Leon, riding a spare horse provided by Asena, was guiding the throng that drifted steadily toward the camp's entrance. Asena had donned her helmet once more and was riding right beside him. Although the metallic structure of the helm muffled her voice slightly, it still retained its graceful cadence as she asked in a curious tone,
"Are there any other Khuzaits in your camp besides us?"
Leon shook his head slightly from side to side without ever taking his eyes off the road.
"No, there aren't."
Receiving this answer, Asena fell silent for a brief moment before murmuring with a thoughtful demeanor.
"I see... So they aren't here."
This mysterious attitude caught Leon's attention; he turned his head and looked at her.
"Are you looking for someone?"
Asena confirmed, staring ahead through the visor of her helmet at some indistinct point in the distance.
"I am looking for my brother and my cousins."
Leon's eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"Are they in this world as well?"
"Yes,"
Asena replied, the anxiety in her voice much more pronounced this time.
"Frankly, I am worried about them. My brother Bamsı is incredibly reckless; you never know what he might do or when he might do it. Knowing that Doğan and Altay are by his side brings me at least a sliver of comfort."
Leon weighed the situation in his mind before speaking in a calm, reassuring tone.
"It seems they are currently with Lord Igris. That means Igris prefers not to send everyone to the exact same place all at once."
Asena let out a deep sigh, appearing to accept this logical explanation.
"He probably knew you were in the midst of a war here. He sent us specifically so we could support you."
"And I am incredibly glad he did,"
Leon said, his expression filled with genuine gratitude.
"We were facing a severe shortage of both infantry and cavalry; your arrival will completely shift the balance."
Asena gave a gentle nod.
"Even so, you have managed to hold this place together quite well on your own. I honestly wonder, did you have a reputation back in our own world?"
Faced with this question, Leon sank into a brief silence as the heavy shadows of his old days in Calradia passed over his face.
"I suppose you could say I had quite the reputation... But it doesn't matter anymore. I left that life behind long ago. In this world, I have different, much more peaceful ambitions. Like reuniting with my family, and then opening a modest little blacksmith shop to enjoy a true retirement... I am genuinely exhausted from the wars and the endless bloodshed, Asena..."
Following those words, Asena did not speak again. She may not have been an Imperial noble, but when the empire shattered, she had seen firsthand what a terrifying monster war could become. In just two short years, hundreds of minor conflicts had erupted, and it was the ordinary people of the Empire—struggling against both foreign invaders and each other—who had suffered the greatest agony. In shared silence, the two of them continued to lead the massive crowd trailing behind them toward the campsite.
-Apollo's Front-
"...Truly, this has been a complete surprise."
Apollo stood on the slope of the hill he had designated as an ambush point, gazing down in sheer bewilderment at the horde flooding into the valley. At first glance, seeing the approaching mass, he had assumed it was a Orc raid; but now, faced with the actual sight before him, he was left utterly speechless. He couldn't help but mutter to himself.
"When I get back, I need to have a word with Axel so he can start brewing something strong for Leon's impending headaches..."
Immediately afterward, he gave thanks, immensely satisfied with his current position.
'Thank the heavens I am not the commander; I could never weather this absolute chaos. It is an unbelievably stressful job! We only just regained our youth, but looking at this scene, I could swear new wrinkles are about to carve themselves into Leon's face.'
Operating on pure reflex, his hand went to his own face, gently prodding his cheeks and forehead.
'...I don't have any wrinkles, do I?'
Right at that moment, Apollo watched the approach of a blond, remarkably burly, and heavily muscled young man. The man strode up, stopped dead in front of Apollo, and began to look him up and down with measuring, deeply condescending eyes. After a thorough visual inspection, he loudly hocked up a glob of phlegm and spat it on the ground right next to Apollo's boots. While the militia standing behind Apollo exchanged shocked and bewildered glances, the stranger spoke in a harsh, abrasive tone.
"I certainly never expected to cross paths with an Imperial bastard."
Apollo was not the sort of man to back down from such an insult; he replied with a mocking, razor-sharp smirk.
"And I didn't anticipate stumbling across a wandering horde of Sturgian barbarians."
The disdain in the blond man's eyes did not waver.
"We have come to join the ranks of Lord Igris."
Apollo folded his arms across his chest, adopting a perfectly calm demeanor.
"You've come to the right place. How many of you are there?"
The man glanced briefly back at the crowd behind him before returning his gaze to Apollo.
"A little over a hundred."
Apollo nodded, his tone shifting to something more conciliatory.
"Look, my friend, I am no longer bound to the Empire, and you are no longer bound to Sturgia. Those kingdoms don't exist in this world, and their rules or enmities don't apply to us here. We both share the same purpose for being in this place, which means we have to find a way to work together. Lord Igris is not here right now, and it will take some time for him to arrive. Therefore, let us call a truce, at least until he gets back. What do you say?"
The man paused for a moment, weighing the offer in his mind. Finding it logical, he let out a heavy sigh and extended his hand.
"I am Loki, son of Ostraw."
Apollo gripped his hand with matching solemnity.
"Apollo, son of Agis."
As the two shook hands, they both applied a competitive amount of crushing force, though neither allowed the sheer exertion to show on their faces. The newly arrived Sturgians were generally at a novice level; in fact, by Warband standards, they could easily be classified as mere "peasants." They carried nothing but basic carving knives or simple hatchets at their belts, and their garments were tattered and worn. Yet, they all shared the same fierce temperament, ruggedly muscular builds, and distinctive blue clothing. Once the handshake concluded, Apollo gestured to one of the militiamen standing nearby.
"Take these friends to the campsite. And tell Maximus to report this situation to Leon immediately."
The militiaman nodded briskly and turned to Loki.
"Follow me, Mr. Loki."
Loki scrutinized the young man for a fleeting moment. In the boy's eyes, he saw the cold, unyielding gleam of a warrior who had seen real battle and knew the metallic scent of blood. Though his clothes were ragged, his posture mirrored that of a disciplined, seasoned veteran. For someone raised in the Viking culture, this was a clear sign worthy of respect. Loki gave a curt nod and, signaling his followers, fell into step behind the militiaman.
As the soldiers watched the sea of blue recede into the distance, one of them couldn't hold back his curiosity.
"Are those men from your era, Commander?"
Apollo sighed heavily.
"Yes... Keeping those guys under control might truly prove to be a nightmare."
He continued to mutter under his breath.
"Still, thank the gods there are no Battanians or Khuzaits down in the camp, otherwise, things would spiral completely out of hand."
Suddenly, another voice rang out from behind him.
"Commander, another group is approaching!"
Apollo spun around, utterly bewildered.
"Orcs?"
For a brief, tense moment, everyone stood on high alert, but the approaching group consisted of only six people—making it highly unlikely that they were an Orc raiding party. After a second of thought, Apollo looked puzzled.
"Reinforcements?"
As he was pondering this, one of the militiamen suddenly broke ranks and began sprinting downhill. Apollo was stunned.
"Hey, wait!"
But the militiaman didn't listen; he kept running straight toward the newcomers. One figure from the arriving group also sprinted forward. Apollo instantly raised his crossbow, but another militiaman stepped directly into his line of fire.
"Commander, stop! They are Swadians!"
Apollo halted in sheer astonishment as the militiaman and the newcomer collided in a fierce, joyful embrace. Realizing what was happening, Apollo slowly lowered his crossbow and muttered to himself.
"So many surprises today, huh..."
When the Swadians crested the hill, they looked around at the disciplined militia standing guard. The militia, in turn, looked back at them; both sides were thrilled to see familiar faces from the same lost kingdom. A Swadian infantryman with a long, unkempt beard stepped forward and stopped right in front of Apollo.
"I am Andros of the Swadian Infantry. Are you the commander of this unit?"
Apollo nodded. Making a swift decision for the sake of his old friend Leon, he decided to keep the Swadian infantrymen by his side for the time being. He would send a runner to inform Leon later.
'At least I can lighten your burden a little, my friend... Good luck dealing with the Sturgians.'
As Apollo silently prayed for Leon's physical and mental well-being, he turned to converse with the newest arrivals.
-About an Hour Later-
"You must be kidding me, right? Wasn't this new world supposed to be a beautiful, fresh beginning? I honestly thought I had been handed a grand opportunity."
Leon was clutching his forehead, suffering from a violently throbbing headache as he stared at the scene before him in absolute, soul-crushing disappointment. Every single corner of the camp was like a lit powder keg: The Khergits had clustered in one area, glaring with pure, unadulterated hatred at the Swadians, Sarranids, and Vaegirs; the Sarranids, in turn, were returning that venomous hostility toward the Khergits and Swadians. The Swadian militia were shooting daggers at the Vaegirs and everyone else, while the newly arrived Sturgians were already locked in vicious verbal altercations with the Imperial crossbowmen and the Khuzaits.
And the only person currently sitting atop this massive powder keg was the camp's temporary commander: Leon. For a long, agonizing moment, he had no idea what to say or even which faction to try and placate first. He turned slowly to Asena, who was waiting silently by his side.
"Would you have any interest in being the camp commander, Asena?"
Asena flinched visibly, looking first at Leon and then back at the chaotic, seething mob before them. She answered with absolute, unyielding resolve.
"Keep me entirely out of this, Leon."
Leon let out a breath so deep it seemed to deflate his very soul; his shoulders slumped in defeat. Standing nearby, Maximus was watching the entire debacle with an expression caught perfectly between roaring laughter and weeping. He patted Leon on the back in a mockingly comforting manner.
"I have complete and utter faith that you can handle this, my friend. Just know that we are right behind you."
Leon turned to Maximus, his eyes utterly dead and devoid of emotion.
"Instead of standing behind me, would you care to stand right in front of me?"
Pretending he hadn't heard the question at all, Maximus suddenly shouted toward the back of the camp.
"Junes! Why did you need to see me? I'm coming right now!"
Staring blankly at the retreating back of his fleeing colleague, Leon tilted his head up and began watching the clouds drift by with a deeply melancholic expression.
"...I am eagerly anticipating your return, Lord Igris. Please, make haste."
-That Same Night / Rivendell-
Igris had concluded his private meeting with Galadriel and had seamlessly blended back into the group to continue their journey. He was in the middle of a light conversation with the twins when, after riding for a few minutes, they stumbled upon Gilan, who had three tightly bound figures secured at his feet.
"I see you haven't been idle either."
Gilan merely shrugged, offering a relaxed and deeply unbothered reply.
"It was child's play. Honestly, I'm slowly beginning to doubt the true capabilities of the assassins in this world."
Igris smiled faintly.
"That's coming from a former Ranger commander who is well over a hundred years old. My friend, aside from the elite soldiers of the Elves, there are very few ordinary warriors who could possibly measure up to you. The true elites of the Red Scorpions don't bother with mundane errands or simple espionage. These fools are slightly above average, at absolute best."
He then cast a scrutinizing glance over the bruised, bloodied faces of the Scorpions, noting how Gilan had firmly gagged them to prevent any suicide attempts.
"Why did you rough them up so badly?"
Gilan gave an unhappy, irritated shrug.
"They ruined the perfectly pleasant coffee break I was enjoying with Halt and my little apprentices."
Igris fell silent for a moment. He was genuinely surprised that a man as rigorously disciplined as Gilan would take something so personally.
"...I would have expected you to remain far calmer. You've been quite a solemn, level-headed man ever since you took up the mantle of commander."
A fleeting shadow of profound sorrow crossed Gilan's eyes, and he spoke with a heavy, melancholic voice.
"When my apprenticeship ended, Halt and I began to see far less of each other. Later, we formed the special task force and went on great adventures together, but when he finally retired and I took on the heavy burden of command, we couldn't spend any proper time together at all... And when that dark day finally came, we never had the chance again."
Gilan shot the Red Scorpions a brief, loaded glare and then fell silent. Igris understood exactly what his friend meant; he was speaking of the irreplaceable, echoing void left behind by Halt's death. Even though Igris did not know the exact details of how Halt had passed—since he had never gotten the chance to read the books to the very end—he could acutely feel the man's lingering pain. Drawing a deep breath, Igris turned back to the group waiting behind him.
"Zerinya, pick some men to keep these rats under control."
Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Galadriel; the ancient Elf didn't seem particularly engaged, her vast mind clearly occupied with her own intricate matters. While Zerinya stepped forward to select her men, Gilan looked over the expanded group.
"So, these are the new additions to the team."
"Yes," Igris replied.
"But the Elves will stay in Rivendell. They are not in a state of mind to endure the hardships of this arduous journey."
Gilan nodded in firm agreement. Bringing his fingers to his lips, he let out a long, piercingly high whistle. Moments later, his loyal steed trotted up to his side. With a fluid, agile motion, Gilan vaulted into the saddle and fell into step alongside Igris.
"By the way,"
Gilan remarked, his horse keeping perfect pace with Igris's mount.
"We might not function as harmoniously as a group anymore."
"What do you mean by that?"
"That new woman... She looks like she's going to be a bit of trouble."
Igris blinked, his eyes widening in sudden confusion. He glanced back at Ciri, who was riding just behind them; feeling his gaze, she tilted her head to the side, shooting him a completely bewildered and innocent look. Igris quickly turned back to Gilan.
"Which woman?"
"The Nord one. Matheld."
The moment the name registered, Igris froze perfectly still atop his horse. In the midst of all the chaos, he had completely, entirely forgotten about that particular woman. He dragged a heavy hand down his face and let out a long, suffering sigh.
"Ah... She completely slipped my mind. What is your first impression of her?"
Gilan didn't answer immediately. He took a moment to ponder before delivering a single, damning sentence.
"She will get along spectacularly well with the Dwarves."
For Igris, that one sentence summarized absolutely everything he needed to know. Matheld was headstrong, stubborn and had a temper. Trusting implicitly in Gilan's razor-sharp observational skills, Igris could already feel the heavy throb of a new headache taking root.
As they continued on their path in contemplative silence, the majestic entrance to Rivendell finally came into view. Upon entering the valley and riding into the courtyard, they immediately noticed the anxious crowd waiting to receive them. At the very forefront stood a deeply worried Celebrian, a frantic Arwen, and Elrond, who maintained his customary stoic composure. Arwen and Celebrian instantly surged forward, rushing toward the stretchers bearing the wounded twins. Elrohir, who had been quietly gazing up at the sky, offered a faint, tired smile when he saw his mother.
"Mother... Arwen... It is so good to see you."
Arwen rushed over to the other stretcher, kneeling beside Elladan. Her older brother's eyes were open, but he was staring vacantly into the void. Upon noticing Arwen, he attempted to let out a weak, rattling chuckle. Arwen let out a shaky breath of relief and tenderly stroked her brother's pale cheek, but the moment she caught sight of the thick, blood-soaked bandages wrapping his chest, she could no longer hold back her tears.
At that moment, Elrond also let out a deep, exhale, the relief washing over him at the sight of his sons still drawing breath. Giving his wife and daughter the space they so needed, he approached Galadriel and spoke in Quenya, the noble and ancient dialect of the Elves.
"I am profoundly grateful for your help, My Lady."
Galadriel replied with ethereal grace.
"There's no need for that, Elrond, they are my grandchildren too. Besides, it was the Black Knight himself who recognized the situation early and took action to ensure their safety."
His gaze shifted to Igris, who was glaring at Gandalf, who was perched on his horse in the corner, observing the situation and smoking his pipe. After looking at the old man for a moment and muttering to herself, Igris sighed and turned her horse towards the stables; he didn't want to be a part of these sentimental moments. he had taken only a few steps when she heard Elrond's voice.
"Igris."
Igris stopped and glanced over his shoulder. Seeing Elrond deliberately approaching him, he immediately dismounted. In Igris's culture, speaking from the back of a horse to someone standing on the ground was considered a blatant declaration of superiority; driven by the respect he held for Elrond, he dismounted at once. Even though Elrond and the others were entirely unaware of this specific cultural nuance, Igris applied the rule without hesitation. He then turned to Shadowmane and spoke softly.
"You go on ahead."
The horse, weary from the journey, happily trotted away. As Elrond closed the distance, he spoke in a measured, sincere tone.
"I want to thank you for coming to the aid of my sons."
Always deeply uncomfortable with this kind of direct praise, Igris rubbed the back of his neck with an almost childish sense of bashfulness.
"There is truly no need for that, Lord Elrond... We are already friends. They acted as older brothers to me during our adventure and helped me immensely with refining my sword techniques. So, I would have rushed to their aid regardless of the circumstances; there is absolutely nothing to thank me for."
Elrond looked at the humble young man before him with admiration.
"I am indebted to you nonetheless. I cannot even begin to imagine the horrors that would have befallen them had they been captured alive."
Igris paused for a moment, giving a solemn nod. Then, desperate to escape the spotlight, he quickly fabricated an excuse.
"I understand... Now, if you'll excuse me, I really need to go and check on my team. The new members are a bit restless, and I should make sure they aren't stirring up any trouble."
Elrond smiled knowingly, understanding the young warrior's deep discomfort with the attention.
"Of course. But let us speak in greater detail later. We will decide upon your proper reward then."
Giving a stiff nod, Igris turned on his heel and walked away with rapid, sweeping strides, his ears burning a faint shade of red. He thoroughly disliked this specific emotion; it made him feel awkwardly exposed. He didn't help people to fish for compliments or gather accolades; he did it simply because it was the right thing to do. He harbored a deep-seated fear that the joy and pride he felt when praised by others might eventually sour into arrogance and a hollow lust for fame. Now, receiving such high praise from a figure as legendary as Elrond, he felt an undeniable wave of pleasure and pride ripple through him. This disturbed him greatly, for arrogance was a trait he truly despised. Letting out a long, stabilizing breath, he forced his mind away from what had just transpired and walked calmly toward the specialized quarters the Elves had prepared for the Oakenshield company.
Elrond lingered for a moment, watching Igris's retreating back, before turning around to face Zerinya and her men.
"I am grateful for your assistance. My men will escort you; please, go and rest. After I have attended to my family, I will meet with you again."
Zerinya bowed her head in thanks and signaled for the prisoners to be brought forward. Eight heavily armed men dragged the three battered assassins and the Dread Lord forward, forcing them violently to their knees at Elrond's feet. Elrond cast a brief, sweeping look over the group, but the moment his eyes locked onto the Dark Elf, his gaze turned as cold and unforgiving as glacial ice.
"I certainly did not expect you scum to be operating this actively within Middle-earth. Where you found the sheer audacity to lay your hands upon my family, I genuinely wonder."
The Dread Lord sneered up at Elrond with an expression of pure, unadulterated contempt, yet he refused to utter a single word. Zerinya stepped forward to provide the necessary context.
"Lord Elrond, this man is no ordinary foot soldier. He is a Dread Lord."
Hearing this dark, terrible title, a wave of profound shock rippled through the gathered Elves, and even Gandalf, watching from the periphery, was taken aback. Gandalf took a long, slow drag from his pipe, his eyes drifting toward the direction Igris had disappeared into. He thought to himself:
'So... was he actually right about the Dark Elves?'
Just then, Galadriel's ancient, echoing voice resonated directly within his mind:
'It remains uncertain... But this young man is a far greater variable than we initially believed. On our journey here, he revealed some rather intriguing things about himself to me, Mithrandir.'
Gandalf frowned, while Elrond regained control of the situation and gave orders to his men:
"Take the prisoners to the dungeons. Keep at least two guards watching over them. Inform Lindir to place the strongest protective spells in the prison cells."
As the Elven commander roughly hauled the prisoners up to drag them away, the Dread Lord turned, spat a glob of blood right at Elrond's feet, and let out a chilling, mocking smirk. Even as a guard delivered a brutal strike to his back to force him forward, the dark creature called out one final time.
"Keep thinking you've won, Lord of Rivendell! Kekekekeke..."
As this dark laugh echoed through the courtyard, the faces of the White Council members grew even more grim. The guards led the prisoners into the darkness and disappeared from sight. Elrond, meanwhile, slowly made his way towards his family.