Chapter Sixty-Seven: An Unexpected Encounter with the Crow

Kevin and the general’s guard pursued the merchant caravan in a stone thrower, rolling along the road. The caravan’s pace was slow, but the stone thrower wasn’t much faster; catching up would take time. Seated together, neither spoke for a while.

No matter what, Kevin found it difficult to accept the guard's outright slaughter. Even if the others were bandits, they had surrendered, their hands bound, and had lost all ability to resist. To massacre them in that state seemed profoundly inhumane. Of course, everyone had their way of doing things; Kevin couldn’t argue that hauling the bandits back would be any more useful, nor that putting them in prison or giving them a trial was necessarily more reasonable. Perhaps soldiers who had seen battle were simply accustomed to blunt, straightforward orders—killing was the easiest solution, leaving no loose ends.

But Kevin, a bard at heart, could hardly stomach such methods. The general's guard, in some ways, reflected the general's own temperament. When the guard killed, he wore a smile—quickly suppressed, but not unnoticed by Kevin. He could guess, to some extent, what kind of person the general was.

Kevin kept these thoughts to himself, quietly calculating in his mind. To voice them would only invite ridicule from the guard. Their ways of thinking were so different, conversation was nearly impossible.

He wondered, if the general ever ordered him to carry out a similar command, what would he do? After much pondering, it seemed he could only grit his teeth and obey.

By dusk, the stone thrower finally caught up with the merchant caravan, taking position at the rear. The guard stood up and jogged ahead to report to the general. He was still covered in blood, his path marked by a strong stench; the merchants frowned, but said nothing.

“General,” the guard saluted, “on the way back with the prisoners, the bandits attempted to resist. I cooperated with Kevin and we dispatched all of them.”

“Good,” the general nodded, “come rest.”

The guard sat beside the general, who snapped his fingers in the air. A patrol parrot swooped down, landing steadily on the general’s hand, wing poised in a gesture of greeting: “General!”

“Notify the city gate security to take care of the bodies,” the general ordered.

“Understood.” The parrot saluted, then sped off toward the city gate.

The rest of the journey passed without incident. Around sunset, the caravan reached their first destination safely. The escorting was far from finished—the merchants would travel this road for about three days, and they had only arrived at the first waystation.

The merchants expertly set up camp, unpacked food, lit fires, and gathered together with laughter and conversation. The general was, inevitably, the focus of their flattery. Even if he had no direct interest in their business, merchants were accustomed to currying favor with powerful figures—it never hurt to build connections; who knew when they might need them?

Polite as ever, the merchants offered a variety of food: “Come, General, have some chicken!” “General, drink some wine!” “General, wipe your mouth!”...

Though the general killed without blinking, once familiar, he seemed approachable enough for conversation. Their talk ranged far and wide; merchants needed to seize opportunities and understand the broader situation. Listening to the general’s analysis, they felt enlightened.

The general’s guard set up the general’s tent, while Kevin tinkered with his stone thrower. There was little to truly adjust, but he busied himself for appearance’s sake. He couldn’t simply sit with the general—rank made that inappropriate, and the general hadn’t invited him. Nor did he wish to help the guard with the tent; such sycophancy would be suited to someone like Stardart, but Kevin couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Still, standing idle would make him stand out too much, so he fussed over the stone thrower. That night, he planned to sleep atop it; the weather was dry, so a mat would suffice.

“General! The tent is ready,” the guard reported, now in clean clothes with all traces of blood washed away.

“That’s enough for today,” the general rose, “Rest up, everyone, we have an early start tomorrow.”

The merchants offered no objection, dispersing to their own tents. No night watch was needed—such a powerful general meant any disturbance would be noticed immediately. With such a protector, everyone slept soundly.

But Kevin couldn’t fall asleep easily. The bloody events of the day weighed on his mind, leaving him unsettled, and he hadn’t been particularly tired from the journey.

He lay in the stone thrower for a while, still wide awake, so he sat up. The moon was large tonight, bathing the landscape in silvery light. Hills formed dark silhouettes behind him, while ahead stretched endless plains beneath the shining moon and glittering stars—a fine scene.

Suddenly, a crow flew overhead, calling loudly, eventually settling atop the stone thrower’s frame. Kevin instinctively looked up, and the crow looked down at him; they stared at each other for a long time, neither moving. Kevin regarded the crow as part of the scenery, but as for why the crow remained motionless, he had no idea.

Then a parrot swooped down, landing beside the crow and scolding, “You dumb bird! Get lost! You’ll wake everyone up!”

The crow retorted defiantly, “Caw... caw caw...”

“Still not leaving? Want me to beat you up?” The parrot flapped its wings, threatening to peck. The crow, larger than the parrot, wouldn’t normally be intimidated; it beat its wings, ready for a fight.

Kevin immediately stood, casting a magic missile to help out—the parrot was one of their own, after all. The crow dodged deftly, but was startled and quickly flew off.

The parrot saluted Kevin, “Thank you, sir!”

“You’re welcome,” Kevin replied, always fond of parrots, even if some were particularly arrogant.

“Why aren’t you sleeping, sir?” The parrot landed on Kevin’s shoulder.

Kevin smiled, “Getting old—insomnia.”

The parrot tilted its head at him, then shook it, “I still don’t quite understand human language. Well, I have to keep patrolling. See you!”

“Right.” Kevin nodded, watching as the parrot soared into the night sky and disappeared.

Suddenly, footsteps sounded nearby. Turning, Kevin saw the general had left his tent and was walking toward him. Kevin hurriedly climbed down and saluted quietly, so as not to wake anyone: “General!”

“Mm.” The general nodded, strolling over.

“General, why aren’t you sleeping?” Kevin asked.

The general glanced at him, “Getting old—insomnia.”

Kevin: “...”

“And you? Insomnia at your young age?” The general casually examined the stone thrower, then sat atop it.

Without an order, Kevin dared not sit with the general, remaining upright below: “General, I... am worried about the next mission, so I couldn’t sleep.”

“Is that so?” The general patted the spot beside him, “Come sit.”

“Yes.” Kevin obeyed, sitting beside the general. It was the first time he’d had such a close conversation; other officers probably hadn’t experienced anything similar.

The general looked over the stone thrower’s structure, “My guard reports your stone thrower performed well—stopped several bandits.”

“Yes.” Kevin wasn’t sure whether to be humble or to thank him, so kept his answer brief.

“Don’t think we’re targeting you,” the general reassured, “A general like me has no reason to target a junior officer. We know you face difficulties, but you’re also a soldier. As a soldier, you overcome difficulties—there’s no excuse for that. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Kevin was obliged to show respect, being lectured in the middle of the night.

“You think being a general means I have no difficulties?” the general continued conversationally, “Every year we’re assigned quotas, given targets, and in red-blue army drills we almost always lose more than we win. What do we do? Complain all day? As a soldier, you’re ordered to hold a position—even without a weapon, if you’re sent, you must go. That’s what being a soldier means. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Kevin could only agree once more.

“You’re doing well now,” the general said, offering approval, “The stone thrower meets standards, and you operate it solo. I have little to criticize.”

“You flatter me, General,” Kevin replied modestly.

“What’s your next plan?” the general asked.

“Next, I plan to inscribe a hardening spell on the stone thrower to improve precision. I want to introduce more ammunition types. I also hope to have my own communication parrot, so I can stay in touch with the main force. Ideally, I could collect my own rations, cook confidently, and not have to always rely on other units’ mess halls,” Kevin shared his true thoughts.

The general: “...”

“Of course, if possible, I’d like to increase the number of stone throwers and recruit new soldiers. With only one, it’s hard to achieve much.” Kevin added, “But that depends on the army’s development strategy—it’s just my hope.”

“Good plan,” the general nodded, “To implement it, you need to prove your worth. Next year’s red-blue army drills are coming—if you make some achievements, I can allocate funds to you with justification. Agreed?”

“Yes.” Kevin nodded.

Afterward, silence settled again, the mood a bit cold. Kevin pondered, then broke it with a casual question: “Earlier, a crow flew by. Are they common around here?”

The general didn’t mind, “Not sure.”

“Where there are corpses, are crows always present?” Kevin asked cautiously.

“Not necessarily,” the general answered, unconcerned, “Crows don’t only eat carrion; they also eat seeds and insects. Many writers see them as symbols of death, but they’re simply black birds.”

“Oh.” Kevin nodded.

“In fact, crows are even smarter than parrots,” the general informed him, “The Royal Academy has detailed research; crows are the most intelligent known birds, excluding magical beasts. They use tools and learn. With training, they can even speak human language. There was a long debate at the Academy over whether to train parrots or crows as messengers.”

“Oh.” Kevin hadn’t known this, listening and learning.

“In the end, parrots were chosen, because they live much longer. Well-cared-for parrots can live sixty to seventy years, sometimes more than a hundred, while crows usually make it ten to twenty years. For long-term planning, parrots were best,” the general explained. “Ultimately, these birds only serve to convey messages—they don’t need to be too intelligent. Too much intelligence can be a problem.”

Kevin remained silent, accepting the general’s words.

“But sometimes, be cautious when you spot birds,” the general advised, “They might be familiars of other mages, or enemy scouts.”

“Yes.” Kevin nodded.

“All right, that’s enough for tonight,” the general rose, “Rest well—we travel early tomorrow.”

“Yes.” Kevin also stood, watching the general return to his tent. Kevin had hoped mentioning the crow would prompt the general to comment on the guard’s slaughter, but perhaps he’d been too subtle; the general hadn’t noticed, and instead gave him a lesson about crows.

Never mind, Kevin thought, lying down to rest.

When he woke, the caravan was already preparing breakfast and packing up tents. Seeing everyone busy, Kevin didn’t want to stand idle, so he kept fussing with his stone thrower, pretending to be occupied.

Breakfast was two flatbreads for everyone, including the general. After eating, they set off, and anyone slow could eat while walking.

A short while later, a parrot flew down to warn Kevin, “Careful, you’re being followed. About thirty people, carrying axes.”

Kevin nodded, alert, but didn’t look back—he positioned himself behind the stone thrower’s frame to guard against arrows from behind.

All day, the group behind followed at a distance, never attacking. When the caravan stopped at the next waystation, the followers withdrew.

That evening, the general summoned Kevin and his guard: “If they follow again tomorrow, you two take the initiative—wipe them out.”

“Yes,” the guard replied instantly.

“Yes,” Kevin echoed, a beat slower but still accepting the order.

“Go rest,” the general dismissed him without concern.

Another uneventful night passed. On the third day, as the caravan moved forward, the same group appeared behind them, as the parrot confirmed.

Following orders, Kevin halted the stone thrower and turned it to face the rear. The general’s guard joined him, sword drawn, ready for action.

“They’re in those woods,” the parrot said, swooping overhead.

“Let’s fire the stone thrower at the woods first. Kill as many as possible,” the guard suggested.

Kevin sighed, “In the woods, the stone thrower won’t do much—unless we use fire oil rounds.”

“Then let’s go in and kill them directly!” The guard’s method was as blunt as ever. “I’ll go in and slaughter them. You guard the outside—take out anyone who escapes, use arrows or whatever you like.”

“Wait,” Kevin protested, “We don’t even know who they are...”

“Bandits, who else?” the guard replied.

“But even city constables warn troublemakers multiple times before attacking, and with foreigners near the border, they’re warned repeatedly before force is used. Why do we kill immediately here?” Kevin still couldn’t accept such brutality.

“Hmph,” the guard sneered, “Don’t tell me—tell the general.”

Kevin fell silent.

“I’m going in; you keep watch,” the guard said, sword in hand, and strode into the woods. Instantly, screams and curses echoed, flashes of blood and fierce yellow battle energy flared. The general’s guard was a sixth-rank warrior, while most bandits were mere peasants, only a few wielding red battle energy. Their skills and gear were no match.

The guard slaughtered them with ease, slicing through them like vegetables. After a moment, several terrified bandits fled from the woods onto the road. Kevin sighed, drew his bow, and reminded himself these men deserved their fate, nothing to regret.

His archery was mediocre—barely passable on stationary targets, and against these scrambling bandits, he could only guarantee a hit, rarely striking vital spots. Bandits fell, but crawled forward in agony.

Sweat beaded on Kevin’s brow as he shot again, hitting backsides, arms, shoulders, waists; none died quickly, their suffering prolonged.

“Well,” the guard emerged covered in blood, “Didn’t expect you’d enjoy tormenting them like that. That’s a bit twisted.”

Kevin said nothing, stepped closer, and shot each bandit in the head, finally finishing them off. He demonstrated in action: he wasn’t sadistic, just a poor marksman.

The guard laughed but said no more. The two climbed onto the stone thrower and rejoined the caravan.

From then on, nothing else went wrong. The caravan reached its destination safely, and paid the general and Kevin twenty gold coins each. Kevin, now with broader horizons, felt twenty coins were paltry—other mercenary groups escorting a caravan of dozens would expect much more. No wonder the task had languished for three months without takers.

On the return journey, Kevin parted ways with the general. The general and his guard mounted swift horses, and Kevin bid them farewell, watching until they vanished from sight before slowly heading back in his stone thrower.

Passing through the woods, he saw a flock of crows circling overhead. One landed atop the stone thrower and stared at him a moment.

Kevin recalled the ambush he’d faced on the frontier at the hands of Labozier’s kingdom, when the assassin guild’s leader rescued him, leaving a field of corpses, with crows swirling overhead. One had followed him for quite a while. Could it be the same one he saw now?

He studied it closely, but noticed nothing special. Raising his hand in greeting, “Hey.”

The crow was startled and flew away instantly.