Those Born Low Are All Gamblers

Walter Whent swept a cold gaze over everything before him.

He forced himself to calm down, gripping the reins in his hand tightly.

"If you've come to suppress us, Lord Suleiman, then I can only sound the horn."

His voice was somewhat hoarse amid the clamor.

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"We may fight to the death, but that will make our friends bleed and our enemies rejoice."

"I hope you won't do this."

Suleiman answered him, his voice as calm as a pool of ice water.

"If I had come to suppress you—"

"Then when you, you old beast, swaggered up to my ranks like a pig—"

"I would already have had you shot dead."

Suleiman raised a hand and gave a light wave behind him.

From the ragged crowd behind him, several dozen people suddenly stepped forward.

They threw back their tattered cloaks, revealing taut bowstrings beneath.

Black arrowheads gleamed coldly in the sunlight, all aimed at Walter Whent and the lords behind him.

Walter Whent's face instantly turned deathly pale.

The lords behind him let out muffled cries of alarm, while their warhorses nervously backed away half a step.

Cold sweat seeped from their foreheads, soaking the lining of their helmets.

Only then did they realize that such deadly killers had been hidden among the seemingly disorderly Poor Fellows.

What shocked them even more was Suleiman's utterly undisguised killing intent.

He had no regard whatsoever for the unspoken understandings and rules between nobles.

He had intended to ambush and shoot down them—the commanders—right here during the parley.

Then, taking advantage of the chaos, he would destroy their army in one stroke.

Shameless, despicable—and damned effective.

Walter Whent's heart began