Negotiation?

The edge of a breastplate emerged through the doorway first, followed by a tall body clad head to toe in plate armor—breastplate, pauldrons, vambraces, greaves.

Every piece conformed to the body's contours. The iron-gray plate looked like an unpainted, unfinished product, yet it already possessed the defensive qualities of full plate armor.

"Wait, who's in charge? Let's talk. There's no need to fight to the death. What do you want?" a rough voice called out.

Ron raised his left fist, and all the soldiers stopped at once, though they remained on guard.

Ron slowly stepped forward. The iron rings of his chainmail clinked softly as he walked. At seven feet two, his shadow stretched across the beach all the way to the feet of the plate-armored leader.

The man raised his head. He had to. He was already considered tall among the bandits, standing more than half a head taller than the subordinates cowering behind the ship's rail, like an iron tower.

But Ron was far taller still. When the man looked up, the edge of his gorget caught against his chin. He could not tilt his neck back fully and could only see Ron's jaw.

The armored man fell silent for a moment, then pushed up his helmet's visor and revealed a fawning smile.

"My lord, I'm Walter," he said, unable to hide the tension in his voice.

"I'm the owner of this ship. These men are sailors I hired. I'm an honest merchant, the kind who pays taxes according to the law."

He paused and swept his gaze toward the bushes behind Ron. Five Fiona champions stood there, their bowstrings half drawn and their arrowheads glinting with a faint cold light.

Walter drew back his gaze and smiled again, forcing it wider until the flesh on his cheeks piled higher.

"You see, enough of my men and your soldiers have died already. Continuing will do neither side any good."

"Why not talk? I'd be happy to pay a tax to compensate you for your losses, my lord."

He stressed the word "tax," as though it could somehow change the nature of their relationship.

Ron did not answer.

He took a step forward. Walter instinctively retreated several steps, then realized what he had done and flushed with shame and anger. A dark red spread across his face, even deepening the color of his old scar.

But he did not dare reach for his weapon. The soldiers surrounding him watched warily, their meaning clear: touch a weapon, and they would skewer him full of holes.

Ron stopped at the edge of the spear formation. The soldiers moved their spears aside, and Ron stood in the gap, looking down at Walter.

"Talk? Good. I like negotiations. But shouldn't you show some sincerity before we negotiate?"

The moment Ron spoke, the beach suddenly fell silent.

Walter's Adam's apple bobbed behind his armored gorget.

"O-of course," he said. "I'm willing to pay the full value of all the cargo as tax. I have only one request—spare us."

Without waiting for Ron's answer, he gestured behind him. Two bandits carried over a wooden chest and set it heavily on the beach.

Walter gently opened the chest. It was filled to the brim with brand-new Nilfgaard florins, gleaming enticingly.

"I'm not from Nilfgaard. This ship is merely an ordinary merchant vessel. It isn't worth your concern, my lord."

He shifted half a step aside, fully exposing the chest of gold to Ron's view.

"As long as you agree, it's all yours."

Ron looked at him, and Walter looked at Ron.

"Have your men lay down their weapons. Then I'll consider it." Ron's voice was as calm as windless water.

Walter's hand hung at his side. His fingers curled, then relaxed.

He still wore a smile, but the warmth had vanished from it. Only the upward curve at the corners of his mouth remained on his face.

"My lord," he said, his voice lower than before, "let me tell you the truth."

"This ship is indeed a slave ship, and these men are indeed not sailors. But what does that have to do with me?"

His iron gauntlet dropped and patted his breastplate.

"I'm just the one who gets things done. The people above told me to sail the ship here. Why? I don't ask, and I don't want to know. The less you know, the longer you live. You surely understand that better than I do."

His voice steadied. "Kill me, and tomorrow they'll send someone else.

The ship will still sail the day after tomorrow, the cargo will still be transported, and nothing will change. How many people can you stop?"

He paused, as if swallowing, then raised one finger.

"Keep me alive, and I can provide you with equipment and intelligence. Which ship arrives when, how many people it carries—you'll know in advance. Ambush them if you want, avoid them if you want."

"I have connections in the Nilfgaard military camps. They're no great figures, but they know the news. Army movements, patrol routes, which areas have been searched heavily lately—

I can know all of it beforehand. You operate in Velen. Those things are worth more than gold."

"You see? Everything I've said is the truth." Walter spread both hands, palms upward.

He took half a step forward, his foot sinking into the sand with a faint crunch.

"But the weapons—"

He shook his head slowly. "I can't lay down my weapons."

His right hand dropped, not gripping the sword hilt, merely hanging beside it.

"I've lived for decades because I learned one thing."

He looked Ron in the eyes.

"Never put your life in someone else's hands."

"So, my lord, take the money. I can agree to the equipment right now. As for intelligence, give me a way to contact you, and I'll send it every half month. As long as you nod, all of it is yours."

"But I won't lay down my weapons. If you think we can still negotiate like this, then let's negotiate. If you think not..."

He did not finish.

Ron moved.

He did not draw a weapon. He merely took a step forward. Walter reacted half a beat too slowly, and Ron's hands were already on him.

Two enormous palms clamped onto either side of Walter's gorget. All ten fingers tightened, and the iron rings of Ron's chainmail gave a strained snapping sound as his arms exerted force.

Walter's eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. His hands shot up and seized Ron's forearms. His legs kicked against the ground, his iron boots gouging two pits into the sand.

But Ron's movements were not affected in the slightest. His arms tensed, and his hands twisted in opposite directions.

Crack!!

Ron let go.

Walter's corpse toppled backward, his expression frozen in disbelief.

Ron lowered his head and looked at the body.

Firelight flickered across his face, leaving half of it buried in shadow.

"First: I don't negotiate with dead men."

"Second: intelligence that can't be trusted is worse than none at all."

"Third: now that you're dead, the money and equipment are mine too."

Everyone on the beach froze. The recruits' spears remained pointed forward, their tips trembling faintly.

Erwin stood beside the chest, his glasses having slipped down the bridge of his nose. He did not even push them back up. Everyone was looking at him.

"What are you waiting for? I said leave no one alive!!"

Miko was the first to move. Spearpoints rose again, shields fell back into position, and spears crossed once more. Five groups went from stillness to advancing in a single breath.

The beach once again rang with clashing metal, spears piercing flesh, screams, and curses.

Ron stood beside the chest of gold, no longer looking at the corpse.

Behind him, only fire and blood remained on the beach.