Slaughter at the Camp

The guard's attention was drawn by the footsteps, and he headed in another direction. Ron slowly rose to his feet.

The entire dungeon darkened as a huge shadow covered half the wall, like a slowly rising giant.

The refugees instinctively shrank back. Someone sucked in a breath and buried their face in their knees, too afraid to look up. Chains pulled taut, and the wooden stakes groaned under the strain.

Ron took a deep breath and gave a violent tug with his right arm.

The wooden stake was ripped clean out of the wall. Rubble pattered onto the floor, and the iron ring fastening it in place was brutally torn free.

One end of the chain was still locked around his wrist, while the other remained attached to the shattered stake. He casually flung the stake away, leaving the chain hanging at his side.

The dungeon fell completely silent. Even the sound of breathing vanished for a moment.

Ron walked toward the dungeon exit, forced to duck slightly to pass through the doorway. Torchlight shone in from ahead.

The guard had his back to him.

The guard stood in the corridor outside the dungeon, head tilted as he listened to the commotion outside, his short sword half drawn.

His other hand rested on the horn at his waist. In the distance, the clash of metal grew increasingly frequent, mixed with orderly, rhythmic footsteps—the tremor of a shield wall advancing.

When Ron came within three steps of him, the torch cast Ron's shadow onto the wall before the guard.

The guard froze abruptly, his pupils constricting as he stared at the shadow covering the entire wall.

He spun around, his longsword flashing from its sheath, before the curse on his lips could even escape.

The chain cracked through the air.

The chain around Ron's wrist lashed out like a whip, its iron shackle carving a dark arc through the air before smashing into the guard's head.

The iron helmet was crushed flat in that instant, then sent flying. It spun twice through the air before striking the stone wall at the end of the corridor with a dull thud and rolling to the ground.

The guard did not even have time to scream before he toppled sideways like a felled wooden post.

Ron removed the keys from the man's belt and unlocked his shackles. He took the longsword from the guard's hand, holding it as though it were a dagger, then picked up the round wooden shield nearby. Its edge was cracked and its interior lined with thin iron plating, but it would do.

Footsteps came from the end of the corridor. The fully armored combat units had already breached the interior, and three groups were moving toward the main building where he was.

The bandit leader on the second floor had clearly heard the disturbance as well. Angry roars and curses came from overhead, accompanied by the crash of overturned tables and chairs.

Ron did not wait for his soldiers. He went upstairs alone.

The second floor was a converted council hall, likely once the sitting room of this abandoned manor. It was now covered in fur rugs, with maps spread across the table alongside scattered letters and wine flasks.

The bandit leader stood by the window. He was a burly middle-aged man in a cuirass, flanked by two guards equipped in the standard fashion with leather armor and longswords.

The bandit leader's expression shifted from anger to shock, then from shock to instinctive wariness. His gaze traveled from the top of Ron's head to his feet before returning to Ron's face.

"Who the fuck are you?" His voice held a hoarseness even he did not seem to notice.

Ron said nothing. His sword hung at his side, his round shield held before his chest. His shoulders were nearly as broad as the doorframe, and when he entered, it was like a carriage rolling into the room.

One guard charged first, thrusting straight at Ron's abdomen.

Ron sidestepped and drove the round shield sharply upward. Its rim struck the guard's jaw. The crack of breaking bone was brief and crisp. The guard's weapon flew from his hand and bounced twice across the floor, while he never rose again.

The second guard hesitated for half a second. The bandit leader shoved him aside, drew his sword, and gripped it with both hands, its tip aimed directly at Ron's throat. His form was textbook—he had been a soldier, or at least received formal training.

The blade cut down diagonally with a whistle of wind, murder blazing in the bandit leader's eyes.

Ron raised his sword to parry. The instant the blades collided, sparks scattered and the metallic ring echoed through the room.

The web of flesh between the bandit leader's thumb and forefinger split open from that one impact. Blood ran down the hilt, his entire right arm went numb, and he nearly lost his weapon. He stepped back, adjusted his balance, gripped the sword with both hands, and chopped down again.

But Ron did not give him a second chance.

He lowered himself, gathered strength, and drove his shoulder into the bandit leader's chest like a battering ram.

The momentum and weight of his entire body, his seven-foot-two height, his three hundred pounds, and the force of his charging acceleration made the bandit leader's breastplate cave inward in that instant. His feet left the ground, and he flew backward like a stone hurled from a catapult, crashing into the stone wall behind him.

Debris clattered across the floor. A web of radial cracks spread across the wall as the bandit leader slid down it into a sitting position, blood foam spilling from his mouth. The dented plates over his chest had sunk into his flesh.

Ron turned and walked out of the room. The courtyard had already fallen quiet.

Ron descended the stairs, crossed the hall, and pushed open the main building's doors. The torches in the courtyard were still burning.

More than a dozen bandit corpses lay scattered across the flagstones. Several bandits knelt against the wall, hands clasped over their heads, trembling as they watched the armored soldiers collecting weapons with a mixture of fear and bewilderment.

The cold-forged lamellar armor of the Empire's elite armored cavalry gleamed with a cold silver-gray light beneath the torches. Blood stained their faceplates, while blood still dripped from the lances and longswords in their hands. They stood in small groups around the courtyard, relaxed in posture but alert in gaze.

Six Fiona Champion Archers descended from the rooftops and arrow towers, longbows slung across their backs and more than half their arrows still remaining. Their movements were much lighter than those of the armored cavalry. They landed almost without a sound, standing together like a row of silent pines.

Ron stood on the steps outside the main building and swept his gaze over the courtyard.

Wherever his eyes passed, the kneeling bandits lowered their heads further. The rescued refugees—dozens of men, women, old people, and children released from the dungeon—huddled in a corner of the courtyard, looking at the soldiers with pleading eyes.

There was no gratitude in the refugees' eyes, only undisguised terror. They looked at these blood-soaked armored soldiers, expressionless behind their faceplates, as if they were seeing something more terrifying than bandits.

A gray-haired old man stepped out from the crowd. His legs were shaking, his knees nearly unable to bear his weight, yet he still came forward. He stopped before an armored cavalryman and fell to his knees.

"My lord..." The old man's voice was so hoarse it was nearly inaudible. "Please, please don't kill us. We have nothing—no money, no food. We're only farmers... please..."

The cavalryman lowered his head and looked at the old man kneeling by his feet. His eyes blinked behind the faceplate. He said nothing, not out of indifference, but because he did not know what to do.

He turned to look at Ron on the steps.

Ron was about to speak when someone else rose from the crowd.

The scholar.

His legs shook as he stood, but he took a deep breath, adjusted his crooked glasses, and began speaking in the tone of an academic report.

"Under Article Seven of the Northern Realms War Code, no regular military force may commit acts of violence against noncombatants outside a state of war. Furthermore, under the supplementary provisions of the Cintra Armistice signed in 1268 by the Nilfgaardian Empire and the Northern Kingdoms, rescued prisoners of war are entitled to temporary personal liberty, and neither party may enslave them again, whether directly or in disguised form."

His voice trembled, and he spoke quickly, as if desperately reciting the only thing he could rely on.

"I am Elwin von Held, Doctor of History at Oxenfurt University, member of the Oxenfurt Academic Association, and researcher for the Temerian Royal Historical Society. On the basis of the Northern Realms War Code and the Cintra Armistice, I demand an audience with your commanding officer."

He finished speaking.

The refugees huddled in the corner did not understand what he was saying—what codes, armistices, or provisions meant—but they understood this: negotiation. Someone was speaking for them.

The old man on his knees raised his head, and a faint glimmer appeared in his clouded eyes.

Ron stood on the steps, looking at the thin scholar standing between the refugees and the soldiers, like a slender thread trying to tether two cliffs.

He was about to speak.

Then the sound of metal plates clashing rose from every direction.

Sixteen elite armored soldiers turned at the same instant to face the steps. The scrape of iron armor merged into one sound as all sixteen bent down onto one knee, left hands braced on their swords and right fists pressed to their chests.

The six Fiona Champions moved more lightly and smoothly, yet with equal solemnity. Their longbows stood upright at their sides as they dropped to their right knees and lowered their heads.

Twenty-two voices spoke at once.

They were not loud, but every word was as clear as if carved into stone.

"Your Highness! We arrived too late. Please forgive us!!"

The night wind passed through the courtyard, carrying the lingering scent of blood.

Ron stood on the steps, looking at the soldiers kneeling before him and listening to the words "Your Highness" echo through the ruins.

Ron opened his mouth, intending to say something.

But as he looked at the figures kneeling in pools of blood, he saw the lingering fear in their eyes. He saw the cuts on the young cavalryman's shoulder armor. He saw the marks left by the Fionas, who had nearly jumped from the tower to reach his side as quickly as possible.

He fell silent for a moment.

"Rise." His voice was not loud, but everyone heard it.

"Take inventory of the supplies, gather the prisoners, and settle the civilians."

He paused, glancing at Elwin, who still stood where he was in the pose of someone who had just "demanded an audience with the supreme commander," his mouth slightly open and his expression both stunned and comical.

"Scholar, I need to have a proper talk with you."

Ron turned and walked up the steps, each heavy footfall producing a dull thud.

Behind him, twenty-two figures rose silently.