Bandits and Scum

Boom, boom, boom—

Heavy hoofbeats thundered through Eagle Town as a band of horse bandits charged forward, trampling the once-paved road into clouds of dust and scattering gravel in all directions!

The vassal Yorick had heard the commotion long before. He dragged the only wooden bed in his home to block the door, pressing his withered spine against it as his heart pounded wildly.

"Papa, I'm scared..." Six-year-old Little Yula, his only daughter, stood trembling before him, clutching her filthy, tattered clothes with both hands.

"Don't be scared, don't be scared..." Gently pulling his daughter into his arms, Yorick strained to listen to the sounds outside, cursing bitterly in his heart.

Damn horse bandits!!

Ever since Baron Donald had disbanded his private soldiers en masse five years ago, every single year, every single year!

These demons in human skin would descend upon Eagle Town, burning houses, stealing grain, raping women, and slaughtering the people!

Yorick's eldest son and wife had both fallen beneath the iron hooves of the raiders.

His heart had long since gone numb. He could barely keep his daughter alive, and his body grew weaker by the day—perhaps death would be a release.

But ever since Raven had inherited Eagle Town, things had been getting better day by day.

Yorick was thirty-three this year. He had even taken part in the private soldier selection. Though he hadn't been chosen, he still received a reward of five kilograms of coarse wheat flour!

Lately, he'd heard from Simon, one of the soldiers, that Lord Raven intended to distribute the fields for them to farm themselves—three acres per man, two per woman. Instead of issuing rations each year, they would only need to hand over a fixed quota of grain, keeping the rest for themselves!

By that reckoning, his household could get five acres of land. With enough hard work, he could manage it himself. Even if each acre yielded only seventy percent of its potential, he'd still keep three hundred and fifty kilograms of wheat a year, which meant three hundred kilograms of coarse wheat flour.

And after the wheat was harvested, he could plant turnips, cassava, and lettuce in the fields—all for his own table, with nothing to hand over!

Then life would be much easier. His poor Little Yula wouldn't have to go hungry and cry during the lean months, and maybe they could even trade the extra vegetables for meat in Shining Gold Town!

But before this good life could truly begin, these hell-bound horse bandits had come again!

Lord of Light, don't You love Your people? Why won't You let us poor souls live just a little better?!

The hoofbeats grew closer, and Yorick's heart climbed into his throat. He held his daughter tight with one arm while gripping a pitchfork by the door with the other—if anyone dared to come in, he'd fight for his life!

Gradually, the hoofbeats faded into the distance. Cold sweat poured down Yorick's face as he slowly slid down to sit on the floor.

It seemed they had escaped disaster this time.

But soon he realized something was wrong. The town was far too quiet.

No screams. No sounds of collapsing houses. No cruel laughter that could jolt a man from his nightmares.

When had the raiders ever been so disciplined?

Summoning his courage, he crept to the window, opened it, and stuck his head out. The bandits' figures were indeed receding, but their direction was toward Eagle Fortress!

Their target was Lord Raven!?

"Great Lord of Light, may You bless the good-hearted," he murmured, tracing a crude holy symbol over his chest. "May You bless Lord Raven, and may he come through this unharmed!"

This was what many of the townsfolk were doing as well.

Amid his prayers, the bandit column had already arrived before Eagle Fortress. At the very front were six pitch-black warhorses, standing a full two meters at the shoulder, draped in heavy chain barding. Under the torchlight held by their riders, the horses gleamed a bloody crimson.

These were the specialty of the Bloody Highlands—First-Rank Magic Beasts, [Blood-Eyed Warhorses]. Their strength, speed, explosive power, and endurance far surpassed ordinary military horses, and they were the greatest asset that allowed the Bloody Highlands raiders to come and go like the wind!

On the lead Blood-Eyed Warhorse sat a burly man clad in full plate armor. A curved saber hung at his right hip, and a bloodstained spike-headed warhammer dangled from his left. His skin was dark, his face square, and a twisted scar ran from his left cheek to his right jaw, splitting his intact face in two like a centipede crawling across it.

"Scarface" Anderson—leader of this band of raiders, a First-Rank Dark Knight, a rising star in the eastern Bloody Highlands!

As the silhouette of Eagle Fortress reflected in his eyes, a flame called ambition began to blaze.

According to the Slate Family, if he could drive the baron out of Eagle Territory, he would not only receive a massive reward of a thousand gold coins but also gain the Slate Family's support from then on.

The Slate Family—the true masters of Nord Province, a count's house!

The Bloody Highlands might be lawless ground, but it was not lacking in opportunity and wealth. Its specialties—[Shadow Crystals], [Yellow Sand Essence], and things like [Illusion Fruits] and [Dragon Scale Grass]—were hardly valuable in the Highlands themselves, but once smuggled into the Cairns Empire or the Insar Empire, they could be traded for fortunes.

Every major power in the Bloody Highlands with a name—like "Mad Sand" Infek, "Blood Eye" Mongar, and "Spider Queen" Avilia—had shadows of the two empires, or even the Church of Light, behind them.

Why couldn't he, Anderson, be the next one?

"Chief, we've got a situation."

The speaker was Anderson's second-in-command, "Mustache" Belly. The man was a bandit through and through, yet he kept his mustache oiled and slick, and his eyes were like greased marbles, always darting around.

The words snapped Anderson back to attention. He raised his arm, and the column behind him ground to a halt amid a chaotic chorus of whinnies and shouts.

The sight before him made Anderson's brow lift slightly.

Eagle Fortress's drawbridge lay lowered, the main hall's doors wide open. A few chests of silk were scattered on the ground by the entrance, and only a handful of rooms still had lights on. It was practically defenseless!

The bandits all saw it too, and murmurs broke out among them:

"Like this... that baron called Raven didn't just cut and run before we even attacked, did he?"

"Can't be, right? He's still a baron, and this castle's big, with a moat too—not so easy to break into."

"You never know. I heard that baron only inherited the territory recently. He started out as a 'Sand Rat,' and his nickname was 'Little Bee.' How brave could he be?"

That last remark drew a burst of jeering laughter.

'Sand Rat' was underworld slang in the Bloody Highlands, used for those who didn't dare to raid outside and only swindled and cheated within the settlements.

Even criminals had their pecking order. These hardened outlaws, who risked their lives blade-to-blade every day, naturally looked down on such cowards.

"Chief, what do we do?" Belly asked, a glint of greed already flickering in his eyes.

He was already convinced that Raven, who had just inherited Eagle Fortress, must have fled—why else would the castle gates be wide open?

This was a castle, a noble's castle with a long history.

And from the time they crossed Eagle Beak Mountain and passed through Eagle Town to reach the castle, it hadn't taken more than half an hour. Raven had hardly any chance to move his assets!

That meant most of his wealth was still inside the castle.

Right now, Eagle Fortress was like a woman stripped bare—no one could resist that temptation!

And that was exactly what most of the bandits were thinking.

But their chief, Anderson, slowly shook his head. "Raven managed to leave even Hyde Slate at a complete loss. He doesn't seem like the type to just give up his castle so easily."

"Chief, you're overestimating them." Belly sneered with contempt. "One of them's a sand rat, the other's a delicate flower raised in a greenhouse. What schemes could they possibly have?"

That gave Anderson pause, but something still felt off—Raven's reaction had been too fast. How could he have already pulled out before they even arrived?

His eyes swept across the area around the drawbridge, searching for signs of a trap. Just then, a glint of something in the grass caught his attention.

"Rotten Tooth, go fetch that for me," he ordered.

The bandit called Rotten Tooth swung off his horse, found a golden object in the grass under Anderson's direction, and raised it high, handing it to Anderson.

"Chief, your eyes are sharp as ever!" Belly's eyes lit up. "Can we go in now!?"

Anderson shot him a displeased glance but said nothing more, tossing the thing to the ground with a wave of his hand. "Enter the city!!"

The object hit the dirt, was trampled by the hooves of the following horses, and rolled back into the roadside grass—a badge, engraved with an eagle locked in combat with a dragon.

The Griffith Family Emblem.

To have abandoned something like that was proof enough of how hastily Raven had fled.

And when Anderson rode his horse into the castle, the scene before him only confirmed it.

On either side of the courtyard, where training grounds should have been, cheap spears lay scattered and twisted alongside weapon racks, marked with dirty footprints. Leather helmets and gloves were strewn in the corners.

Copper and silver coins were scattered along the path, some stomped deep into the earth. A few wooden crates had been knocked over at the entrance, spilling silk fabrics, and beside them lay a crate of red wine, its liquid soaking into the ground and staining the silk.

Inside the hall, tables and chairs were overturned in a mess. The carpet was rolled up at the edges, with grimy footprints trailing all the way inward.

"Haha, I knew it—that little bee must have been scared out of his wits!" Belly laughed, picking out an unbroken bottle of red wine from the floor. He smashed the bottle's neck with his knife handle, tipped it back, and took a gulp. His eyes widened. "Damn, this stuff is good!?"

The bandits flooded into the hall. Some eyed the wine in Belly's hand with anticipation and longing, but without Anderson's order, none of them dared to act.

Yet their chief's expression remained tense. The castle was too quiet—eerily quiet. Something about it felt wrong.

Just then, a loud crash came from the corner. Anderson's gaze snapped over. "Who!?"

Hiding in the corner was none other than Raven's stepbrother, Weston.

He had been trying to sleep, but that damn Raven had deliberately targeted him, claiming the cook was injured and serving only white bread and broth for dinner—no big chunks of smoked meat!

He was the noble Master Weston! How could he go without meat? He'd never grow tall!

But at the table, before he could protest, Raven's sharp glare had shut him up.

He'd decided to endure for one night, but the heat and hunger made sleep impossible. So he risked Raven's wrath to sneak to the kitchen for food.

Usually, even at night, the storeroom and kitchen—key guarded areas—would have at least two private soldiers watching. But tonight, there was no one!

At first, he felt relieved. He went into the kitchen, helped himself to nearly half a smoked lamb leg with the leftover warm broth.

But when he tried to cross the hall back to his room, he saw a sight that chilled his blood—a group of vicious bandits in chainmail had appeared in the hall!

He'd never seen them before, but he'd heard stories!

Every one of them was at least five-foot-nine, clad in heavy chainmail, their weapons still bearing traces of fresh blood!

Now he understood why the castle was so quiet tonight.

Damn Raven! He must have known the bandits were coming tonight, but he took his private soldiers and ran, without telling anyone else!

Weston tried to slip away unnoticed, but in his panic, he knocked over a vase in the corner!

The crash was thunderous, and Weston's instincts kicked in like never before. His legs pumped, and for a moment, he felt almost as fast as a galloping horse!

But before he could take two steps, his throat tightened. The world spun, and suddenly the ceiling was above him, followed by a face with a mustache looming into view!

He couldn't believe that this rat-faced man had such strength—dragging him by the scruff of the neck like a rabbit.

"Ahh—" The broken porcelain cut through his clothes into his flesh, grinding open larger wounds. It hurt even more than when Raven had shaved off his scalp!

The mustached man said coldly, "Shut up, or I'll kill you right now!"

Weston clamped his hands over his mouth, rolling his eyes in pain but not daring to make a sound.

Anderson looked at the pig-like Weston with disgust. "Are you Raven?"

"No! No, I'm Weston!" Weston cried out pitifully. "Sir, if you have a grudge against Raven, then we're on the same side!"

"Raven is scum, a bastard, a villain, a lecher!!"

Without waiting for Anderson to ask, he spilled everything he knew about Raven, including his "truth"—that Raven had taken his private soldiers and abandoned the castle!

"Heh, just a useless little bee after all." After hearing Weston's account, Anderson finally relaxed. He sneered, "A fine barony, and he ran it into the ground. Didn't even dare to defend his own castle. What a waste."

Feeling the eager gazes of his men around him, Anderson gave the order: "Search it all! Same rules as always—women don't matter, but every other piece of wealth comes straight to me! Whoever finds it keeps thirty percent for themselves, the rest of you split twenty percent!"

A fiery light blazed in the bandits' eyes: "Yes, sir!"

How had Anderson risen so fast, commanding seventeen bloodthirsty killers with only a first-tier cultivation?

Beyond his personal strength, it was because he knew how to share the spoils, ensuring every follower got enough benefit!

The bandits scattered, and before long, screams, curses, and cries of agony began echoing from within the castle.

Weston's face grew paler by the second, because he could recognize many of those voices—among them, Old Ogin, who had once driven his carriage.

Anderson sat in the main hall, waiting for his men to report back. For some reason, Belly hadn't moved either, instead sizing up Weston with keen interest: "Tsk tsk tsk, a real rich boy. Such tender skin and soft flesh—must be perfect to go with some wine."

Weston felt his mind go numb. He swallowed hard: "W-What are you doing!?"

"What else? Cutting you up and eating you, of course." With a sharp shing, Belly drew the Enchanted Longsword from his waist and gestured at Weston. "You know, people like you are the tastiest and easiest to cook. Especially the thighs—fat and tender, way better than pork or beef legs. Even the finest mutton can't compare."

"Don't eat me, don't kill me..." Weston was so terrified that tears and snot streamed down his face. "I-I'm still young, I won't taste good! I still have money! I can, I can give you lots of money!"

"Hah, the whole castle is ours now. You think we're hurting for your pocket change?" Belly tapped the flat of his blade against Weston's pudgy cheek. "Cry all you want. Cry a little longer—it'll make the meat even juicier later."

He turned to look at Anderson: "No problem with me handling him like this, boss?"

The latter didn't even lift his head: "Do whatever you want with that useless waste. No need to ask me."

Those words snapped Weston awake: "I'm useful! I'm useful!"

"I know the withdrawal code for Fedro Commerce! And I know where my mother, Denise, lives!"

"Your mother?" A fire lit up in Belly's eyes. "Is she pretty?"

"Beautiful, incredibly beautiful—you've never seen a woman that gorgeous in your life!" Weston nodded frantically. "And she hasn't been touched by anyone in over ten years. I'm willing, I'm willing to give her to you, just please let me go!"

"Really?" Belly licked his lips. "Where is she?"

A few minutes later, Belly stood before Denise's door and kicked it clean off its hinges with one brutal blow!

He sidestepped a thrown wine bottle and stepped into the room amid a shriek of sheer terror.

Rip—

"Tsk, madam, you're wearing far too much."