Chapter 14: Chaos Erupts!
Five minutes earlier—
Odin stood with his back against a rough tree trunk, shadows swallowing more than half his body.
With the heightened perception granted by Insight Lv.1, he could roughly track everything unfolding nearby.
When Vargo called Urswyck away, Odin immediately sensed something amiss.
He never underestimated anyone. As he himself believed, women and children could afford carelessness—but not men. In a world where lives were cheaper than dirt, a single misstep could mean death.
Every word.
Every gesture.
All of it had to be measured—again and again.
He had expected Vargo to strike at the "traitor" immediately. But judging by the current situation, the man wasn't quite that foolish.
After a brief moment of thought, Odin inhaled deeply and stepped out of the shadows.
Waiting passively for fate to decide?
That was what idiots did.
If there was no opportunity—
Then he would create one.
Plan B — Activated.
As he walked forward, the timidity and servility of a peasant vanished completely from his face, replaced by an eerie calm.
He headed straight toward Zollo, the fat man gnawing on roasted meat beside the campfire, and extended a hand.
"Give me a roasted lamb leg."
The words weren't loud—but they were firm, unapologetic.
Zollo looked up, grease coating his round face, momentarily stunned—half-wondering if he'd misheard.
He recognized this farm-born doctor who had survived on luck alone. Sure, the captain needed him alive—for now—but that didn't mean the man could get uppity.
Seeing Odin's serious expression, Zollo snorted contemptuously.
"The lamb leg's for Captain Vargo, boy."
He casually grabbed a half-charred lamb's head from the rack—barely any meat left—and tossed it at Odin's feet.
"That's all you get. Take it and fuck off."
Odin didn't even glance at the lamb's head.
His gaze stayed locked on Zollo's face as he raised his voice slightly, repeating each word with deliberate emphasis:
"I. Want. The. Lamb. Leg."
The provocative tone instantly drew attention.
Several members of the Brave Companions stopped talking, turning to watch with interest.
A lowly peasant daring to challenge Zollo?
Had he lost his mind?
As expected, Odin's defiance sent Zollo into a rage. He sprang to his feet, hand flying to his sword hilt.
"You looking to die, you piece of shit?"
"I'll say this once—only the head! Keep yapping and I'll chop you up and roast you too!"
Spittle nearly sprayed onto Odin's face.
Yet to everyone's shock, the "peasant" didn't retreat.
He leaned into the confrontation.
"I'm eating lamb leg today."
"Fuck!"
Zollo snapped, ready to teach this insolent bastard a lesson—
But a faster shadow burst in from behind!
Bang!
A boot slammed into Odin's side, sending him crashing hard into the mud.
It was Iggo.
"I've had enough of you, you quack!"
The burly Dothraki warrior planted himself between Odin and Zollo, rage boiling over as he shouted:
"You didn't treat Captain Vargo properly! He's burning with fever because of you!"
"And now you want to steal the captain's food?"
"I'll kill you!"
Before anyone could react, Iggo drew the finely crafted longsword Vargo had given him and raised it high, ready to strike.
The sudden escalation even stunned Zollo.
Wait—
I was the one being challenged. Why are you losing your mind?
This wasn't your fight—
"Don't do it, Iggo!"
Although Zollo was furious as well, he still retained a shred of reason. Seeing that Iggo truly meant to strike, he instinctively stepped forward, reaching out to stop him.
"The captain's wound still needs this kid—"
His words cut off abruptly.
Because the longsword that seemed to be cleaving down toward Odin suddenly twisted mid-swing and drove straight into Zollo's completely unguarded throat!
"Ugh—"
Zollo's eyes bulged wide, filled with utter disbelief.
He tried to speak, but no sound came from his ruined throat. He stared at Iggo in incomprehension, utterly unable to understand why the blade had pierced him.
Iggo's face was expressionless.
With a sharp twist of his wrist, he yanked the sword free.
Warm blood erupted from Zollo's throat in a violent spray, and the body collapsed lifelessly to the ground.
It all happened too fast.
So fast that no one had time to react.
Songs stopped.
Laughter vanished.
Tankards froze mid-air.
Everyone stood dumbstruck, staring at the scene.
Why had Iggo—the captain's most trusted bodyguard—just killed one of the captain's closest lieutenants?
Then, in the dead silence, Iggo raised the blood-soaked sword high above his head and roared with all his strength:
"Long live the Brave Companions!!!"
---
The shout echoed through the woods like a spark thrown into a powder keg.
Rorge and Biter were the first to react—ecstasy exploding across their faces.
It worked!
By the Seven, even Iggo had been turned. The vice-captain truly was a genius!
The advantage was theirs!
On the other side, however, Timeon, Pyg, Togg Joth, and several veterans who had been secretly warned by Vargo were utterly confused.
The slogan was correct—but why had Iggo killed their own man?
Had the plan changed… or—
They had no time to think.
The instant Iggo's cry ended, Rorge, Biter, and the others—led by Iggo—had already drawn their weapons and charged straight at them!
Survival instincts kicked in. The veterans barely had time to draw their swords before steel crashed against steel.
Clang!
The sound of metal striking metal tore apart the fragile façade of peace within the Brave Companions.
Those who had been neutral, who had no idea what was happening, stared in shock.
A fight?
Why?
They didn't know the reason—but—
Iggo had shouted "Long live the Brave Companions!"
And he was the captain's most trusted guard.
If he had drawn his blade, then clearly Timeon and Pyg's group must be the traitors!
"Follow Iggo!"
"Kill the traitors!"
More voices joined the chaos, rushing into the fray.
The brawl spread like a disease.
In the confusion, blind obedience took over.
No one truly knew who the "traitors" were. They simply followed the strongest warrior, hacking at anyone who looked suspicious—or who moved half a beat too slow.
The camp became a battlefield.
Screams, furious roars, and the clash of steel merged into a symphony of death.
Firelight flickered, illuminating twisted, frenzied faces as warm blood splattered across the mud.
---
Meanwhile, beneath an oak tree far from the bonfires—
The moment the words "Long live the Brave Companions" rang out, Vargo Hoat and Urswyck both jolted.
The fake smiles they had barely managed to hold shattered instantly, replaced by pure fury.
"You fucking bastard—"
Vargo's face turned ashen. He instinctively reached for his sword, but weakness slowed him half a beat.
"Dog!"
Urswyck, ever alert, reacted faster.
The instant he heard the slogan, he was convinced Vargo had betrayed him and struck first. With a roar, the hand resting on his sword hilt surged forward—
Steel flashed as his blade shot straight toward Vargo's heart!
Vargo, a warrior who had even bent Dothraki to his will, reacted with remarkable speed. He threw himself backward, barely dodging the fatal thrust.
The sword tip only tore through his leather cuirass.
"Traitor!" Vargo howled as he finally drew his own weapon—a heavy broadsword. It wasn't as fine as the one he had given Iggo, but it was perfect for brutal chopping blows.
In the darkness of the clearing, the two men fell into a fight to the death.
Blades flashed.
Figures collided.
Each strike was thrown with full intent to kill.
Vargo's strength and experience remained—but the fever had drained his stamina, making his movements sluggish and unstable.
He gasped for breath, every inhale stabbing his lungs like needles. Sweat poured down his face, blurring his vision, and the broadsword felt impossibly heavy in his hands.
Urswyck, by contrast, fought like a slick eel.
He never met Vargo head-on, instead dodging and circling, exploiting his familiarity with Vargo's style to exhaust what little strength remained.
"Is this all you've got, Vargo Hoat?"
A bloody gash marked Urswyck's face, but his eyes burned with exhilaration.
"Where's the majesty of the 'Lord of Harrenhal'? Show it to me!"
As Vargo overextended after a heavy chop, Urswyck suddenly ducked low and slammed his shoulder into Vargo's chest.
"Ugh!"
Vargo staggered back. His already-weak footing collapsed, and he fell hard into the mud. The broadsword slipped from his grasp, skidding several paces away.
Seeing his chance, Urswyck lunged—
Only for Vargo to lash out with a desperate kick, smashing into Urswyck's wrist and sending his sword flying as well.
Seizing the moment, Vargo rolled and surged forward, pinning Urswyck beneath him.
His hands clamped around Urswyck's throat.
Then he lowered his head, bared his yellowed teeth, and bit savagely into Urswyck's face.
"AAAAHHH!!!"
Urswyck screamed as a chunk of flesh was torn free.
Pain drove him mad.
He clawed upward, fingers digging straight into Vargo's already-rotting ear wound, gouging deep.
Squch—
Putrid blood and rotten flesh spilled out.
Vargo screamed even louder, his body convulsing as agony tore straight through his nerves.
In the mud, the two highest-ranking men of the Brave Companions—once untouchable—now fought like animals competing for mating rights, using the ugliest, most primitive means to claim power and survival.
Swordsmanship.
Honor.
Dignity.
All of it had vanished.
Only raw instinct remained.
---
And above it all—
The true architect of this chaos had already climbed a crooked tree, sitting among the branches, quietly watching the carnage below with a satisfied smile.
"Heh… picked apples for over ten years."
"Finally paid off."