It was already nearing midnight when Corleone, escorted by Rorge, returned to the vicinity of the wooden hut.
His conversation with Urswyck had lasted quite a while. Most of that time was spent by Corleone giving that pervert a crash course on human anatomy.
The distribution of blood vessels, the paths of nerves, the layers of muscle, the vulnerabilities of bone structure—these professional terms were like opening a door to a new world for Urswyck.
Having been a pervert all his life, he hadn't known there were so many intricacies to the human body!
His torture methods, which he had once taken pride in, seemed crude under Corleone's clear and logical analysis.
If Urswyck had possessed the ambitious spirit of a certain wife-loving prime minister, he probably would have immediately displayed his charisma and recruited this "talent" Corleone into his fold.
Of course, that was impossible.
No matter how ruthless and cruel that guy was, he was just the deputy of a bandit group.
However, under Corleone's linguistic charm, Urswyck quickly began to treat him as one of his own and even gave Corleone some benefits.
Touching the heavy ten Gold Dragons in his pocket, Corleone couldn't help but sigh.
Earning his first pot of gold in this world had happened sooner than he imagined.
One had to admit, when it came to buying people's hearts, Urswyck clearly had a knack for it. At least he wasn't stingy.
In his words, Corleone had shown his resolve by personally killing the knight's son, and Urswyck wanted to ensure Corleone remained on his side.
In this world, profit was always the sturdy rope that bound two unrelated people tightly together.
Ten Gold Dragons.
This was no small sum. In times of peace, this money could almost fully equip a real knight, including armor, a horse, and weapons.
Even now, with the war having raged for over a year and prices skyrocketing, ten Gold Dragons were enough to support a family of five for more than half a year. Thus, Urswyck's generosity was evident.
After all, even when Jaime Lannister, arguably the richest second-generation noble in the Seven Kingdoms, escaped, the Lord of Riverrun only offered a reward of one thousand Gold Dragons.
"Recharge. Start the draw!"
As he walked, Corleone opened the system panel.
Even though he had never seen so much money in his life, he didn't hesitate to recharge all the Gold Dragons.
The most important thing right now was to improve his strength. Only by surviving could he earn more wealth, and then use money to sustain the system in an endless cycle.
Currently, apart from [Surgery Lv2], Corleone had no innate skills. In this situation, even if the current Gold Dragons were only enough for one Lv1 skill draw, it was crucial.
As he recited silently in his mind, the ten Gold Dragons in his pocket vanished instantly. Then, the system wheel began to spin madly.
[Ding~~~ Obtained Skill: Insight Lv1]
No explanation, just a lonely line of small text floating before his eyes, just like his [Surgery Lv2].
It seemed that in the system's view, these low-level skills didn't deserve a lengthy introduction.
Corleone frowned at first.
Given his current situation, it would have been best to draw a skill that could immediately boost his combat power.
Something like "Swordsmanship" or "Fighting."
Compared to those, an auxiliary skill like [Insight] seemed a bit underwhelming.
However, just as he felt a slight regret, a clear stream of awareness merged into his consciousness. Corleone suddenly found that the world seemed to become... different?
Tilting his head slightly, Rorge's hideous face came into view.
"Attention unfocused, eyes occasionally glancing toward companions drinking by the distant bonfire, appearing distracted."
"Left leg shows extremely subtle incoordination when walking, likely due to an old injury..."
Within just two seconds, details he had never noticed before were naturally analyzed.
"So that's it..."
Corleone's eyes lit up, understanding dawning on him.
This skill was simply perfect for his current situation!
"Go in yourself, Doctor."
Sure enough, upon reaching the wooden hut, Rorge didn't escort him inside personally as before. Instead, he patted Corleone's shoulder amicably and spoke with feigned boldness:
"Deputy Commander Urswyck said you are now a member of our Brave Companions. If I get hurt in the future, I'll count on you to treat me well!"
"But I have to warn you."
Saying this, he jerked his chin toward the wooden hut, his expression somewhat disdainful. "That Dothraki savage isn't easy to get along with. Aside from the Commander, he trusts no one."
"Don't do anything that makes him uncomfortable. If he tries anything, shout loudly. Biter and I will rush in to help you immediately."
With that, he ignored Corleone and strode toward his companions in the distance, seemingly craving a drink for a long time.
This guy... probably guessed something.
Watching Rorge's retreating figure, Corleone calculated silently.
This seemingly burly brute had a surprisingly delicate mind. perhaps he had guessed some of Corleone and Urswyck's plans but didn't point them out, even going so far as to offer a reminder.
Interesting.
Corleone narrowed his eyes. In these chaotic times, it seemed one truly couldn't underestimate anyone who had survived the turmoil of war.
...
Pushing open the wooden door, before he even stepped inside, a sturdy figure appeared before him.
"You were gone a long time."
The Dothraki's tone was somewhat unfriendly, his eyes full of suspicion.
"Yeah, took a shit while I was at it."
Corleone shrugged, looking completely indifferent. "Being hung up for so long, then doing two surgeries back-to-back... nearly burst my bladder."
Hearing this, the suspicion in Iggo's eyes didn't fully dissipate, but he stepped aside, signaling Corleone to enter.
He glanced behind Corleone and asked, "Where is Rorge? He was supposed to guard Commander Vargo with me."
"He went to drink."
Corleone walked into the room, casually stripping off his ragged clothes and shoes to reveal a body covered in whip marks, throwing them aside.
The movement wasn't large, but the meaning was clear.
As if saying, "Look, I'm not carrying any weapons."
Then, he sat down on the pile of hay, relaxing his posture and rubbing his shoulders wearily, like a craftsman who had just finished heavy labor.
"He said with you guarding here, everyone can rest easy tonight. Your help isn't needed."
"It seems the Commander and Rorge trust you very much, Iggo."
This sentence seemed like a relay of information, but it was actually a small provocation and probe.
Sure enough, a cold snort came from Iggo's nose.
Dothraki valued martial prowess; the feeling of being talked about behind one's back would never be pleasant.
However, he didn't question further. After all, Corleone's current posture showed he was completely unguarded.
Corleone looked around.
Vargo Hoat was still sleeping in the most comfortable spot in the center of the room, on a soft, dry pile of hay and rags. His face was unusually flushed in the flickering firelight, reeking of alcohol, and his snoring was thunderous.
Jaime and Brienne had been taken away by another Brave Companion member before Corleone left, as Iggo alone couldn't guard several people at once.
Seeing Corleone sprawling carelessly on the hay to rest, seemingly with no intention of checking Vargo's injury, Iggo frowned and walked up to him.
"Time to change the Commander's bandages, Vi... Vito Corleone."
"You said it yourself, change them every two hours."
"Ah... has it been that long?"
Hearing this, Corleone opened his eyes reluctantly, looking very tired.
But he didn't complain. He patted his butt, got up, and walked unsteadily toward the still-sleeping Vargo.
After putting on a show of checking for a while, Corleone suddenly sighed unexpectedly, "Truly a tough man. Injured so severely, yet he can still sleep so comfortably."
"Yes."
Simple Iggo didn't suspect anything and agreed, "Commander Vargo is a qualified Khal. Since following him, we have never lost a battle."
Hearing this, Corleone just glanced at him, neither denying nor agreeing.
Given Vargo Hoat's nature, of course the Brave Companions wouldn't lose battles, because their enemies were carefully selected weaklings.
Corleone's hands didn't stop moving as he carefully began to dismantle the bandages.
He didn't look back, but the trait brought by [Insight] allowed him to clearly see the expression on Iggo's face through his peripheral vision.
It wasn't absolute loyalty, but the Dothraki's ingrained obsession with following the strong.
Corleone smiled and continued to probe, "It is said that in the Dothraki Sea, there was once an invincible Khal named Drogo. He had over forty thousand warriors, claimed to be the strongest in history."
"But later, he fell from his horse due to an infected wound, and his followers fell apart because of it."
"Correct. I heard of him too."
Iggo seemed to have not chatted with anyone for a long time and actively engaged, speaking with a heavy Dothraki accent. "He was the son of Khal Bharbo. They say his braid reached his thighs and he never lost a single fight."
Corleone curled his lip. "But sadly, he died, didn't he?"
"Even the strongest eagle cannot escape the fate of falling."
"Correct." Iggo nodded, answering matter-of-factly. "So his khalasar scattered like a frightened herd of wild horses, divided among new strongmen."
"This is our Dothraki principle. When the lion falls, the hyenas share the corpse, and a new lion king is born in blood and fire."
Silently listening to this cold philosophy of survival, Corleone quietly observed Iggo's reaction while skillfully undoing the bandages, revealing the wound underneath.
Before, he had cleaned the wound thoroughly, but now, at the edge of the ear's stump, a faint, ominous yellow-green trace had appeared, and the surrounding skin was redder and more swollen than before.
The corners of Corleone's mouth lifted slightly, and he spoke clearly: "What a pity, Iggo."
"I think you need to start looking for a new Khal to follow."
"Because our noble Earl Vargo Hoat... won't be living much longer!"