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"To arms!"
The raider boss roared, hoisting his greatsword high.
The other six raiders desperately spurred their horses, preparing to fight their way out.
Three of them charged wildly, raising battleaxes and spears as they hacked and thrust forward.
They planned to break the encirclement by punching straight through the lone figure of Don Quixote.
Don Quixote raised his longsword.
The next second.
The blade slipped with terrifying precision through a gap in the nearest raider's battered ringmail.
Then, he ripped it out.
Blood gushed from the raider's wound as a despairing groan escaped his lips.
Don Quixote wasted no movement on flashy swings.
His next strike targeted the throat of the second raider.
In a flash, the longsword plunged into the soft flesh right beside the man's Adam's apple.
The raider's spear clattered uselessly into the mud. His hands flew up, frantically gripping the razor-sharp blade in a panic.
His palms were shredded to bloody ribbons, but he couldn't squeeze out a single scream.
By then, the third raider, wielding a battleaxe, had closed the distance.
Seeing his two comrades die in the blink of an eye, the man's pupils shrank in sheer terror.
He wanted to run, but his momentum was already carrying him forward.
Gritting his teeth, he swung his battleaxe in a vicious half-arc, aiming to cleave Don Quixote's head open.
But he was too late!
A magnificent, mystical spear pierced straight through his leather armor in the blink of an eye.
It burst out from the third raider's back, the sheer force of the impact lifting his entire body into the air.
Then, he was slammed violently into the dirt, dead on impact.
This extraordinary, unnatural spear thrust left everyone watching with their mouths hanging open, their breath catching in their throats.
But the shock only lasted a split second.
Soon, several men of the Bloody Hand Mercenary Company broke into fanatical cheers:
"Captain, you scared the shit out of those bastards! Hahaha, that was beautiful!"
"By the Old Gods and the New! I've never seen a spear thrust like that in my life!"
"My Gods!"
The ground was littered with the corpses of men and horses, alongside splintered spears, shattered shields, and caved-in helmets.
Blood soaked the earth, leaving sticky crimson footprints with every step.
Shreds of flesh and gore were scattered everywhere, trampled deep into the bloody mud by iron-shod hooves.
---
With the final raider cut down by the Bloody Hand, the slaughter finally came to an end.
Zachary wiped the blood from his face and hurried over to Don Quixote, flush with excitement.
He had just killed a raider himself.
The reward of 1 Gold Dragon and 100 Silver Stags was more than enough to put him in a fantastic mood.
But reality quickly set back in. Stowing his excitement, he looked at Don Quixote and said:
"Captain, we were a step too late. The men in this caravan are all dead!"
Don Quixote nodded and issued slow, methodical orders:
"Strip these raiders of anything useful—ringmail, weapons, boots, gold teeth, and whatever Gold Dragons or Silver Stags they've got hidden on them.
"And round up any surviving horses, of course.
"As for anything that didn't belong to the raiders, leave it untouched. We wait for Lord Wylis's men to handle the rest."
"Yes, Captain!" Zachary quickly replied.
The company broke off to rest and reorganize.
They waited for White Harbor's officials to arrive, record their kills, and deal with the gruesome aftermath.
Meanwhile, they chewed on hardtack and bandaged wounds of varying severity.
Though Don Quixote was long accustomed to the bloody sight of human and horse corpses tangled together with scattered limbs.
Whenever possible, he still preferred to look at the natural scenery.
Especially in moments like this.
He pulled his gaze away from the killing field, silently observing his surroundings.
The wind here was biting cold, but the air carried a crisp, salty tang.
The landscape was covered in gray-green weeds and low, creeping brambles.
Before long.
Jeremy, a Bloody Hand member who had been sent ahead to the temporary outpost, came galloping back.
He was followed by three cavalrymen clad in thick teal wool surcoats.
It seemed Lord Wyman was truly determined to eradicate every unstable element in the surrounding lands this time.
Not only had he hired hundreds of freelance knights and sellswords, but he had also deployed many commoners—artisans, carpenters, and the like—to construct four temporary outposts centered around White Harbor.
These forts served as forward operating bases for the hired muscle and city watch.
---
Two of the White Harbor cavalrymen dismounted to verify the scene and tally the kills.
The third cavalryman, led by Jeremy, walked over to Don Quixote and spoke urgently:
"Ser Don Quixote, we are short on hands. We need the Bloody Hand Mercenary Company's assistance.
"Help us transport these goods back to the outpost, and help us behead these raiders and spike their heads!"
Don Quixote pulled his gaze from the scenery, looked at the White Harbor guardsman, and nodded:
"No problem."
A short while later.
Seven severed heads were mounted on broken spear shafts and thick oak branches.
Draped beneath them were some of the goods they had stolen, alongside a merman sigil.
It was a clear message to any passing commoners about who these dead men were.
More importantly, it was a brutal warning to any potential raiders or hostile factions, declaring absolute control over this territory.
The rest of the corpses were dragged into the dense, wooded ditches by the roadside—left unburied as a feast for the wolves, wild dogs, and crows.
Once the grim work was done.
The Bloody Hand, alongside the three White Harbor guards, loaded up the caravan's recovered goods and the bodies of the merchant crew, heading back to the temporary outpost.
As for the loot stripped from the raiders, both sides maintained a tacit understanding and kept their mouths shut.
---
Two months later.
The sellswords, knights, and guards stationed at the temporary outposts hadn't seen a single trace of a raider in five or six days.
Naturally, this sudden, aggressive extermination campaign was finally drawing to a close.
Because the Bloody Hand Mercenary Company had refused to split up...
A cohesive twenty-man cavalry unit was absolute overkill against disorganized, scattered raiders.
So, despite two months of active combat, aside from a few minor injuries, not a single member of the company had died.
Of course, this was largely due to Don Quixote watching their backs.
He had spent entirely too much time and effort finding most of these men.
Letting them die easily on a random sweep just wasn't worth it.
Because of this, Don Quixote's past two months hadn't been nearly as relaxing as one might think.
Aside from bailing them out of dangerous situations, he had spent the time personally training and refining their combat skills, one by one.
He held them to the grueling, exacting standards of a formally trained knight.
Over the course of two months, the overall combat prowess of the Bloody Hand had surged.
Given that their foundational skills were relatively poor to begin with, even a little proper instruction yielded massive results.
Don Quixote's powerful mental fortitude meant his ability to learn—and his grasp of knightly martial arts—far surpassed that of ordinary men.
Not only was his physique overwhelmingly strong, but his techniques had also grown increasingly precise, efficient, and lethal.
Before he fully realized it, he had evolved into an absolute master of the sword, spear, bow, and saddle.
And with a little effort, he proved to be an exceptional teacher as well.
But it wasn't just their strength that had grown.
When the men of the Bloody Hand looked at Don Quixote now, their eyes were filled with deep respect and absolute trust.
Their loyalty was beginning to take root and show itself.
They weren't ungrateful bastards to begin with.
Don Quixote paid them generously, willingly taught them real skills, and had, in one way or another, saved their lives.
And that was something they would never forget.
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