Rumors

Suleiman drew the Myr Sword gifted to him by Raymun Darry.

The blade flashed with a cold light amidst the dim woods.

"Lushen! Sound the horn!"

"Soldiers! Follow me and charge!"

This was his first time leading a battlefield charge, but he was ready.

The remaining squad of Lushen's warriors.

Under Suleiman's lead, let out a heaven-shaking roar.

They leaped from the dense thicket, charging toward the already chaotic Burned Men wildlings.

Wildlings equaled military merit! Military merit equaled gold! Time waited for no one!

Suleiman took the lead, his figure weaving nimbly through the trees.

The sword in his hand struck like lightning; every swing pierced precisely into an enemy's vital point.

The keen senses and superhuman coordination he had gained from the fusion were displayed to their fullest extent at this moment.

A wildling brandishing a battle-axe roared and lunged at him.

Suleiman shifted his body to the side, easily dodging the opponent's heavy, powerful strike.

A single slash followed, decapitating the foe with precision.

The soldiers behind him, seeing their lord display such valor, cutting through the wildlings like chopping melons and vegetables, were stunned.

"Are you kidding me? Lord Suleiman is this exaggerated?" They were momentarily dazed.

Suleiman's gaze turned toward the rear of the wildling formation.

Roslyn was leading his own squad like a sharp blade, stabbing fiercely into the back of the wildling ranks.

He had completely cut off their retreat.

The Stone Crow Tribe wildlings were also forced to converge toward the Burned Men, falling into a desperate situation of being caught in a pincer attack.

After the first wave of the assault, they reacted quickly, abandoning their looted supplies and the Fire Scorch Tribe to retreat toward the edge of the forest.

As time passed.

Fewer than a dozen wildlings remained, and they were gradually compressed into a narrow space by Suleiman's soldiers.

Suleiman sheathed his longsword.

He said to the remaining wildlings, "Drop your weapons and surrender, or die!"

Dell, Son of Chek, who was severely wounded and being supported—or rather, held up—by his clansmen.

He looked at the Flatlander demanding his surrender and sneered, "The Champions of the Burned Men will never abandon their weapons!"

"Is that so?" Suleiman, who had intended to trick the wildlings into dropping their weapons before killing them, smiled at them. "Throw spears! Loose arrows!"

The soldiers were slightly taken aback by the order; the wildlings had essentially lost the ability to fight back, yet they were to use arrows and spears first?

But the soldiers faithfully executed Lord Suleiman's command.

After all, Lord Suleiman was currently the benefactor leading them to wealth.

Another dense volley of wooden spears and arrows rained down.

Now, only a few wildlings remained on the ground, wailing incessantly.

"I do not take prisoners," Suleiman said coldly.

Hearing Suleiman's order, the soldiers felt as if they had been injected with a final dose of berserker potion.

They rushed forward one after another; this was free merit for the taking!

Wildlings equaled military merit! Military merit equaled gold! Time waited for no one!

There was no mercy, no hesitation.

The final slaughter began.

As the last wailing wildling on the ground was finished off by soldiers scrambling for the kill, the shouts and screams that had filled the forest finally subsided.

It returned to its former silence, though in this silence, even the cries of animals had vanished.

Suleiman looked around.

Corpses littered the field, and severed limbs were visible everywhere.

This was cold-weapon warfare, the collision of flesh against flesh.

It was a tremendous test for the human heart.

But.

His soldiers looked at him with eyes full of fanaticism, madness, and anticipation.

Their faces, bodies, and weapons were all stained with blood, twigs, and mud.

There was not a shred of fear or bewilderment.

Only madness and ferocity.

Ever since the first payment of wages.

They were no longer the simple folk they once were, but had transformed completely into beasts.

To them, human life was now synonymous with gold.

But, was this not the very law of survival in the world of Westeros?

To survive, to protect those one wished to protect.

One had to be stronger, craftier, colder, and more ruthless than the enemy.

Benevolence and mercy were luxuries reserved for the victors.

Suleiman exhaled slowly, wondering if this was truly the kind of army he wanted.

Suleiman's gaze fell upon the captives who were looking at them in terror.

On the outskirts of Valleydeep Town, the encampment of the Mountain Clans wildlings lay in siege.

Tents were arranged in a chaotic, disorganized fashion.

They were nothing more than crude shelters fashioned from animal hides and thick branches, surrounded by piles of firewood.

Food scraps were scattered everywhere.

The camp of the Burned Men was the largest among them, and their bonfire was the grandest.

They loved fire above all else.

Tonight, inside the beast-tent of Timett Son of Timett, it was exceptionally rowdy.

Whenever two Mountain Clans tribes gathered, arguments were inevitable, and now, the tent was packed with the chieftains of every tribe.

Inside the beast-tent, the chieftains sat in a circle.

They were all clad in beast-hide armor, their unique and bizarre weapons resting by their sides.

The Red Hand of the Burned Men, Timett Son of Timett, sat in the seat of honor.

He was tall and burly, his body covered in burn scars, one eye socket empty and hollow, looking utterly terrifying.

Shagga son of Dolf of the Stone Crow Tribe sat to the left of Timett Son of Timett.

He was rugged and brawny, dressed in animal skins with a wild, unkempt beard, drinking strong spirits looted from the flatlanders.

His battle-axe leaned against his side.

Chella daughter of Chek of the Black Ears Tribe sat to the right of Timett Son of Timett.

She was a lean, fierce woman with a chest as flat as a man's and dark, weathered skin.

There were also the Milk Snakes, Moon Brothers, Painted Dogs, Tree Men, Howlers, and Redsmiths.

They sat in a circle, their expressions wary, suspicious, and uneasy.

The chieftain of the Milk Snakes coughed a few times to clear his throat:

"There is a rumor lately! It is said that a certain..."

Timett Son of Timett rudely interrupted him: "Rumors! What rumors! What ghost stories have you concocted to scare yourselves again?"

"It is not a ghost story..." The chieftain of the Milk Snakes feared the Burned Men—or rather, all the tribes feared the Burned Men.

"It is about a troop of flatlanders; they say they are hunting us in the vicinity!"

The eyes of the various chieftains flickered, for indeed, several of their raiding parties had failed to return on time recently.

"Hunting us?" Shagga of the Stone Crow Tribe sneered, his rugged, bearded face appearing even more ferocious.

"It is true!" the chieftain of the Howlers said urgently. "My son took men out to raid for food for the tribe! And he never came back!"

Timett Son of Timett let out a harsh, mocking laugh: "I think your son was gored to death by a wild rabbit! You bunch of cowards!"

"Who are you calling a coward?!" The chieftain of the Howlers jumped up and roared!

This remark ignited an even greater argument.

Some tribes, especially those who had lost raiding parties, appeared deeply worried.

They were more inclined to believe the rumor and felt that a flatlander army was indeed hunting them.

The argument grew increasingly heated, quickly shifting from a discussion on the truth of the rumors.

It turned into mutual attacks and hostility between the tribes.

Weapons were raised, and blades and axes swung through the air.

They emitted dangerous, whistling sounds.

The wildlings pointed fingers at each other, roaring and cursing.

It seemed as if a bloody melee was about to break out right there.

Shagga son of Dolf slammed a massive axe onto the ground, creating a heavy, resounding thud.

Even he, however, could not fully suppress the boiling rage on both sides.

Chella daughter of Chek sneered, choosing not to join the argument.

Yet her hand remained fixed on the hilt at her waist, her gaze icy, clearly prepared to join the fray at any moment.

"Enough!" Timett Son of Timett finally roared, despite being the one who had incited the quarrel.

"Cowards who want to hide back in the mountains! Get out now! Those who want to keep raiding! Follow Timett Son of Timett!"

Clack.

Timett Son of Timett drove a longsword into the ground, burying half the blade.

The situation had reached this point.

The chieftains of the various tribes, carrying their anger and hostility, departed from the camp of the Burned Men one after another, returning to their own camps.

The meeting had completely collapsed, failing to reach any consensus and instead sowing further suspicion and division.

Each tribe decided to act in its own way.