediately ordered the Gnolls and Ogres to halt as well.