Chapter 640: Bandits of the Wildlands
CH640 Bandits of the Wildlands
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Elsewhere, beyond the outskirts of BloodIron...
Within a native barbarian settlement situated tens of kilometres away, a group of men tore through the village like a violent storm, setting fire to the crude homes of its inhabitants.
The bandits slaughtered all who resisted, cutting them down without hesitation before gathering the remaining survivors together. However, their cruelty did not end there.
They separated the disabled and the elderly from the able-bodied... and killed them outright, deeming them worthless and not even worth the effort to sell.
Those who remained were divided into three groups: children, able-bodied or military-aged men, and women.
The children would be taken to specialised camps, where they would be raised and conditioned into obedient slaves—trained from a young age, perhaps even taught specific skills to increase their eventual market value.
As for the able-bodied men, their fate depended largely on their strength. The weaker ones would be sold off as labour to buyers, while the stronger individuals might instead be retained and used as expendable cannon fodder by the bandits themselves.
The women... their fate was perhaps the cruellest of all. They would be sold into prostitution, forced to generate continuous profit for the group until their value was completely stripped away. Thereafter, they would either be sold off as labour... or discarded entirely.
It was unclear which of those endings could be considered a mercy. What was certain, however, was that none of their lives would ever be the same again.
Even before departing the settlement, the bandits sought to utterly break the spirits of their captives. Several women were dragged aside, forced into the open as the others were made to watch.
Laughter—crude, vicious, and devoid of humanity—rang through the air as groups of men descended upon them, one after another, venting their depravity without restraint. Families could only watch in helpless agony, powerless to intervene.
Many of the women did not survive the ordeal. Those who did were left as shattered remnants of who they once were.
One of the bandits, drunk and unrestrained, continued his assault upon a captive woman, only to realise—too late—that she had already succumbed during his brutality.
Irritated, he pulled away and kicked her lifeless body aside as though it were nothing more than refuse.
Yet his desires remained unfulfilled.
Turning back towards the remaining captives, his gaze roamed hungrily as he searched for another victim to sate himself.
He was about to pick one at random when another woman suddenly stepped forward, placing herself in front of the others and shielding her fellow tribeswomen with her body.
She was strikingly beautiful, yet her face bore a fierce, unyielding defiance. However, rather than deter the bandit, her resistance only served to further inflame his lust.
The vile organ dangling between his legs stirred once more as blood rushed through him.
Slap!
He struck her viciously, sending her crashing to the ground as blood splattered across the dirt.
He reached down to seize her by the legs and drag her away when, without warning, a powerful kick sent him rolling across the ground.
"Who dares—?!"
The bandit began to roar, but the moment he saw who had struck him, the words died in his throat.
"What did I just tell all of you about touching the boss’s merchandise?" the man said coldly.
"Vice-Captain, it’s not like that. I—"
"You what?" the Vice-Captain cut him off sharply. "You what? Go on. I am listening."
His tone was calm, but beneath it lay a chilling edge.
"Is it that my orders mean nothing to you... or that satisfying that worthless piece of flesh is more important than the profit the boss stands to lose if you damage the goods?"
The Vice-Captain advanced slowly towards the bandit.
The man did not dare move... he did not even attempt to rise. It was as though his body had been paralysed by fear.
"Vice-Captain, I—" the bandit stammered, his voice trembling as he failed to form a coherent sentence.
The Vice-Captain offered no opportunity for explanation. His figure blurred forward in an instant—
Splat!
His foot came down with brutal precision upon the bandit’s groin.
Everything happened so quickly that the man did not register it immediately. It was only when he saw the blood spilling between his legs that the pain finally reached him.
"AAAHHHH!!!"
A scream tore from his throat—raw, primal, and filled with unimaginable agony.
Perhaps the worst pain a man could ever endure.
As the bandit writhed on the ground, clutching himself and screaming uncontrollably, the commotion drew the attention of the others nearby.
Amidst the chaos, the Vice-Captain calmly unsheathed his curved desert blade.
Then, without hesitation—
He slit the man’s throat.
The bandit’s eyes remained wide with shock and horror as blood poured freely from the wound. No matter how desperately he tried to clutch his neck, the flow would not stop.
Moments later, his body went limp.
He collapsed onto the ground... lifeless.
More stunned than the captives were the bandits themselves.
They could scarcely believe that their Vice-Captain had just killed one of their own without hesitation.
"Listen up, you maggots!" the Vice-Captain barked suddenly. "The Captain has been generous enough to provide you with playthings to vent your desires upon them. If they die before you’ve had your fill, then you have no one to blame but yourselves.
"Do whatever you like with the corpses—I could not care less. But if anyone lays a hand on the boss’s merchandise..." his voice dropped, cold and absolute, "...I will slit that person’s throat on the spot."
"Remember this well, maggots—they are worth far more than your worthless lives. When you die, there will be plenty of men eager to take your place for the whores and shards. Do not forget that."
With that said, the one-eyed man sheathed his blade in a slow, deliberate motion before turning his attention forward.
His single remaining eye fell upon the beautiful barbarian woman still shielding her tribeswomen.
Though he had intervened on her behalf, she felt no sense of relief—no warmth whatsoever. His gaze was as lifeless as the ruined eye on the other side of his face, a jagged scar marking where it had once been.
To him, she was not a person.
Only a commodity... merchandise to be sold to the highest bidder.
The one-eyed Vice-Captain turned away at last, signalling another Combat Master to oversee the captives before walking off.
He moved deeper into the village, heading towards the mountain beyond.
There, several men were already at work, striking against the rock face with tools and weapons alike, as though searching for something hidden within.
Further ahead stood a burly man with the physique of a bear and the waist of a tiger, his broad back exposed and a thick, full beard cascading down his chin like that of a seasoned lumberjack. His sharp, hawk-like gaze surveyed the activity with unwavering focus from his vantage.
The Vice-Captain approached and came to stand beside him.
"Have they found anything, boss?" he asked.
"They have. A vein—just as we suspected," the burly man replied. "Once mining begins, we’ll be able to supply Drumvale with their required quota. Then that annoying woman will no longer complain about us making further use of their name."
In truth, the bandit group’s attack on the barbarian settlement had not been primarily for the sake of capturing slaves.
The true reason lay beneath the ground itself—a newly discovered mineral vein located very close to the barbarian village.
Rather than allow the barbarians to recognise its value and potentially negotiate a trade, the bandits had chosen the far more ruthless path—slaughter, subjugation, and complete takeover of the land.
A method that ensured profit from every angle.
"I can smell blood on you. What happened?" the boss—the Captain of the bandit group—asked.
"There was a fool who tried to lay his hands on one of your handpicked merchandise," the Vice-Captain reported calmly.
"What?!" The Captain turned sharply, his gaze hardening into a glare. "I trust you didn’t stop at merely cutting off his hands. He didn’t just attempt to steal from me—he disrespected me.
"I will not tolerate such disrespect!"
"Do not worry, boss. He will be vulture food, alongside the rest of the savages," the Vice-Captain replied without emotion.
"Good." The Captain’s expression eased slightly. "An idiot who fails to recognise his place has no right to keep breathing."
He turned his attention back to the prospectors mapping out the vein. Then, a moment later, something seemed to cross his mind, and his brow furrowed.
"Speaking of those who fail to respect their station... what of the team we sent out? Are they not back yet with the heads of those nobodies? What did they call themselves again?"
"Fortuna, boss. They go by the name Fortuna," the Vice-Captain answered.
"Whatever. They are dead anyway," the Captain said dismissively as he glanced sideways. "Right?"
"It would appear otherwise, boss," the Vice-Captain replied.
"What?" The Captain’s expression darkened instantly.
"The team missed their scheduled check-in. The only reason they would dare do so is if something has happened to them," the Vice-Captain explained.
The Captain said nothing, but the temperature around him seemed to drop as his face grew increasingly cold.
"There is more, boss," the Vice-Captain continued. "We have just received a bird missive from the guild building in BloodIron. The Black Scar Syndicate has reached out to us."
"The Black Scar? Why would they? We have no dealings with them," the Captain said, his brows knitting together.
"They wish to arrange a meeting between us and Fortuna. Apparently, Fortuna’s leader is seeking to make peace."
"Make peace?" The Captain’s eyes flashed with fury. "He believes he can speak of peace after killing my brother and showing me such blatant disrespect?!"
The Vice-Captain remained silent.
Several breaths passed before the Captain spoke again, his voice calmer, yet far more dangerous.
"Do you believe there is a connection between this... Fortuna—and the Black Scar Syndicate?" he asked.
"I find it unlikely. Based on our investigation, Fortuna is a group of nobodies, while the Black Scars are known brokers. It is far more probable that their leader simply paid the Syndicate to arrange this meeting," the Vice-Captain replied.
"Very well. I will meet with this Fortuna leader," the boss said suddenly.
"You will?" the Vice-Captain asked, a trace of surprise flickering across his face.
"There is no sense in offending the Black Scars by refusing their invitation. Besides, I am curious to hear what this Fortuna leader has to say.
"Perhaps, if he is willing to pay the price for his disrespect, I may consider forgiving him... provided he can afford that price," the bandit boss added with a low, amused laugh.
The Vice-Captain gave a small shrug and nodded silently.
This group was none other than the infamous dark mercenary band known as the Lost Heartens. And the burly man who led them was none other than Brock Peyton.
***