With a grimace, Hamon grabbed a ragged cloth from a nearby table and wiped the blood from his face, only to smear it further across his cheeks. The sight was grisly, but it couldn't conceal the glint of satisfaction in his eyes.
Vera stepped into the tent, her gaze sweeping over the carnage. The thick stench of blood clung to the air, mingling with the smoke from the dying fire. The bandit leader, Madeyes, lay slumped on the ground, his crotch a mangled ruin of flesh and gore. Nearby, the spear guard sprawled lifeless, his throat gaping open.
"You're quite the artist, Hamon," she said dryly, her eyes returning to him.
"Thanks for the compliment." Hamon tossed the blood-soaked cloth aside and stepped toward her. "But this is hardly a real art."
"What happened here?" she asked, her voice steady, though her hand never left the hilt of her sword.
Hamon pointed at Madeyes's corpse. "He wanted me to suck him."
Vera's eyebrow arched. "Suck him?"
"Yeah." He gestured to the severed organ stuffed in Madeyes's mouth. "But I figured it was only fair that he did it himself."
Vera didn't respond. She didn't move or flinch—just stared at him.
Hamon studied her reaction, then smiled. "What? Too much for you?"
Her gaze remained cold and steady. "Yes. Far too much."
He shrugged. "Well, maybe I'll be more gentle next time."
A tense silence settled between them. Hamon's smile lingered, but his eyes searched hers, looking for judgment, disgust—anything. Instead, he found only detached assessment.
Vera sighed and turned her attention to the trembling figure in the corner of the tent. "Who is he?"
Hamon followed her gaze to Wallace, who had witnessed the entire ordeal, his face pale with horror.
"Our ticket into the fort," Hamon answered casually.
The young man flinched as he realized he was now the center of attention. "W-What do you want with me?"
"Your name is Wallace, right?" Hamon asked.
Wallace nodded frantically, his wide eyes locked on the bloodstained man before him.
"Blackhand—is he your brother?"
"Y-Yes," Wallace whimpered.
"So that's the reason they're attacking the slave merchants," Vera murmured, glancing at the chain marks on Wallace's wrists and ankles.
"Exactly. Which means he has some value." Hamon inclined his head slightly, his gaze still fixed on the trembling boy.
"Speaking of slaves…" Vera's eyes flicked toward the tent flaps, where muffled sobs and whispered prayers of fear drifted from outside. "What are you planning to do with them?"
Hamon turned to follow her gaze. "What do you suggest?"
"We can't just leave them there. The smell of blood is going to turn this place into hell real fast."
"Good point," The scent of fresh death would draw predators soon enough, and the captives wouldn't stand a chance—even if they were locked in iron cages.
Hamon had done inhuman things, but leaving people to be torn apart like helpless prey? That was a bit much. Unless, of course, one of them really got on his nerves. Then, maybe, his stomach would toughen up.
After finding a set of keys in Madeyes's pocket, Vera and Hamon left the tent, dragging Wallace behind them by a rope tied around his wrists. He stumbled along, his eyes darting nervously between his captors.
Their path was clear. The surviving bandits had either fled or were too terrified to stand in their way.
Hamon approached the cages, eyes narrowing as he took in the trembling figures trapped inside.
"Were they planning to use them as human chess pieces?" he remarked. "Because that's the only battle I think they'd have a chance of winning."
"I was wondering the same thing." Vera nodded.
The sight before them was grim. Inside the cages, half the captives were old men, their skin stretched taut over frail, skeletal frames, their eyes dulled by suffering. The younger ones weren't in much better shape—thin, malnourished bodies wrapped in tattered rags, their faces hollow with exhaustion.
There were four wagons in total, each packed with at least ten prisoners.
Hamon raised an eyebrow as Vera moved from cage to cage, her expression unreadable. She studied the faces of the captives carefully, as if committing every feature to memory.
When she finally returned to his side, she shouted, "Everyone!"
The hushed murmurs died instantly. All eyes turned to her—some filled with fear, others flickering with curiosity.
"Are you all criminals?" she asked, her tone carrying across the silent camp.
A heavy stillness followed. Only the sound of ragged breathing and the occasional cough broke the silence. Some prisoners averted their gazes, eyes dropping to the ground in a universal gesture of guilt.
"If you are, speak now!" Vera's voice was firm, commanding.
An old man at the front of one of the cages slowly raised his hand, his weary eyes meeting her. "We are."
A chorus of voices erupted in response.
"What are you saying?!"
"I'm not! I didn't do anything!"
"I owed them money, and they threw me in here!"
"I killed a man in self-defense! They said I'd be hanged if I didn't confess!"
Their voices echoed through the night, as the slave's cries grew louder, each one pleading their innocence or confessing their crimes. The shadows twirled around the cages, as the warm glow of the fire flickered across their faces, revealing the raw mix of fear and hope burning in their eyes.
"Silence!" Hamon uttered.
His voice was low, but the weight behind it crushed the noise in an instant. They stared at him, wide-eyed and fearful. The quiet was so profound that even the crackling of the campfire seemed to hold its breath.
Getting their attention back, Vera continued, "I don't care right now whether you're criminals or not." She paused as she stepped along the cages. "Because I've memorized every one of your faces—every scar, every line, every detail. So if any of you ever choose to walk the path of a criminal in the future…"
She stopped, her gaze sweeping over them like a blade.
"…I will cut you down the moment I see you again."
The light gleamed in her eyes as she let her words settle.
"So, please… don't make me regret releasing you tonight."
Hamon glanced at Vera. She certainly knew how to leave an impression—no grand promises, no naive talk of redemption, just a warning sharpened like a blade. Still, he wondered how much of her words had truly sunk into their heads.
Well, at least she was willing to take responsibility for her decision. He himself would have flipped a coin and let fate sort things out, by itself.
Vera stepped forward, selecting the first key and inserting it into the lock of the nearest cage. Yet, she didn't turn it. Instead, she moved to the next cage, repeating the process—her gaze never leaving the captives.
Once she had finished, she turned and walked back toward Hamon.
"Let's go," she said.
"Alright." Hamon gave Wallace's rope a tug, pulling him along as they made their way out of the bandit camp, heading toward the horses hidden in the forest.
As they walked, Hamon remarked. "Nice speech you gave back there."
"It may not be effective," Vera replied, her voice calm, "but if a few speeches can save a life, then I wouldn't mind giving a hundred more."
…
The moon hung high in the sky, casting a silver glow over the forest as they finally found a suitable place to rest after an hour of riding. The clearing was free of underbrush, with towering trees standing like silent sentinels around them, providing a natural barricade.
After securing their horses, they unpacked their supplies. The crackling of firewood as it caught flame was a welcome sound amidst the quiet whispers of the night.
Hamon sat with his back against a tree, his gaze fixed on the sizzling meat roasting over the fire. On the way here, he had stopped by a small pond to wash the blood from his skin and hair, scrubbing until the water turned crimson. Yet the scent of metal still clung to him, stubborn and unyielding.
Across from him, Vera sat cleaning her sword, wiping the blade with a rag in smooth, practiced motions. The cloth glided over the steel, erasing the last traces of battle. Her eyes were distant, lost in thought as she worked.
Breaking the silence, Hamon spoke. "So, does your kingdom plan to hire outside forces to deal with the empire?"
Vera paused, her gaze snapping up to meet his. "That was always the plan. Plenty have already offered their services."
"That was to be expected. Malicain have always been famous for their gold." Hamon nodded. Their wealth was no secret—their lands were rich in resources: gold, silver, iron, and gems. Their merchants reached every corner of the world, even the far north, separated from the rest by vast seas and towering mountains.
Yet, despite their wealth, Malicain had always chosen to maintain their prosperity through trade and diplomacy rather than conquest and bloodshed. Their wealth is their strength—it's what makes so many willing to fight for them when the need arises. After all, they can afford the best soldiers, the best armies. Why build their own when they can simply buy one?
However, there was a flaw in that line of thinking.
In Hamon's eyes, you couldn't expect much from men who fought for coin rather than cause. He knew that better than anyone—because he was one of them.
"Is that why you're here? For our gold too?" Vera asked, her eyes studying him closely.
"What else could it be?" He smiled. For the past six years, since he left the north, that was how he had been—following the scent of the wind aimlessly. Wherever it took him, that's where he went. The whispers of war, the cries of the oppressed, the sweet scent of gold, and the bitter scent of blood—he had followed them all without question.