They rode swiftly, following the trail and the distant clash of steel. As they crested the hill, the source of the disturbance came into view—a brutal skirmish unfolding below. Ten men were locked in combat, and around them lay a grim carpet of fallen bodies.
One group wore mismatched armor, their faces twisted with desperation and malice. The other, a smaller band of men clad in light chain armor fought valiantly but were clearly outnumbered.
Vera's eyes narrowed as she recognized the insignia on the armor of the smaller group of men. "I know that emblem. They're mercenaries."
"So we're going in?"
Vera nodded. "Let's flank them."
They dismounted, securing their horses to nearby trees before splitting up. Hamon slipped into the forest on the left, his soft boots barely rustling the leaf-covered ground. He moved with practiced ease, scanning the battlefield as he approached.
As he drew closer, he saw a bandit looming over a wounded mercenary, a sadistic grin spreading across his face as he raised his sword for the finishing blow.
Hamon didn't hesitate. With a fluid motion, he hurled his only weapon—his sword at the bandit.
The weapon flew through the air, catching the fading sunlight before burying itself deep in the bandit's throat. The man's twisted grin froze in place as he collapsed, gurgling, to the ground.
Another bandit turned at the sound, his eyes locking onto Hamon. He was a brute of a man, wielding a double-headed axe with the ease of a farmer holding a hoe.
Hamon had no weapon, but that didn't make him any less dangerous.
As the bandit charged, Hamon sidestepped at the last moment, sending a vicious kick to the man's kneecap. A sickening crunch echoed through the battlefield as the brute's leg buckled, sending him crashing forward.
Without hesitation, Hamon delivered a second, bone-shattering kick to the side of the falling man's skull. The bandit hit the ground, unmoving. The fight was over before it had even begun.
Retrieving his sword from the fallen bandit's neck, Hamon turned to find another enemy staring at him, frozen in place. The man had watched the entire exchange, his grip on his weapon trembling.
Seeing that the newcomer had taken out one of their own without breaking a sweat, the man took a cautious step back, his eyes darting around the scene for escape routes.
Hamon sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. "If you were going to attack, you should've done it while I was busy."
The bandit took another step back, his hand trembling as he tried to lift his sword.
"Drop it!" Vera's voice rang out. The bandit hesitated for only a moment before his sword clattered to the ground.
Vera emerged from the right, her blade slick with blood. Two more bandits lay at her feet, their lifeless bodies testament to her efficiency.
One of the remaining bandits, who didn't listen to Vera's word, seized the opportunity to lunge at Hamon from behind, sword poised to strike.
But Hamon had eyes in the back of his head, or so it seemed. He spun, deflecting the attack with the flat of his blade. The bandit's eyes went wide with shock just as Vera's dagger found its mark, embedding itself in his shoulder. He screamed, his weapon slipping from his grasp.
"Nice," Hamon remarked, giving Vera a thumbs-up.
She ignored him, her focus still on the battlefield. "Tie them up," she ordered, gesturing to the surrendered bandits.
Hamon found a length of rope nearby and set to work, securing the prisoners to the wheel of an overturned cart. The two surviving bandits exchanged panicked glances, fear painted across their faces.
Meanwhile, two mercenaries sat at Vera's side who appeared to be in good condition, panting and assessing their wounds, but still alive.
So, Hamon turned to the man he had saved earlier. The mercenary lay slumped against a tree, his armor rent, his chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths.
His condition was worse than Hamon had thought.
Blood trickled from his lips, each breath a struggle. A deep gash marred his stomach, his intestines spilling through the wound despite his desperate attempts to hold them in. It seemed he wouldn't last long.
.
When the guard saw Hamon kneeling beside him, he began to move his hand to tap his own heart, and his head nodded slowly at Hamon. His eyes conveyed a plea that required no words.
Hamon knew that look. He had seen this look many times before—it was the look of a man asking for his suffering to end.
"Alright," Hamon murmured. He reached for the man's own dagger and held it steady. "If you find your way to heaven, save me a seat, will you?"
The mercenary gave a weak nod before Hamon plunged the dagger into his heart.
The man jerked once, then twice, before going still. The light in his eyes faded, leaving only a vacant stare.
Hamon exhaled slowly, wiping the blade clean on the fallen soldier's cloak before sliding it back into its sheath. He rose to his feet, turning to find Vera watching him from a distance.
Their eyes met for a brief moment, and in her gaze, he saw a flicker of understanding—a silent acknowledgment of the necessity of his actions.
Without a word, Vera shifted her attention and strode toward the two surviving mercenaries. One was barely out of his twenties, his face pale from exhaustion, while the other was an older man with a scar running down his cheek.
"Thank you for your help, but… who are you?" the younger one croaked, his voice hoarse from battle.
"Veronica of House Everett," Vera replied curtly.
She tilted her head toward Hamon. "And this is Hamon."
The young mercenary eyes widened in recognition. "Lady Veronica? The Thorny Rose of Malicain?" he asked with a hint of awe.
"Thorny Rose?" Hamon turned to her, a slow amusement smile forming on his face. "I didn't know you had such a flashy title."
Vera's expression remained neutral, but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her irritation.
"Enough about me," she said briskly, turning back to the mercenary. "Tell me what happened here."
The survivor took a shaky breath, his eyes sweeping over the carnage. "We were hired to escort merchants and their supplies from Thoria to Twinhill. But the bandits ambushed us—they hit fast, like they knew exactly when and where we'd be. We fought back, but they outnumbered us."
As Vera listened, Hamon wandered toward one of the covered wagons, curiosity flickering in his eyes. He grabbed the edge of the tarp and yanked it back.
"Well, now this is interesting," he mused.
Beneath the fabric was an iron cage, large enough to hold several people. Though empty, the air inside reeked of fear and desperation. The door on the far side hung open, its lock broken and discarded on the ground.
Vera's gaze darkened. She turned back to the mercenaries, her voice sharp. "What exactly were these 'merchant supplies'?"
The younger mercenary visibly paled, his throat working as he swallowed hard. He glanced at the cage, then muttered, "It's… it's… slaves."
"They were battle slaves," the scar-faced mercenary cut in, his tone defensive. "Criminals. It's legal."
Vera's eyes narrowed at the man's words. "And what happened to them?"
Hamon crouched beside the broken lock, running his fingers over the deep gash. "They were taken," he said. "The lock was forced open—from the outside."
"That's right!" the younger mercenary piped up. "I saw them being led away by those guys." He jerked his chin toward the two bound bandits.
Vera's piercing gaze shifted to the captives. "Your group took them? Why?"
One of the bandits, the one who surrendered willingly, trembled under her stare, his eyes darting wildly. "I don't know!" he blurted out. "The boss told us to capture them and take them to the valley!"
Hamon and Vera exchanged glances at the mention of the valley.
"What the hell are you doing?!" the injured bandit snarled, shoving his companion with his shoulder. "Why are you telling them? The boss is going to kill us!"
"The boss?!" the first bandit shot back, his voice rising. "Are you blind? They're the ones who are going to kill us, you stupid fuck!"
"Silence!" Vera's voice cut through the air like a blade. She drew her sword, leveling it at them. "Are you from the western valley?"
The bandit with the injured shoulder looked ready to spit in her face, but the other, the one who had confessed earlier, nodded hastily. "Y-yes! We're from Fort Blackrock, under the command of Blackhand!"
"Blackrock? Blackhand? how creative," Hamon muttered, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
Vera remained unmoved, her blade still pointed at the trembling bandit. "Yesterday—did your group raid a convoy near Wildberry Village?"
The man swallowed hard. "N-no, not us, lady. There are many groups operating out of Fort Blackrock. Different bosses, different orders."
"Then who controls the fort?" Vera pressed.
The bandit shifted uncomfortably. "We don't know his real name… but we call him Lord Blackrock. Only our boss ever dealt with him."