Chapter Sixty-Six: The Bloody Massacre

Bandits, as a group, are considered manageable within the borders of the country. There is even a saying about "raising bandits to maintain one's own importance," meaning if all the bandits were wiped out, there would be no need for mercenaries to provide protection, and business would dwindle. Of course, this notion is debated, and no official would ever admit it. While the regular army far outstrips the bandits in strength, the bandits are adept at hiding, constantly moving, and their numbers are as numerous as ants, appearing in mountains across the nation. Trying to eradicate every last ant is no easy feat.

There are rumors that many bandits are actually the private forces of certain nobles. According to the kingdom’s laws, nobles of any rank are forbidden from maintaining private armies. Household guards and equipment are strictly regulated, though controlling equipment is harder—after all, hiding a magical artifact at home isn’t difficult—but troop numbers are concrete. Some speculate that certain nobles deliberately nurture bands of bandits for their own ends.

Naturally, no noble would ever admit to this, and it remains mere speculation. With enough imagination, anything can be guessed.

In truth, a domestic bandit wielding an axe can easily masquerade as a woodcutter, making identification difficult. Their faces do not bear the word "bandit," and many bandits don’t even have a hideout; they rob by day and sleep in the city at night. Some cover their faces during a robbery, but most don’t bother. Who can remember so many faces? Sketching portraits and posting them at city gates? Ordinary people lack such skill.

Moreover, most bandits are poor, lazy, or petty criminals—a collection of incompetent folk who refuse honest work, or misfits who resent society. Occasionally, a talented individual falls into banditry, driven by unfulfilled ambitions, exclusion, or other reasons. Yet, these skilled bandits are typically the first to be eradicated.

Usually, during a robbery, there are tacit agreements between the bandits and the mercenary guards—a set of rules recognized by those in the trade. Domestic banditry does not resemble the blood-soaked chaos of novels, where bandits slaughter without restraint and mercenaries defend with reckless abandon, losing limbs and lives without hesitation.

In reality, despite the drawn blades and swinging axes, most disputes are settled with money.

Would a mercenary with a broken arm expect his comrades to support him? If every escort mission cost ten lives, a mercenary company of three hundred would soon be depleted. Recruitment isn’t that swift. The same goes for bandits—replenishing their numbers is even harder. If a single robbery results in heavy casualties, where will new recruits come from? Injuries can take weeks to heal, and during that time, their fighting strength is greatly diminished.

Exceptions do occur. New bandit groups, eager to make a name for themselves, may choose to fight, but only after thorough reconnaissance and careful preparation, such as laying ambushes. If their first battle ends in defeat and heavy losses, they’re finished. Some mercenary groups also fight for reputation.

Special cases arise—such as when a caravan transports goods so valuable that it could feed the bandits for years, or when it carries a particularly beautiful young woman. The bandits may be unable to resist and seize her for their own amusement. Such situations are rare.

Regardless, once both sides have earned their reputation, they prefer to resolve issues with money or peacefully. Reputation merely serves as leverage for future negotiations.

Of course, negotiations don’t always succeed. At such times, both sides may unleash their battle energy, comparing numbers and colors. If that fails, they compare equipment—typically the mercenaries, since bandit gear is often inferior.

For example, a mercenary might step forward and slice through an iron bar to demonstrate the sharpness of their weapon, hoping the bandits will take the hint. If not, then it’s down to single combat. Influenced by tales of chivalry, many bandits agree to this, though if cheating occurs during the duel, it devolves into a brawl.

This is the general process of banditry, and over time, a set of unwritten rules has emerged. With rules, matters proceed accordingly. Despite their fierce appearances, scarred faces, and murderous tone, bandits seldom attack en masse unless cheated in a duel.

Yet, some merchants believe in striking first. While negotiations are underway, they hurl stones and force both sides into combat. Such individuals are despised not only by bandits but also by mercenaries. Mercenaries cannot admit to having rules with bandits, lest they seem complicit in robbery. They can only insist, “Leave it to them! Let them handle it entirely!” Still, some self-proclaimed "experts" or "clever" types intervene, much to the mercenaries’ frustration.

All this applies when there are escorts. Some caravans, understanding the trade’s rules and wishing to save money, hire men to dress as mercenaries and brandish dull blades. Sometimes they manage to fool the bandits, but most often, bandits—seasoned veterans—can tell who’s a fighter and who isn’t. When discovered, the caravan is thoroughly plundered; reportedly, not even their undergarments are spared. If there are young women, they may be taken as well.

These are the circumstances in Loubolle, where the local bandits are known to be the weakest on the continent. Abroad, where there is no weapons ban, bandits don’t resort to robbery with mere woodcutting axes. In some chaotic regions, bandits are effectively local warlords—far from simple criminals.

Near the Karudia Hills, the bandits are newly formed, either migrants or followers of a suddenly-ascendant leader—no one knows. New bandits are usually eager to establish their reputation and often unfamiliar with the rules, so most mercenary companies are reluctant to take assignments in this area.

Therefore, anxious caravans either change routes, pay exorbitant fees for teleportation, or take risks by hiring a dozen bluffers to impersonate mercenaries. Or they simply wait—three months until the military intervenes.

Once the military steps in, there’s a strict policy of no compromise with bandits: they attack on sight, no questions asked. Bandits never dare to confront the military—the disparity is just too great. Bandits are half a tier below mercenaries, able to negotiate only because of their ferocity and numbers. Mercenaries, before the regular army, are nothing; their captains would strip and grovel. In front of the regulars, bandits are mere clowns.

Whenever the regular army moves, bandits receive word and avoid them. Yet, some caravans, relying on the military’s presence, travel without escorts, thinking bandits will flee—but they’re gravely mistaken. Bandits wait for these overconfident merchants, lurking nearby to strike anyone not accompanied by the army. This happens every time, and bandits often succeed, though merchants still take the risk.

Meanwhile, the commander of the Lightning Knights undertakes a task each time—usually just one or two men. From afar, they’re hard to spot. But bandits, too, gamble on luck: “There’s no way I’ll run into Commander Ode alone!”

But these incidents, seemingly random, are in fact inevitable—a general escorting a caravan will surely encounter a bandit gang. Fortunately, the bandit leader reacts swiftly, surrendering unconditionally, for at least in Loubolle, the regular army does not kill prisoners.

“Boss?” Some underlings are confused, while others, quicker on the uptake, squat beside their leader.

“Enough talking—squat down, we surrender!” the leader hisses. The underlings dare not disobey, tossing their axes aside, clutching their heads, and forming a row with their boss, as if relieving themselves by the roadside.

This situation gives the general a slight headache. If the bandits had attacked, he could have struck back and dealt with them easily. But here they are, surrendering cleanly in front of the entire caravan, making it awkward to massacre them. Escorting them back would be a bother; letting them go is inappropriate—he’s conflicted.

“You’re the bandit leader?” The general steps down and questions him.

“Yes.” The leader turns and kneels at the general’s feet.

“Where’s your hideout?” the general asks.

The leader hesitates.

“What’s this? You surrender, yet you won’t speak?” The general sneers.

The leader pauses, then suddenly looks up at the general, their eyes meeting for a moment. Then he bursts out laughing: “Ha ha ha! You almost fooled me! You put on a general’s uniform, and I’m supposed to be scared? Ha ha ha!”

The general says nothing, his face showing surprise—perhaps astonished at such stupidity. But the bandit interprets this as fear, grows even more brazen, and his underlings stand up. The leader rolls on the ground, snatches up his blade.

“Foolish old man!” He jeers, “If you were really a general, would I still be alive? Ha ha ha…”

Bang! A flash of violet light. The leader’s head drops to the ground, blood spurts everywhere, his sword snaps in two—no one saw how the general struck. He seemed to stand unmoving, but violet battle energy—Sword Saint, without doubt.

Thud! The headless corpse remains upright for a moment before slowly collapsing, raising a cloud of dust.

Several merchants feel their stomachs churn and begin retching. The once-standing underlings freeze, statuesque. Finally, one quick-witted underling resumes his squat, clutching his head; the others, awakening from their daze, likewise sink into a row.

This time, however, they are trembling, hands gripping their heads in terror, tears streaming from many eyes.

“Let the caravan proceed.” The general calls to them, then leaps back onto his wagon, turning to his guard: “Go, tie up everyone down there and take them to town.”

“Yes!” The guard leaps down.

“Make sure they’re tied tight.” The general makes a chopping gesture with his hand, which to others looks like nothing more than a twitch.

“Yes.” The guard replies again. All the general’s guards are extraordinary, equipped with spatial rings. He produces a mass of rope with ease and begins to tie the bandits one by one.

The caravan moves on. Many merchants have never witnessed death firsthand; their feelings are complicated, and the caravan is silent. Kevin, at the rear, doesn’t know what happened up front; but as his wagon passes, he sees the general’s guard still tying up bandits.

“Kevin,” the guard calls, “come help, there are too many.”

Kevin looks ahead, thinks that with the general escorting, his absence won’t matter, and climbs down, taking rope and joining in. Up close, Kevin notices these bandits are malnourished, most bare-chested, unequipped. Kevin isn’t boasting—at his current strength, he could easily handle three or five of them in a fight.

The caravan moves away. Kevin, not skilled at tying people, works slowly; this time, there are sixty or seventy bandits—a major task for two people.

Suddenly, one underling shouts, “Run!”

By now, over sixty are bound, only a dozen remain. Seeing the general depart, the bandits finally lose their fear—with such numbers, surely they can escape? Unfortunately, when binding many people, the method is always to link them together. As sixty try to run, they trip and tangle, falling into a heap. Only the last few, not yet tied, manage to flee.

Swish! Swish! Both Kevin and the guard draw their swords. The guard, ruthless, chases one down and slashes him in two with yellow battle energy. The brutality momentarily stuns Kevin.

“If bandits try to escape, kill them!” the guard orders. He pursues and slays two more in quick succession.

Though shaken, Kevin instinctively gives chase, quickly catching up to one. At the critical moment, he does not hesitate—gritting his teeth, he slashes, blood sprays, a scream erupts. Kevin turns away and pursues another.

The two easily overtake five, killing them instantly. Still, a few get away, scrambling up the hillside; once over the ridge, pursuit becomes difficult. The guard immediately draws his bow and shoots one down, rolling him off the slope. The others ignore this, climbing madly.

Kevin jumps onto the catapult, skillfully adjusts its aim, loads three stones, and fires. The catapult had been kept loaded for instant action, and at such close range, it’s possible to load extra stones, sacrificing distance for accuracy.

Even so, hitting at close range is luck—but Kevin is not aiming at the bandits themselves, but at the ground ahead.

Three stones land on the slope and roll down, triggering a small rockslide. The bandits’ climb becomes treacherous, their speed slows, and the guard fires arrows in quick succession, finishing off the escapees.

Turning back, the bound bandits sit helplessly on the ground, unable to stand due to the ropes linking them. Seeing the guard approach, sword in hand, they panic: “We’re not running! We’re really not running!” “I surrender! I surrender!” “I’ll do hard labor! Be a slave, anything!”...

Slash! Slash! Slash! The guard ignores their pleas, his blade falling—heads roll, blood floods the earth. The bandits scream, panic, go mad, but none escape death.

Kevin stands stunned.

When all is quiet, the guard calmly sheathes his sword, turning to Kevin, his armor stained crimson. “What’s the surprise? You just killed someone yourself.”

Kevin sighs, glancing at the carnage. “Is this… the general’s order?”

“Hmph!” The guard snorts, “What’s the point of sparing bandits? They’re nothing but trouble.”

Kevin remains silent.

“Don’t act so fragile—like a woman,” the guard wipes his face. “When we return, tell the general the bandits rebelled, and we had no choice but to strike them down. Understood?”

Kevin, helpless, nods.

“Hm? Someone survived?” The guard notices a distant figure, once struck by his arrow, moving faintly.

“Die!” The guard grabs a stone and hurls it at the donkey’s rump. The three donkeys pulling the catapult, startled, lurch forward, rolling the catapult over the playing-dead bandit. Blood spurts from his mouth, bones crack audibly.

“Hah…” The guard chuckles, then seeing Kevin’s grim expression, adopts a serious tone. “All right, we’re done. Mind if I ride with you?”

“Not at all.” Kevin, resigned, lets the guard aboard, and they set off to catch up with the general and the caravan.

Moments later, the bandit second-in-command waits in the hideout, receiving no reply from his scouts. He leads his men out to investigate. Seeing the field of corpses, he is nearly overwhelmed by shock.

“Second, look—there’s one alive!” an underling calls. Though the man’s waist is nearly flattened, he may still know something.

The second-in-command rushes over, kneeling, “Tell me! Who? Who did this?”

The dying bandit trembles, spreading five fingers: “Five… heavy… wheels…”

His hand falls, spent. The second-in-command and his men repeat his final words, exchanging terror-stricken glances.