Hamon and Vera returned to their horses. They decided to pursue the bandits who had taken the slaves, they aimed to catch up with them. If successful, they could use the situation as a way to gain entry into the fort.
They left the two captured bandits in the hands of the mercenaries. It wasn't their problem to deal with.
Before departing, the bandit had warned them that Fort Blackrock wasn't a place one could simply walk into—not even criminals seeking refuge. It was a fortress ruled by fear and strict order, where only those with the right connections were allowed entry.
Spurring their horses westward, they followed the fresh trail leading away from the battlefield. The tracks were clear, and before long, they spotted distant figures—slavers and their captives.
Slowing their pace, they dismounted a safe distance away and slipped into the forest. From the cover of the trees, they observed the bandits setting up camp in a small clearing.
At least fifteen of them had gathered, their fires casting flickering shadows against the fabric of their tents. The caged wagons were arranged in a semi-circle, the iron bars glinting under the firelight.
Vera studied the scene with a frown. "Why did they open the wagon back there?"
Hamon speculated, "Perhaps there was someone inside they were after."
"Maybe." Vera nodded, then turned to him. "What's your plan?"
"Simple—I walk in and let them capture me." Hamon's tone was light, almost amused as he replied.
Vera's gaze narrowed. "You plan on getting into the fort as a slave?"
"Exactly. It's the only way that guarantees entry."
"Alone?"
"Yes."
If Vera came with him, the bandits would undoubtedly try to lay hands on her, and he had no doubt she would cut them down before they got the chance. That would ruin their plan before it even began. But for him? He doubted there would be any real trouble.
"You can't go in there alone," Vera said firmly. "It's too dangerous."
Hamon grinned, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Are you worried about me?"
"I just don't want to watch someone die because they let stupidity lead them," he said, her tone surprisingly gentle for a moment before she quickly switched back to a serious expression.
"That's sweet of you to say," he replied with a smile, loosening his armor and setting down his sword. "But trust me, I have no intention of dying."
Vera crossed her arms. "What if they get suspicious when they realize the bandits we left behind aren't coming back?"
"Then I'll just fight my way out." He said it so casually, as if it was the easiest thing on earth.
They sat in silence for a moment, watching the camp. The bandits were in high spirits, passing around a bottle of ale, their laughter rising over the crackling fire. The captives in the cages remained silent, their heads bowed in quiet resignation.
After a moment, Vera broke the silence. "I still think this is a bad idea."
"Why?"
"I have a bad feeling about it."
Hamon raised an eyebrow at her. "Didn't take you for someone who makes decisions based on your feelings."
"Sometimes you need to follow your intuition."
"Well, my intuition is telling me to go in."
Vera exhaled, shaking her head. "Alright. But give me a signal if things get out of hand."
Hamon went to secure his sword and armor on his horse before stepping back beside her.
"Punch me," he said, tapping his cheek.
She shot him an incredulous look. "You really go all the way, don't you?"
Before he could answer, she threw a hard punch, her fist connecting with his face with a sharp crack.
Hamon clenched his jaw, wiping the blood from his lip.
"Hmm… I don't think one's enough," Vera muttered, shaking her fist. "Maybe you need another."
Hamon gave her a bloody grin. "If you love punching me that much, I'll let you do it all day when I get back."
"Just go." Vera waved him off, turning her focus back to the camp.
…
Hamon approached the camp with deliberate, unsteady steps, feigning the exhaustion of a wounded traveler stumbling upon salvation. The bandits looked up from their revelry, their expressions shifting between suspicion and greed.
He raised his hands in surrender, his bruised and bloodied face telling a story of hardship without needing words.
"Help me!" Hamon's voice rang through the night, a perfect blend of desperation and pain. He staggered into the camp, the firelight flickering across his battered form.
A burly man with a thick beard and an eye patch studied him warily. "What's wrong, stranger?"
"Bandits," Hamon rasped, his voice thick with feigned agony. "They took everything. Left me for dead."
The bearded man's eyes narrowed. "Where's your gear? Your horse?"
"Took them," Hamon said, taking a deep, rattling breath as if the memory pained him. He had to fight the urge to smirk. "Everything. I'm just a simple traveler, trying to get to Twinhill."
The bandits exchanged glances, skepticism clear in their eyes. Yet, as their gazes swept over his strong frame, greed quickly outweighed suspicion.
"Looks like we just found ourselves a fine addition to the haul," the bearded man sneered. He nodded toward his companions. "Take him to Madeyes. Let's see what he thinks."
"This one'll fetch a good price in Blackrock," another bandit remarked, stepping up behind Hamon. His breath reeked of stale ale and rotten teeth.
A meaty hand clamped down on Hamon's shoulder. "Move," the man grunted, shoving him forward.
"What are you—?" Hamon barely got the words out before the air was knocked from his lungs. The bearded bandit had stepped forward and delivered a solid punch to his stomach.
Hamon let himself drop to one knee, spitting blood onto the dirt.
'What the hell have these guys been eating?' he thought. It was a decent hit, but he'd taken harder blows from drunkards in back-alley brawls.
They hauled him to his feet and dragged him through the camp, the sounds of laughter and clinking bottles fading as they approached a large tent at the center. Its fabric fluttered in the night breeze, the entrance guarded by a man with a spear.
The guard eyed them before nodding at the gruff bandit, then disappeared inside the tent.
As they waited, voices drifted through the canvas.
"Brother Madeyes, I am truly grateful for your help today. If not for you, I don't know where those slave traders would've taken me." The voice was filled with relief.
"Wallace, the one you should be thanking is your brother, Blackhand," another man responded smoothly. "He's the one who sent me to rescue you."
"Still… if not for you…"
A brief silence followed before the tent flap was pulled aside. The spear guard gestured for them to bring Hamon in.
Inside, a single candle flickered atop a makeshift wooden table, illuminating an array of food and drink. At the head of the table sat a man whose presence commanded the room—his eyes were bloodshot, his cruel smile revealing rotting teeth. This was Madeyes, his gaze sharp despite the heavy wine in his veins.
To his right sat Wallace, his face bruised and his clothes torn, yet he lounged with a goblet in hand like a noble at a feast.
As Hamon was thrown to the ground, Madeyes barely looked up from his wine.
"What's this?" he asked, his tone laced with boredom.
The bearded bandit nudged Hamon with his boot. "Found this one on the road, Boss. Claims he was waylaid by bandits on his way to Twinhill. Thought he might be worth a look."
Madeyes studied him with a critical eye, taking in his tattered clothes and bruised face. "Well, well… What do we have here? A lost traveler looking for a bit of hospitality?"
Hamon coughed, feigning weakness. "Just looking for a way to get back on my feet, sir." He said, standing up slowly.
Madeyes leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps you can offer us something in exchange for our kindness?"
The bandit holding Hamon shoved him forward. He staggered, barely catching himself. "I have nothing of value," he said, keeping his voice meek. "But I'll do anything."
Madeyes' smile turned razor-sharp. "Oh, I'm sure we can find something." He glanced at Wallace. "Pay attention, boy. This is how we do things under Blackhand."
With slow, deliberate steps, he rose from his chair, his boots creaking against the wooden planks. He stopped just a step from Hamon, towering over him. "Are you sure you'll do anything?"
With a smile on his face, Hamon nodded.
Madeyes grinned wider. Then, without hesitation, he undid his belt and let his pants drop to the floor. "Why don't you suck me?" He burst into laughter.
The other bandits joined in, their amusement echoing through the tent. Only Wallace remained indifferent, too busy stuffing his face with food to care.
Hamon exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. He had planned to play along a bit longer—perhaps try to learn something useful. But no, this one did not deserve his time at all.
The smile slowly faded from his face as he sighed. "People in this era truly have no shame."
The laughter died in an instant.
Before anyone could react, Hamon struck. His hand shot out, seizing the gruff bandit's wrist in a vice-like grip. With a sharp yank, he pulled the man forward, twisting his body. The bandit barely had time to grunt before Hamon's foot drove into his gut.
The sound was sickening—like a melon splitting open. The bandit doubled over with a strangled gasp, collapsing to his knees, his breath stolen.
Madeyes had instinctively stepped back, his pants still pooled around his ankles, his face frozen between shock and fury.
"What the fuck!" the bearded bandit roared, his hand dropping to his sword hilt.
But Hamon was faster. In a blur, his hand lashed out, striking the bandit's throat with the edge of his palm. The force lifted him clean off his feet, his eyes bulging as his windpipe collapsed.
Before the man even hit the ground, Hamon reached for the sword at his hip. The blade slid free with a whisper of steel—then flashed forward, piercing straight into the bandit's stomach.
The man let out a gurgled wheeze as he crumpled, blood pooling beneath him.
Silence fell over the tent.
Only the distant shouting from outside and the quiet crackle of the fire remained.
Hamon turned to the last three people in the room—Madeyes, who scrambled backward like a fool. Wallace, who stared in stunned silence with wine dribbling down his chin. And the guard, who gripped his spear tighter till his knuckle turned white.
"You people really ruined my mood today."