"It was too far. I couldn't hear clearly, and I didn't dare get any closer."
"You really are a useless bastard," Number Two cursed, dissatisfied with the answer. Number Three also shot him a look of contempt. They didn't need to think hard to know that this man was a coward, that he had only survived by abandoning his comrades and fleeing at the first sign of trouble. Dismas could only offer a strained smile, lowering his head to avoid their gazes.
At that moment, one of the elite scouts finally made a discovery.
"Sirs! There's something over here."
The group hurried over. To one side, they found the skeletal remains of several limbs, gnawed clean of all flesh. The shattered white bones were covered in teeth marks. A femur had clearly been used as a chew toy by some wolf; the marks on it were even more distinct.
"These are wolf bites."
This discovery further solidified their belief. In this region, the only ones who could command a pack of wolves were the barbarians.
"I saw them heading in that direction," Dismas said, continuing to lead them on. "That's definitely not the way back to their camp."
He led them to the sites of the other camps that had been attacked. In each one, the men were all dead, with only bloodstains remaining, but no bodies. If it had been just one or two attacks, it could be explained. But for several brigand bands to be wiped out in a single night, and so silently, it immediately put them on high alert. If such an attack were to be launched against our own camp, they thought, could we withstand it?
At the same time, they all came to a unified conclusion: with so many bodies disappearing, those barbarians must have some kind of treasure. And Dismas, in their eyes, had now been vindicated.
"Well done," said Number Three. "Your information is very important. When we return, I will put in a good word for you with the Captain."
"Thank you, sirs," Dismas said, his face a mask of fawning gratitude. A wandering brigand was well-versed in such displays of weakness.
Having earned their approval, Dismas was no longer under their direct watch. His eyes were constantly scanning his surroundings. This was the site of another camp they had attacked the previous night. A small band like this had no ability to occupy a proper building, so they had simply cleared a patch of flat ground in the wilderness, erecting a few tattered canvas tents, with a bonfire and a cooking pot in the center. The surrounding area had been cleared to prevent night attacks from wild beasts, but it had not prevented an attack from men. The open environment of the camp and the dense forest not far away formed a landscape of two extremes.
Which meant that right now, these brigands were completely exposed.
Soon, Dismas saw something. His feet began to move, and he slowly retreated to the back of the group.
"Alright, let's head back," one of the leaders commanded, calling the scattered men back together. It was broad daylight, and they were in their own territory. The group was relatively relaxed.
At that moment, the cracking report of a gunshot erupted from the dense forest without warning. Dismas immediately threw himself to the ground, shouting, "Ah! I'm shot!"
The elites were different. The moment the shot rang out, the squad reacted instantly. "Spread out! Find cover!" their leader roared.
Several of the elites scattered, trying to reach the nearest tree trunks to use as cover and return fire. But the enemy's firepower was even more ferocious. Gunshots rang out one after another, like a string of firecrackers. Five of the ten elites were hit instantly. Some in the torso, others in the limbs, more than half the squad was instantly rendered combat-ineffective, left to writhe and scream on the ground. One unlucky soul was hit in the head and taken out immediately. In the end, they were only flesh and blood. No matter how elite, they could not outrun a bullet.
"Over there! Covering fire!" the two leaders shouted, raising their own pistols and firing into the forest. They couldn't see anyone; the shots were only meant to suppress the enemy and buy their men time to find cover. But now, they had all fired a round. It would take time to reload.
But from the distance, the gunshots continued, and two more elites were taken down.
"That's not the right amount of firepower," Number Three, the veteran, said. "They have at least six guns over there." He could easily judge the enemy's strength by how many shots were fired in thirty seconds. His own men were well-trained gunmen, but it still took them forty or fifty seconds to reload. The enemy's rate of fire was nonstop, as if they didn't even need to reload. To achieve that, you would need at least six guns and six proficient gunmen.
In the opening volley, before they had even seen the enemy, they had already lost six men. If they continued to fight like this, they would be annihilated.
"Second Brother, we have to break out now, before they reload, or we're finished!" Number Three shouted. "I'll cover you! Go!"
But when Number Two heard this, how could he bear it? "You go first! I'll hold them off!"
"Then take care, Second Brother!" Number Three shouted. He fired his just-reloaded pistol towards the forest and then, calling to the remaining men, broke in the opposite direction.
Number Two felt as if he had been tricked. I was just being polite, how could you take it seriously? Damn my stupid mouth! He had no real intention of staying behind. Seeing the others run, he immediately bolted in a different direction. How could he possibly hold off so many gunmen alone? To stay was to die. As for his brothers? Don't be ridiculous. They were deserters, brigands. Who among them wasn't trying to survive?
But the gunfire, which had momentarily subsided, now rang out again. The elites who had just broken cover fell one by one. Even Number Three was hit in the torso and tumbled to the ground. Number Two, on the other hand, managed to use the chaos to escape into the dense forest and disappear, along with two other lightly wounded survivors.
The intense, firecracker-like barrage of gunfire instantly ceased. For a time, the only sound was the agonized cries of the wounded. The opening engagement had lasted no more than two or three minutes. Those who had not been hit in a vital area would not die so quickly. But to be left alive was a torment, for there was no hope of survival.
The barrage had stopped, yes, but from the dense forest, single shots continued to ring out. It was like a roll call of the dead, a single, precise shot for each man, whether he was already a corpse or still alive. They could only watch as their helpless comrades were executed, and then wait for their own turn...
CRACK!
One of the elites, completely broken, used his own gun to commit suicide. His squad of more than ten men had been decimated without even seeing the enemy's face. He could not bear the immense pressure. Rather than wait to be called upon, he had chosen to do it himself.
Lance, who had been about to pull the trigger, suddenly paused. He was a bit taken aback by the man's actions. Really? he thought. With that kind of mental fortitude, what was he doing being a brigand?
He scoffed to himself, but his aim did not waver. He simply shifted to the next target. These were elites, and some wore armor. If he didn't finish them off now, what if one of them was just playing dead and took a shot at him when he got closer? He could not afford a reversal. He would rather waste a little time and powder.
CRACK!
Another shot rang out. An elite who had been painstakingly crawling, trying to escape the area, had a hole blown through his back and collapsed, motionless.
And at that moment, Number Three, who had been lying on the ground, stirred and began to climb to his feet.