The Viking army marched across the land, carrying provisions and assorted supplies. In the afternoon, the sun's warm rays fell on their faces, bringing a pleasant drowsiness that made it all too tempting to stop, find a nearby tree, and lean beneath it for an hour or two of sleep.
These Vikings could do no such thing. They were urgently delivering their cargo to Sand City, where their leader Swinburne awaited. If they gave in to laziness and slept, delaying the shipment and causing trouble for their legion, Swinburne would chop off their hands and feet and throw them to the wolves.
The force was neither large nor tiny, numbering just five hundred. But these five hundred were not to be underestimated. They were elite troops from the Viking Legion that had occupied Xuan City. Fully armored, they could even tear venomous snakes or beehives apart without suffering injury, to say nothing of the many weapons at their waists and on their backs, gleaming with a cold, sinister light.
The horses and wagons moved without pause. Hooves and wheels pressed against the ground, rustling whenever they struck grass roots and gravel. Those sounds gathered together, enveloping the entire supply convoy and sending an endless, flowing wave of noise across the land they traversed.
On the horse at the very front sat a tall Viking who clearly looked like the commander. He was young and handsome, and his features carried a certain familiarity. He was none other than Idiveer's nephew-Croft.
He had fought one campaign after another, then happened to occupy the poorly defended Xuan City with the leader he followed. Under orders, he had remained stationed there ever since.
Only a few days earlier, after receiving a Flying Letter from Swinburne, had he learned to his shock that his uncle