Timing is Now (1)
Balun figured out why the chief and the tribesmen kept going on about spoils of war. They thought he'd dragged Barrel's group back as prisoners.
It was utterly ridiculous. He'd explained it clearly enough that there shouldn't be any misunderstanding, so why the hell did they interpret it that way? Was there a glitch in their information input devices—their brains? Or maybe they just didn't have certain concepts loaded up there. Like 'helped', 'rescued', or 'doing a favor'.
Balun jumped into clarification mode. If this kept up, the Red Fang Tribe might end up with some 'Ironclad slaves'.
"Uh, Chief? I think there's a misunderstanding here."
"Misunderstanding? What misunderstanding?"
"Those people aren't my spoils of war. I told you—they were in danger, and I helped them out."
"Right. You took down all those mounted warriors. So you have the right to claim spoils. That's what war is."
Turgan answered firmly.
Balun shot back immediately.
"That's the thing— it wasn't war. I helped them, okay? How does saving people in danger count as war?"
"Balun. Listen well. Everything in this world is war. History is written in blood and struggle. We must always engrave that in our hearts. Otherwise, we'll get eaten alive."
Balun was left speechless, like his mouth was glued shut with honey.
Do these people only have 'victors' and 'losers' in their heads? No other types of people?
It felt utterly hopeless, like staring up at a massive mountain. A mountain that wouldn't understand no matter how well you explained. How the hell was he supposed to convince these warrior-obsessed lunatics?
Screw convincing them.
Balun switched strategies on the fly. Why bother persuading them at all? The best education was always at eye level, right?
"Yeah, you're right. They're my spoils of war. My prisoners."
"As expected..."
"Knew it."
The tribesmen whispered and nodded, while Chief Turgan flashed a satisfied grin and clapped Balun roughly on the shoulder with his callused hand.
"That's it exactly. Glad you get it."
"One thing I wanna ask."
"Go ahead."
"I have the right to do whatever I want with my spoils, right?"
"Of course. That's the victor's right, the warrior's right. If even that wasn't granted to a warrior who risked his life in battle, there'd be no point in honor."
Turgan said so, and the other tribesmen nodded in unison.
Balun grinned. Just the answer he wanted.
"So, I can exercise my rights as a warrior right here, right?"
"Naturally."
Balun stroked his chin, and Turgan asked,
"What're you planning?"
"I'll feed 'em well and let 'em rest. Treat their wounds too."
"What?"
"They escaped death. Gotta be beat up and exhausted. Letting them recover fully—that's what an honorable warrior does, right? So..."
The crowd murmured uneasily.
Balun drove the point home.
"No one mistreats them. Anyone does, I'll consider it a violation of my rights."
He scanned the room as he spoke. No one dared reply. Amid the stunned silence, only Chief Turgan and shaman Ulan were smiling—like they were proud of him.
Balun treated Barrel's group not like prisoners, but guests. He gave them a place to stay and tended their wounds. The treatment was primitive at best, but since their injuries weren't severe, it was fine.
Night fell quickly, and Balun treated them to dinner. Tonight's meal was wild boar caught by the hunting party. Nothing fancy—just roasted over a bonfire. Tough and gamey as hell, but Barrel's crew devoured every scrap.
No complaints, so they must've been starving. They even sucked the bones clean, then noticed Balun staring and coughed awkwardly, faces flushing.
Balun stared at the embarrassed group and spoke in the Ironclad language.
"You eat well."
"Ah, yes. Delicious. Really."
"Liar."
"Huh?"
"This meat sucks. Super tough and rank!"
"Wha—no! It was delicious! Really!"
Barrel waved his hands frantically, smacking his lips for show. Balun tilted his head.
Really delicious? This?
They don't think I'm threatening them, do they?
That'd be kinda hurtful. He was trying to build rapport here. It was tasteless—no seasonings, just grilled boar. What flavor was there to enjoy?
"You ate well. Wounds all healed."
"Huh?"
Barrel froze. The words made no sense strung together without context. This barbarian just dumped random phrases.
But Barrel had street smarts honed by experience. He pieced together Balun's expression and the word salad.
Means we're recovering well since we ate like pigs, right?
"Ah, yes. Thanks to you... I don't know how to repay you."
He scratched his head, and Balun waved it off.
"Don't worry. Balun gets repaid anyway. Escape civilization!"
"Huh?"
"Nothing."
Balun winced. Too early to spill his guts. Slow build-up, step by step.
But are they getting it right?
He'd studied the language hard, but wasn't sure of his proficiency. What if they were twisting his words?
"Sleep full. Rest deep to build strength."
"Yes. Gotta. Strength's key to get home..."
Barrel trailed off. Balun glanced curiously—the firelight showed Barrel's face darkening.
"Why sad face?"
"Huh?"
"You look unhappy."
"Ah, well..."
Barrel exchanged looks with his men. They sighed heavily. Balun got the gist from that alone.
"Big problem. Bandits hit us, lost most mercenaries."
"So?"
"Not sure we can make it back. Only three mercs left—can they protect the caravan? Sigh."
Balun eyed him, then asked,
"Home far?"
"Home... not too far. But crossing the Gray Plains is the issue."
"Gray Plains..."
"Lawless there. Bandits everywhere. Run into any, we're dead."
"Hm."
Balun crossed his arms and nodded. He pondered like that for a while, then asked,
"Gray Plains very dangerous?"
"Huh?"
"Gray Plains fighters strong?"
"Gray Plains fighters? You mean bandits? Most are trash. Except a few elite bands."
Barrel continued.
"Some bandit groups are skilled. The Red Wolf Band that chased us—one of 'em. The ones you wiped out."
"Mounted guys?"
"Yes."
Balun nodded. So they were the Red Wolf Band. Explained the red headscarves.
"Their boss was an ex-knight. War veteran, even. Though you killed him, so he's gone now."
Barrel explained the bandit groups. This one had such features, that one had those... Balun listened intently. The rapid speech and fancy vocab meant he missed some, but the gist was clear.
So, most are pushovers. They just got unlucky hitting one of the bad ones.
Balun stroked his chin. By the description, they were seriously unlucky.
"All bandits mounted?"
"Huh? No. Only Red Wolf Band rides in the Gray Plains."
"Others don't?"
"Why would they? They'd sell the horse first. Most can't even ride."
Balun nodded. No mounted bandits on their route then?
No cavalry? I can handle that. Not regular army—just bandit trash. Even if there's a strong one or two, no biggie.
Balun ran the scenarios. Could he survive crossing the Gray Plains, fighting off bandits?
Yeah, doable.
Hope swelled in his chest. Risk seemed low, per the explanation. Unless double bad luck struck.
He'd love to account for that too, but realistically impossible. Control every variable? No way. Ditch 95% success for 5% failure fear? Balun was cautious to minimize risk, not some paralyzed coward. If he were, he couldn't hunt or fight wars. Barbarian life was too harsh for cowards.
Plus, three mercs. They'll help in a fight.
Balun decided. Timing was now.
"Even trash bandits are too much for us now. Three mercs can't protect us."
"I help."
"We can't just sit, so we gotta go... Huh?"
Barrel halted mid-sentence.
"What?"
"I help. Take you home."
"Huh?"
"Balun strong warrior. Trust me. Can get you there."
Balun thumped his shoulder.
Barrel gawked, speechless.
"Don't want?"
"Huh? N-no. Not that. Just sudden..."
Actually great. He'd seen how strong this barbarian was—soloed over thirty bandits.
But why? What reason to escort them after already saving their asses?
"You sure? Long way. Leave tribe. Tough challenge."
"That's it! Perfect!"
"Huh?"
"Ahem, I mean."
Balun cleared his throat. His inner thoughts kept slipping out.
"Balun warrior. Warriors always challenge. I want challenge. Makes great warrior."
"Hm, I see. Understood."
Barrel nodded at the BS. Bought it.
"Allow? Or no?"
"If you say so, yes. Please help us."
Barrel bowed. Balun grinned and nodded, then stuck out his palm.
"Then, pay up."
"Huh? What..."
"Money."
"?"
"Give money."
Balun rubbed thumb and finger. Barrel's face went blank.
Did this barbarian just say money?
Knows what money is? Ever seen currency?Where'd he learn that gesture?
Mystery barbarian.
"Balun take you home. You give money. Great deal."
"Sigh, fine. We'll pay."
Sudden demand startled him, but whatever. Like hiring a strong merc.
"Lots of money."
"Huh?"
"How many mercs originally?"
"Forty."
"Pay more than for forty mercs."
"Wha?"
"Not idiot. Try cheat, might kill."
"O-okay."
Balun mimed slitting throat. Barrel trembled and nodded. That glare was terrifying.
"Pay in city. Generously. Please don't kill..."
"No. Now."
"Huh? No money now. In city..."
"Liar."
Balun shook head, pointed at the wagons.
"Saw all money. In wagons."
Barrel sweated bullets. When did he see that?
"Hurry. Or no help."
Barrel gave up tricks and handed over the pouch—gold and silver mixed. Balun tossed it in the air, caught it jingling.
Jackpot. Settlement fund secured.
Next day. Balun, up early, sought Chief Turgan. The chief was sharpening his axe in the yard.
"Oh, Balun. Early bird—what brings you?"
"Something to say."
"What?"
"The prisoners I brought."
"Ah, the Ironclads."
"Taking them home."
"What?"
"Please allow it."
Turgan's eyes narrowed suspiciously. Balun thought,
Slipped out.
"Most perplexing."
"Yeah."
"What's your thinking?"
Spilled milk couldn't be gathered. Time to persuade.