Chapter 3: Never Certain Death!
Mere hours ago, Barrel had been in high spirits. He'd just closed a major deal. The gamble that had put his entire merchant caravan on the line had paid off handsomely, leaving him floating on air. But by the time the sun hung high overhead, his mood had plummeted straight into the abyss.
They'd run into a pack of bandits on the way back.
"Hey, you lot! Hand over everything you've got!"
"Drop everything you're holding. Strip off anything that jingles on you!"
At first, he thought they'd be fine. He'd hired mercenaries with risks like this in mind, after all. But the mercenaries were slaughtered, and now Barrel's life hung in the balance.
We're screwed. Totally screwed.
Inside the rattling wagon, Barrel squeezed his eyes shut. How could this happen? In the vast Gray Plains, running into bandits—no, a full bandit horde. And infamous ones at that.
Of all people, the Red Wolf Band...!
His luck couldn't have been worse. There was no other explanation. Otherwise, it would mean his decades of merchant experience had betrayed him.
He glanced around. All those mercenaries—dead. Only three guards left.
"Keep going! Faster!"
"No can do! Look ahead—fog...!"
"Who cares? Just run!"
"You know what's ahead! It's a dead end!"
"What?"
Barrel stuck his head out and peered forward. Beyond the open plains, a thick fog blanketed everything. His face hardened.
Damn it. Mist Cliffs!
He gritted his teeth. Charging through that fog would just lead to a sheer drop.
"Master Barrel! We need to turn around!"
"No! We'll all die! Keep going!"
"Huh?"
"Run! Move aside."
"M-Master, that's—"
"Everyone, follow me!"
Barrel squeezed into the driver's seat, grabbed the reins, and whipped them hard. The horses neighed powerfully and picked up speed, plunging straight into the fog.
Visibility was zero, but they charged on. Either way, death awaited. Fighting had been no option—they'd seen too much. The bandits' demonic cruelty as they massacred the mercenaries was still vivid in his mind.
"This won't work! We'll hit the wall!"
"Shut up! You want to die by the sword instead?"
They just ran. Nothing else filled his head. Better to crash into the cliff than hand over their goods.
A little farther, and the dead end loomed. Reality closing in, Barrel hesitated. What now? They were done for. No idea. Just keep going—as if ramming a massive cliff.
"Master! There!"
One of his men shouted.
"Look over there!"
"What?!"
"There's some kind of passage!"
"What?"
He turned. The fog obscured it, but... something.
"What is—gasp."
His eyes widened. It was real. A passage at the edge.
"Head there!"
"Yes!"
They veered toward it. As they drew closer, his eyes grew even wider. A real path.
A road beyond the Mist Cliffs!
He'd never known about this majestic canyon. Truly clueless.
But the situation wasn't great. The terrain wasn't suited for wagons—narrow, rocky, perfect for flipping. Even horses might struggle.
The wagon rocked wildly. Speed dropped naturally. Meanwhile, the bandits closed in.
"Damn it!"
Barrel finally cursed aloud. Why? Had heaven abandoned him?
Then the driver pointed ahead, yelling.
"Master! People ahead!"
"What?"
It was true. A man—massive build. Leather pants, shirtless, axes in hand.
A barbarian?
The barbarian spoke.
"Same side?"
"What?"
"Same side?"
Barrel's eyes bulged. Definitely a barbarian, but speaking the continental common tongue—Ironclad Language. Clumsy accent, but clear.
"Same side? That right?"
"Y-Yes, seems so."
The barbarian's finger pointed between them and the bandits.
Barrel bellowed.
"No! Enemies!"
"Ah."
"No, more than that—move! Don't block the road!"
"Being chased?"
"Move, I said!"
The barbarian blocked the center path. They'd crash at this rate. But he showed no sign of budging, just gesturing and mumbling to himself.
Damn! What the hell...!
"Help."
"What?"
"Damn barbarian! Shit!"
"No, what're you—"
"Scared. But escape!"
The barbarian spouted nonsense, set down his large axe, drew two hand axes from his belt, and took a deep breath.
Barrel could only sigh. Not moving—what was he doing? They were closing in. Crash inevitable.
Ah, screw it. Ram him.
As he opened his mouth to order it, the barbarian moved.
"Hup!"
Chest fully inflated with a massive breath, he hurled both hand axes with all his might. They whistled through the air, embedding one in each front leg of the lead bandits' horses.
Everyone in the caravan, Barrel included, gaped at the godlike throw.
"Crazy bastard!"
"Hiiihihiing!"
The lead horses screamed and collapsed. But then disaster—their sprawled bodies blocked the narrow path completely.
"Fuck!"
"S-Stop!"
"No, speed's—"
"Arghhh!"
The following bandits tumbled like dominoes. The path filled with horses' pitiful whinnies and men's groans.
Barrel stared blankly, mouth agape.
"What... the hell."
He rubbed his eyes. Had he seen that right? Possible?
The barbarian nodded smugly.
One thought flashed.
No way he aimed for the legs? On purpose?
Nah. Impossible. In that chaos? Hitting each leg precisely—simultaneously?
"Move."
Suddenly, the barbarian grabbed his large axe and charged—through the fallen, groaning bandits.
"Never certain death!"
In the wildly shaking wagon, Barrel witnessed it: a lone beast cutting down the bandits.
Balun crossed his arms and nodded contentedly. Even replaying the fight, he was pleased.
Targeting the horses' legs was smart. Narrow entrance—knock out the front, the rest would pile up. Worked perfectly.
If it missed, he'd have been terrified. At least thirty enemies, on horseback. Fighting alone? Scary as hell. Lucky.
Got a bit lucky there.
The bandits survived the falls, but writhing in pain? Harmless. Most critically injured, obviously.
Balun was a huge coward, but fearless when safe. Finishing off crippled foes? Easy.
He hadn't planned to kill, but no choice. Helping one side made him enemies of the other. Can't leave enemies alive—they bite back.
This performance should score some points, right?
Expectant, Balun spoke—recalling the Ironclad Language he'd studied hard.
"Balun."
"Yes?"
"My name."
"Ah, Balun, sir."
"Yes."
"I'm Barrel. Lead Barrel Merchant Group. Truly grateful. We lived thanks to you. How to repay this debt..."
Balun eyed the bowing Barrel and crew. Too fast to catch every word, but he got it. Barrel—merchant caravan.
Scored decent points.
If scoring, go all in. For future escape help.
There was a path.
Doubt real? Path existed. How else did they come from there?
They mattered. Couldn't let go.
"Follow."
"Pardon?"
"Heal you."
"Heal? What do you—"
"You hurt. Need heal."
Balun turned. Barrel's group whispered hesitantly.
He eavesdropped—failed. Too fast. But nuance: debating to follow?
Soon, three battered wagons trailed slowly. Balun grinned.
Hooked good.
Worth learning Ironclad Language. So useful. Prep pays off—always a use.
Wish I spoke better.
Current level—limit. More study needed.
"Hey! Balun!"
"What're you doing, not coming out..."
Tribe warriors appeared opposite—hunt mates, searching for him.
Brief standoff. Barbarians and civilized eyed warily.
Balun explained: allies to Barrel's group; near-death merchants he saved, to his mates.
Suspicion lingered, but they listened. Balun's link made it possible.
"So, you saved them?"
"Yes. Bandits chasing, so helped. Wanna check site?"
"Hm, true."
Showed scene—convinced quick. Dead horses, bodies. Rest scattered.
"You killed all these alone?"
"Yes."
"Incredible! True warrior!"
Mates' eyes shone with respect. Balun scratched head.
Far from it. Great warrior my ass. Just finished stumbling fools.
"My eye never wrong. You'll be great warrior. Great chief too."
"Great chief? Not me."
"No, you are. Don't undervalue self."
Warriors' gazes dripped honey—near worship. Uncomfortable, Balun changed topic.
"Brothers. Taking them to village for heal. Okay?"
"Do as you wish. They're your spoils of war. Your call."
"Huh? Spoils?"
"Yes. Spoils."
Balun tilted head. What spoils?
"Anyway, permitted?"
"Of course."
"Good. Let's go. Oh, hunt?"
"Plenty. Heh."
Warriors led. Piled game: boars, deer, snakes.
"Let's hurry. Worked up appetite."
"Yeah."
Balun gathered all, headed village. Barrel's group followed uneasily behind eight barbarians.
Returning with outsiders, Balun drew massive attention. Three big wagons, baggage, horses.
Tribe gathered. Chief Turgan asked.
"Balun! What's all this?"
"Civilized. Ironclads."
Tribe gasped. Ironclads? Beyond mountains? Iron-armored, mysterious power?
"Explain."
"Yes. So, hunting, found canyon dead end. Bandits chasing merchants. Killed bandits, saved them. Brought injured here to heal."
"...That's it."
Balun gauged mood post-explanation. Approve? Needed for more favor. Hunt mates okayed—worst avoided. But unpredictable barbarians.
16 years with them, still.
"So, they're your spoils."
"Pardon?"
"Balun. Excellent."
"Huh??"
Turgan approached, patted shoulder grinning. Turned, bellowed.
"Red Fang Tribe! Balun brought precious spoils! Ironclad spoils!"
"Wooooh!"
"Spoils! Spoils!"
"Ironclads!"
Tribe cheered wildly. Balun flustered.
What the...?
Why this?