The generous reward Suleiman had promised at the camp now produced the most direct and savage results.
A Burned Men warrior swung his spiked club, knocking down a Flatlander soldier who had charged too recklessly.
Before he could catch his breath, three more Flatlander soldiers rushed at him, their eyes bloodshot.
Their spears, swords, and hatchets thrust, stabbed, and swung at him without hesitation.
The Burned Men warrior valiantly deflected the sword one of the Flatlanders swung at him.
But another spear pierced his lower abdomen. He cried out, and his movements faltered.
The third soldier's hatchet came down hard on his neck.
The hatchet couldn't sever his head and became lodged in his neck as blood gushed out.
The soldier who had struck his neck shouted excitedly, "I hit him! I hit him! I killed a Wildling!"
His comrades rushed up behind him and shoved him aside, surging toward the next target.
In an instant, the seven Wildling raiders were swallowed up by the bloodthirsty, frenzied, greedy soldiers.
They might have been formidable in close combat, but with nearly twenty times as many enemies surrounding them and attacking without regard for their own lives...
All they could do was swing their weapons in vain, then get stabbed, struck, and hacked again and again.
These Burned Men Wildlings couldn't understand why the Flatlanders, who had always been weak and cowardly, had suddenly become so frenzied and bloodthirsty!
Suleiman paid no attention to the melee over there.
The Wildlings of the High Mountains called themselves Free Folk, too.
But their freedom meant raiding and slaughtering Flatlanders year after year, day after day.
They didn't dare challenge men clad in iron or riding tall horses.
Instead, they preyed on Flatlanders who struggled to survive by cultivating the land.
They destroyed their crops, burned their villages, and took their wives, children, and possessions.
They were used to hiding in forests and mountain passes, launching surprise attacks and turning defenseless civilians into souls beneath their blades.
Their swords knew only the necks of the weak.
But when others repaid them in kind, they suddenly remembered to accuse them of treachery and shamelessness.
His attention was fixed entirely on the last enemy, the one who had hidden the deepest.
He would bring the deepest despair to the Burned Men of the High Mountains!
A dark shadow suddenly sprang out from a patch of flat ground that looked no different from the surrounding plain.
Like a Shadowcat pouncing on its prey, it moved in utter silence, yet with astonishing speed!
Val, Son of Nango! The finest animal ambush hunter among the High Mountain Clans!
Walker, Son of Nego's plan was simple. The companions suffering in the granary, along with himself and his seven comrades, were all parts of the plan—all sacrifices!
They were bait to draw away the soldiers around Suleiman. He was the real killing blow!
Val, Son of Nango, had lain in wait, waiting for the moment the Flatlander soldiers' attention was drawn elsewhere.
The instant the Flatlander commander's attention was divided was his chance to strike a fatal blow!
Val, Son of Nango, was incredibly fast, a short sword clenched in his hand.
Just as he had ambushed countless animals in the past, he thrust straight at Suleiman's throat as he rode his white horse!
He could already imagine the astonishment on Suleiman's face.
He'd done it!
But the next moment, the wild joy in Val's eyes froze.
He saw no astonishment on the young man's face.
He saw—a trace of mocking amusement.
The sword flashed, a cold glint flickering in the blink of an eye. It was impossibly fast!
"Whoosh!" The sound of a blade leaving its sheath.
Val, Son of Nango, felt an immense force strike his shoulder.
His severed arm and short sword flew away together.
"Ahhh—!" Val, Son of Nango, let out a howl of pain.
His right arm, the one holding the short sword, had been cleanly severed at the shoulder! Blood gushed out like a fountain!
Suleiman flicked the blood from his sword, his expressionless face betraying nothing.
But he made no further move.
Val, Son of Nango's movements had seemed incredibly slow to him.
"Hah... hah..." The agony nearly made Val, Son of Nango, faint.
But he bit down hard on his tongue. The sharp pain kept him conscious for a moment.
With his remaining left hand, he pulled a small animal-bone dagger from his waist.
Madness and despair flashed in his eyes. Howling like a cornered beast, he charged at Suleiman again!
"Die, Flatlander!"
Suleiman didn't even step back. He merely flicked his wrist.
A cold glint swept past, a streak of white flashing across Val, Son of Nango's eyes.
Val, Son of Nango's charge stopped abruptly. His head soared into the air, his face still frozen in a savage grimace.
In that instant, countless images flashed through Val, Son of Nango's mind: when he came of age, he had only dared to burn off the little toe on his right foot.
His people's mockery, and the disappointment in his parents' eyes.
He had always longed to prove himself, to become a true warrior.
He had wanted to burn off his eyes and ears, too.
But every time he picked up a red-hot iron, instinctive fear made him hesitate and shrink back.
Still, he longed for their recognition, so he practiced his hunting skills every day.
He could lie motionless in the snow for a day and a night just to ambush a single animal.
None of his people could do that!
Yet no matter how many animals he hunted, or how dangerous they were,
his parents and the rest of his clan still looked down on him. They believed that only those who raided the Flatlanders and took their wives and daughters had any courage.
But he couldn't understand why they had to raid the Flatlanders who worked the land.
They simply labored in the fields, trading sweat for crops, and built houses to shelter from the snow and wind.
They threatened no one and provoked no one. They were simply... living there.
They dug food from the barren earth with their own hands, just as he hid in the snow for a day and a night.
Why rob people who survived through such hard work?
At last, he thought that perhaps, now, he had become the warrior his parents and clan had always wanted.
But he no longer wanted to be a warrior. He wanted to return to the High Mountains.
To live alone, to hunt alone.
To leave his clan and become a true Free Folk.
But now, it was all over.
His body staggered forward three steps before collapsing to the ground.
Meanwhile, the shouts of battle from the farm began to die down.
Walker, Son of Nego, was now drenched in blood, staring at Suleiman in disbelief.
He had never imagined this could happen. The thought had never even crossed his mind.
This young man looked so young, and among his own clan he would have had the weakest build.
Yet he was so strong. It had happened too fast—over in an instant.
If Walker had been caught off guard, that sword would probably have wounded him, too!
The hunter ambushing prey on this battlefield wasn't Val, Son of Nango.
It was this Flatlander!
The Flatlander soldiers were like madmen, even shoving one another as they fought to claim the bodies of his clansmen.
A trace of sorrow for his people flashed in Walker, Son of Nego's eyes, quickly swallowed by boundless fury.
"Kill!" "Kill!" "Kill!"
He roared like a beast, raised his battle-axe, and charged toward Suleiman with the few clansmen still by his side, ready to die!
They were wolves of the High Mountains. They would rather die fighting than surrender!
Suleiman watched them charge, his expression cold.
Lushen had already led the soldiers in a flanking attack from the farm, joining up with the soldiers beside Suleiman.
"Form ranks!" "Spearmen, form ranks!" "Protect Lord Suleiman!" Lushen raised his bloodstained right fist and shouted his orders.
The soldiers quickly formed several rows in front of Suleiman, their spears standing like an impenetrable wall.
Walker, Son of Nego saw that the young Flatlander had even started calmly wiping his longsword.
His gaze rested on the blade, as if nothing else on the battlefield merited his attention.
The Burned Men Wildlings were valiant and fearless, each one fighting three men at once without regard for their lives.
But they faced a pack of "Bloody Mad Dogs," their ferocity fully unleashed by ambition, greed, and desire!
A Burned Men Wildling had just smashed a soldier's skull with his hammer when two spears plunged into his lower abdomen.
He roared and tried to break the shafts, still intent on fighting back, but an arrow slammed into his eye and pierced deep into his head!
Walker, Son of Nego swung his battle-axe with all his might, but the clansmen around him fell one after another.
He saw a young clansman tackled to the ground by three or four Flatlander soldiers. They fought over his body, until he was hacked apart in a frenzy.
He saw one of his clansmen bite down hard on a soldier's arm, only for another soldier to smash the back of his head with a hatchet.
In that moment, Walker, Son of Nego suddenly understood.
They were indeed wolves of the High Mountains—fierce and powerful.
But these Flatlanders, the people they had treated like sheep,
were also a pack of hunting dogs, countless in number and unafraid of death!
No matter how fierce the wolves of the High Mountains were, they couldn't defeat a pack of hounds.
"Pfft!"
A sword thrust through his chest from behind.
Walker, Son of Nego lowered his head with difficulty, staring at the sword tip protruding from his chest.
He felt his strength drain away and his body grow colder.
The figures of countless Flatlander soldiers surged toward him, swallowing up his last view of the world.
He felt a crowd of people pressing down on him.
Their weapons hacked and slashed at his body again and again.
He didn't know what they hoped to accomplish.
Then he heard it.
The last words he heard while still conscious.
"I got the head! Toman got the head!"
The voice was full of wild joy.
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