The night was pitch black, yet the moonlight was bright enough to clearly see the details on people's faces.
The messenger felt his body tremble like a withered leaf in the wind. If not for Arthur's two soldiers propping him up and forcing him forward, he felt he would collapse at any moment. But he wasn't grateful, because the cold touch of their clothes through his rough cloth reminded him of the price of speaking out of turn.
Escorted by the High Mountain Brotherhood, they moved quietly and swiftly, in silence, like the mountain wind.
The first bandit camp was perched on a high slope, with a few sharpened wooden stakes forming a crude fence. Firelight danced behind the palisade, illuminating some lazy figures.
The messenger was squeezed between the two soldiers, who tried to make him stand straight, but it was useless; he was as soft as a puddle of mud.
The messenger took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice to avoid trembling and giving himself away, all for the sake of survival. But the voice that finally came out was still hoarse and distorted with fear: "Open the gate! It's me!"
A head peered out from behind the palisade, recognized him by the firelight, and grumbled, "My lord? Why are you back so soon?"
"Lord Laig's orders. The forces in the High Mountain must converge, otherwise, they won't be able to pose a threat to Arthur... that stinky... Black Lion." The messenger recited the lines he had been forced to memorize, each word scraping his throat like a knife.
The heavy wooden gate creaked and groaned, slowly opening inward, just a narrow gap wide enough for one person to pass through.
The soldiers holding the messenger suddenly shoved him forward. Losing his balance, the messenger instantly stumbled forward with a cry of pain. The figures behind him moved.
The soldiers surged forward, kicking the gate several times while others rammed it with their bodies. The gate was forced open.
The bandit, who had been knocked to the ground by the gate's powerful inward swing, looked at the group of people in front of him with a baffled and angry expression. Before he could even get up and start cursing, his mouth hung open in shock.
There were no shouts, no roars, only the sharp hiss of blades cutting through the air and the sound of them being drawn from their scabbards.
He couldn't curse. A longsword was thrust into his gaping mouth, piercing his throat. He clutched his neck, gurgling with bloody foam, and fell backward.
Arthur raised his hand in the distant darkness and gave a slight wave.
Another twenty soldiers sprang out of the woods like hunting dogs pursuing their prey, their footsteps rustling on the fallen leaves.
They rushed through the open gate, joining their brothers ahead, and pounced on those who looked at them with confusion—some still dozing by the campfire, some even raising their drinks and boasting.
Those in their sleep had their throats slit directly. Those drinking were kicked over, and the cold blade ended their last moments of intoxication.
This was a massacre, not a battle. Blood splattered on the campfire, sizzling and giving off a burnt, bloody smell.
Everything ended quickly, so quickly that even screams were suppressed in their throats.
The same method was employed again at the second stronghold.
It was a treacherous gorge, with its only entrance squeezed between two High Mountains.
The messenger, this key, once again opened the door of death for the bandits inside. There was no need for anyone to prop him up; this time, the messenger was well-practiced and performed perfectly.
The continuous victories came too easily, and the soldiers' breaths carried a hint of light excitement. They wiped the blood from their swords.
Their eyes showed disdain for the bandits, and in their confidence, they hoped to quickly rush to the next camp for slaughter. The lives of the bandits were military achievements, land, and the future of their own families.
Arthur calmly watched the soldiers wiping blood from their blades, treating others' lives like livestock. This was good; soldiers must know what they are fighting for and why they are fighting. Everyone must have a goal.
They were not forced onto the battlefield but went willingly. Such an army is vastly different from one forced into battle; it is a true army of tigers and wolves.
When the eager soldiers arrived at the third target, which was the camp of the three bandit groups according to the messenger, everyone excitedly felt that this was merely a repetition of a slaughter they had already mastered.
The messenger introduced the place to Arthur, saying it was called "Offshore Cliff." As the name suggested, the terrain was as if a giant had cleaved it from the mountain with an axe. The cliff face was steep and smooth, with a bottomless torrent below, its roaring water swallowing all sounds.
There was only one path up the mountain, so narrow that only two people could walk abreast.
Arthur said nothing. Hakon looked at the natural barrier before him, his brow slightly furrowed, but it soon relaxed. Even the strongest fortress is just an ordinary door when opened from the inside. He now had great confidence in himself and Lord Arthur's soldiers.
"Have the soldiers in the middle bring up some shields," Arthur ordered, waving his hand towards the treacherous path.
"Yes!" Though Hakon was a little confused, Lord Arthur's orders were to be strictly followed.
Hakon patted the messenger's back, the force causing the messenger to stumble. Hakon's tone was relaxed, yet carried a hint of threatening command:
"Go on, just like the last two times."
The messenger's face was paler than the torrent below the cliff. He shuffled his leaden legs and walked to the heavy wooden door.
Though his voice trembled uncontrollably, practice made perfect, and his performance was far better than the first time.
"O-open... open the gate... It's me!"
"This is Mad Dog's troop! I've persuaded them to join you!"
Behind the door, there was dead silence, only the roaring water from the cliff below.
After a long while, a palm-sized peephole on the door snapped open.
A pair of wary eyes scanned them in the darkness. The gaze felt like it belonged to a very strong person, and its probing back and forth made the messenger shiver.
A deep, resonant voice came from behind the door, clearly overpowering the sound of the torrent:
"Where's Mad Dog? Tell him to come out and speak."
The messenger's heart suddenly stopped, trembling slightly, but Hakon nudged him forward.
The messenger cursed inwardly, Mad Dog, that damn idiot's head was still in Arthur's camp.
His throat was dry, his lips trembling, and he managed to squeeze out a few words: "Mad... Mad Dog... is bringing his property here from behind."
"Hurry up and open the gate, you idiot! Stop talking nonsense! I still have to report back to Willowwood City!"
"Bringing property?" The voice behind the door let out a cold laugh, full of disdain and mockery. "Mad Dog?"
Suddenly, a figure as burly as a bear appeared on the parapet.
Silhouetted against the moonlight, he looked like a giant black bear, holding a massive longbow, his eyes like torches, locked onto the messenger below.
"Didn't you go to Mad Dog to deliver a message?" The voice boomed like thunder, full of oppressive power, belonging to the same person who had spoken earlier. "My men reported that his camp was ablaze."
"Speak! Who did you bring?!"
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