The narrow road echoed with misery.
Horse cries and wails blended into one haunting chorus—but not a single sound came from the captives.
Hidden among the trees, Matthew watched them in silence, his breath steady as he began a mental countdown.
When he reached ten, he pulled the trigger again, firing straight at the farthest man in sight.
Absolute confidence.
The bolt screamed through the air and buried itself squarely in the target's skull, splattering blood that trailed down like the red comb of a rooster.
The man fell backward, eyes still open, frozen in confused disbelief.
He didn't even understand why he had to die.
But that was the point—kill one to warn the others.
Matthew calmly reloaded his crossbow, letting the crisp twang of the string echo outward.
Once ready, his eyes swept over the remaining captives as he began another countdown.
He wanted to crush whatever defiance lingered in their minds and show the mercenaries just how ruthless he could be.
Otherwise, all this would have been for nothing.
By now, the five men trembling before him looked like their legs were made of noodles.
They hadn't expected someone who killed so casually—no pretense of chivalry, no hesitation.
They were honestly terrified.
People are like that—when death stares them in the face, they always hope their enemy plays by the rules.
But Matthew wasn't any different from them.
When he was the butcher, he showed no mercy.
After the next count of ten, he fired again. Another man dropped.
Matthew frowned at the spattering blood, momentarily speechless—but he reloaded, unfazed.
Finally, the captives broke.
"We… we surrender! We'll cooperate…"
Their tongues tripped over the words, but they got them out.
Matthew smiled, pleased with the effect of his crossbow.
After blowing across the weapon, he turned to Bors, the man holding the heavy gun.
"Bors, take some men to check these new friends—make sure they've got the right gear on. I'm getting tired of looking at this mess."
Human suffering never really connects between people.
The mercenaries burst out laughing and crowded forward, eager to join in the fun.
Even old Bernas couldn't resist and joined with a laugh.
Soon the narrow path was packed with curious onlookers.
Morty watched them quietly, glancing around from time to time.
When he saw no one behind him, he smiled and began slowly backing away.
No party lasts forever.
With the Davos father and son now safe, Morty figured it was time to chase his own fortune elsewhere.
He moved carefully—step by step—slipping toward the forest's edge.
No one noticed.
Everyone was too busy taunting the prisoners, pointing and jeering.
The more humiliated the captives looked, the louder the mercenaries laughed.
Soon a full circle had formed, layers of mocking eyes pressing down like a heavy weight on the captives' chests.
None dared move.
At the tree line, Matthew stood in plain view, crossbow raised, daring them to try.
The captives caught his mocking smile and stayed perfectly still.
Just as the noise peaked, a dark blur burst from the trees to the left.
Little Fishy tumbled out, shouting in panic, "Brother! Morty's running!"
Matthew's expression darkened. He lowered his weapon and snapped, "Which way?"
"West!" Little Fishy pointed.
Without another word, Matthew barked, "Sir Haven! Bors! With me!"
Then he vaulted down the slope and charged into the forest.
Haven and Bors scrambled after him.
Bors used his spear to cut through the brush as they ran. "What's his deal? Isn't he one of yours?"
Haven didn't answer.
Technically, he wasn't under Matthew's command either.
After all, he was a knight—it wasn't easy to pledge loyalty to a nameless, landless bastard.
Seeing his silence, Bors frowned slightly but let it go, pushing forward through the thorns to keep pace.
Ahead, Matthew ran like the wind.
He was unnaturally quick, every step sure and smooth through the undergrowth, his sharp instincts guiding his way.
He read the forest easily, following faint tracks without losing direction—better to take time now than waste it chasing blind.
Once on the right trail, he accelerated again, legs spinning like wheels.
He leaped slopes, hacked through brambles, always taking the fastest path.
Before long, he caught up.
Morty was almost out of the woods when Matthew's voice cut through the air.
"Hey—you going somewhere?"
A bolt whistled past Morty's head and slammed into a crooked tree, vibrating loudly.
Morty froze, touching his hair, heart pounding.
Matthew reloaded as he walked closer.
"Morty, leaving without a word? That puts me in a tough spot."
He'd thought Morty had potential—but he hadn't expected the man to treat him like a monster.
Morty gave an awkward laugh. "My fault, yeah… but I just can't do this mercenary thing anymore. I want to go home."
Matthew didn't believe a word.
He knew Morty was probably looking for a better leader—a bigger opportunity.
That made sense.
What didn't make sense was sneaking off like a coward.
If others followed his example, Matthew's whole operation could fall apart.
Still, that wasn't even the biggest issue.
Matthew needed Morty as part of his image.
He and Sir Haven in their shining armor gave him credibility; people took him seriously when they stood beside him.
With that image, he could recruit more men.
So no—he couldn't let Morty leave.
"I get it," he said softly. "Everyone wants to go home."
He took a few steps closer, stopping twenty paces away.
"But after everything we've been through, I see you as one of my own. And right now, I need your support. You don't mind sticking around a while longer, do you?"
Morty looked from the gleaming arrowhead to Matthew's expression.
He didn't dare gamble on mercy.
He'd long suspected Matthew of being involved in Davos's wound and Sir Elen's death.
That's why he wanted out in the first place.
He'd seen enough ambitious men with no wealth, no backing, and no conscience—men who used others' lives as stepping stones.
Now, with that crossbow trained on him, those fears felt all too real.
Matthew's jaw tightened.
If looks could kill, Morty would've died a thousand times over.
He truly thought the man had talent, clever and quick-thinking too.
He'd even planned to persuade him to stay loyal in time.
But Morty just wouldn't listen.
Part of Matthew wanted to shoot him right then, plant a boot on his skull, and demand, "Do you really think I'm just some lying bastard?"
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