Negotiation Breakdown, Death is Mandatory!
The Gray Plains had long been a lawless no-man's-land ignored by countless kingdoms, a haven for outlaws. But even there, a certain order existed. The unwritten rule: don't mess with folks in the same line of work unless you absolutely had to.
This order had taken root because even those who treated human lives like flies still cherished their own. They wanted to keep sucking the blood and coin from travelers for as long as possible, living fat and happy off it. A truly rotten mindset, reflected in that fragile peace.
One natural outcome of this was that bandit groups operating in the Gray Plains rarely got wiped out. As long as local lords didn't send out a proper extermination force, the unspoken code held firm. Unless, of course, some idiots bit off more than they could chew by hitting a major caravan and got slaughtered in revenge.
As far as Barrel knew, no such idiocy had happened in the Gray Plains for at least a month. That's why he'd flatly told Balun there were no bandits left besides the Red Wolf Band. No way a fresh pack could pop up out of thin air in just a month.
Foot-slogging thugs who couldn't even ride wouldn't suddenly scrounge up horses and master them overnight. There shouldn't be any bandits in the Gray Plains. Right?
Except... why the hell were there bandits here now?
"Oh ho? No answer?"
"Hey, you bastards. When the boss asks a question, you answer. Wanna die?"
"Hey, hey. Can't you see their faces? They're scared shitless. Might piss themselves, so ease up."
"Ah, boss. Gotta scare 'em just right to make 'em obey better, yeah?"
"I don't wanna smell piss."
"Fair point. Heh heh."
Barrel's body had gone rigid. But the instincts of a merchant who'd staked his life on trade routes for over a decade kicked in faithfully. He rolled his eyes, scanning the chattering bandits' outfits.
And spotted one glaring detail: the black hoods on their heads.
Bandits, black hoods. Not exactly unique. Plenty of thugs wrapped hoods around their heads to show off their "style." Black was as common as dirt.
But every single one was mounted, and they were hunting a "mounted group with red hoods"? That was distinctive.
And Barrel knew exactly who they belonged to.
"Lord Balun. Got it. Their identity. They're the Black Fang Band."
Barrel ground his teeth. How could their luck be this rotten?
"The Black Fang Band's leader, Doug, is brothers with Ralph, the former Red Wolf Band boss. He must've heard about his brother's death and come charging here."
Not a guess—certainty. Why else would a group that never operated in the Gray Plains be scouring it for red-hooded riders?
That part was solid. But one thing didn't add up: how the hell did he find out his brother was dead?
Did they have some artifact on them?)
Barrel's face hardened further. That would explain it. Magic was boundless, and artifacts infused with it were terrifyingly potent. If the brothers carried items that signaled life or death to each other, it fit perfectly. They were infamous for their tight bond, after all.
"Lord Balun. These guys are as notorious as the Red Wolf Band. Negotiation's unlikely. We have to fight. Quick, do something...!"
"......"
"Lord Balun. Why no response...?"
No reaction. Barrel turned. Balun was subtly backing away.
"......?"
Their eyes met. Doubt flickered in Barrel's.
"Lord Balun? What are you...?"
"Thinking up ways to kill mounted warriors."
"Pardon?"
"Red Fang warriors never retreat!"
Balun grumbled inwardly. Damn, embarrassing. How'd they have to show up right now?)
Truth was, he was spooked. Flat plains, not rough terrain—how do you beat twenty cavalry? Even if they weren't elite troops.
He'd never fought proper cavalry, but it looked impossible. Time to bail.
He'd been casing an escape route when he got caught.
Did they notice I was gonna run?)
"Lord Balun. Seems you didn't hear, so I'll explain again. They're the Black Fang Band, notoriously vicious..."
"No need. Heard it all."
Balun stepped forward, feigning composure. Years of daily survival documentaries had honed his poker face to perfection. Inside, utter mortification—but outside, the picture of a steadfast warrior.
"Balun means wolf's fang. Those guys? Black Fangs."
"Pardon?"
"Strongest fang in the world is Balun!"
Balun glanced around, spouting whatever came to mind. The three surviving mercenary guards had stepped forward like they were shielding the wagons, swords and shields at the ready.
They look scrawny... hope they can fight.)
Not reassuring, but better than nothing. At least they hadn't lost the will to fight. Those eyes burned with clear hostility.
Balun sized up the battle in his head. Four infantry vs. twenty cavalry. No contest. Head-on? Dead every time.
Merchants... no fighters.)
One option left. Heart pounding like a drum, Balun strode forward boldly. Barrel and the mercs tried to stop him, but he was adamant.
The bandits smirked at the sudden giant lunging ahead. Straw sandals, leather pants, bare-chested, massive axe, exotic looks. One of a kind.
"What the hell is that bulk?"
"Looks like a barbarian."
"Where'd they dig up this freak?"
"Yeah, barbarian mercs are rare as hell."
"Hey, you monkey bastard. Piss off and bring out the caravan boss, or I'll separate your head from your shoulders right now."
The bandits cackled, mocking Balun. He stared back, unblinking, slowly turning his head left and right like he was searching for someone.
"Oh ho, ignoring us? We're busy as hell."
"Boss. He's a barbarian. Probably doesn't know the common tongue."
"That so? Hey, scram! Die! Shoo! Shoo!"
"You?"
Balun's voice cut in. The bandits flinched. Clumsy pronunciation, but definitely continental common.
"What? He speaks?"
"You the boss?"
"Me? Yeah, that's me. So what?"
"I see."
Balun nodded and took a bold step forward. Blank-faced, fearless. The bandits recoiled—then he spoke.
"Mounted warriors. One proposal."
"Proposal?"
"Give lives."
"What?"
"Show mercy. Good warriors. No mercy. Bad warriors."
The bandits' eyes narrowed. Clunky words, but the meaning was clear.
"This punk threatening us, right?"
"Seems like it."
"Ha."
Doug, Black Fang Band leader, let out a hollow laugh. Did this fool not know who was begging whom? Classic barbarian nonsense.
"No? Give lives?"
"Guys. Gotta keep listening to this?"
"Nah. Just kill him."
Doug nodded, drawing his sword. His men followed suit.
Balun's face fell. Looked like attack time.
Damn, didn't work. Figures. Bandits ain't merciful.)
He'd misread completely. He'd meant "spare us," but it came out as provocation. Total reversal.
Kneel and beg? Might work?)
Balun shook his head. Nah. Look at 'em licking their chops.
"Negotiation breakdown. Death mandatory!"
As the bandits moved, Balun bellowed, yanking a hand axe from his belt. Gripped in his right hand, deep breath.
His muscled chest swelled. Before they charged, he hurled it.
Whoosh!
"Wha—"
The axe sliced air.
Thunk!
Straight into Doug's skull, vertical split.
"Uh."
Doug's eyes bulged, mouth agape, final groan as he tumbled off his horse.
Thud!
His corpse hit dirt unceremoniously. The spooked horse whinnied and reared.
Bandit formation shattered. But they were speechless. How? Decent range—hand axe dead-center?
"Balun killed enemy leader!"
Balun's roar broke the stunned silence across the plains.
"Come on! Balun kills all. Only death!"
Pounding his chest, eyes glaring, he advanced, menacing them.
Bandits frozen in shock. Leader dead before they could react.
Balun drew another hand axe, inhaled deep, feinted a throw.
Reaction.
"R-run!"
"Run?"
"Duh! That guy's bad news! Didn't you see? Boss is dead!"
"Fuck!"
Bandits wheeled their horses, fleeing for dear life. Balun chased a bit, fake-throwing—their speed doubled.
"They ran."
Balun smacked his lips regretfully, picked up his two axes from the dirt, and returned. Brushed off the soil and blood.
Then felt eyes on him.
"L-Lord Balun."
"Incredible...!"
Awe-struck gazes, practically tearing up.
Balun played it cool, dusting himself off. Inside? Near-faint.
Sh-shit. Lived. Holy crap.)
Plan: kill the leader first, shatter morale. Worked by luck.
"Loot the corpse."
"Pardon?"
"Find good stuff."
"Ah, yes!"
Mercs rifled Doug's body; merchants chased down his horse.
Balun calmed his hammering heart with his right hand. Left hand rubbed his crotch. Pants damp.
While unobserved, he smeared dirt over the wet spot, rubbing hard. Glanced around slyly.
Nobody saw, right?)
Sigh of relief. Good. Almost died of shame. Piss-pants barbarian? Unthinkable.
Not a full leak—just drops. Happens when you're scared stiff, sphincter loosens a bit. Normal.
* * *
Balun's group stripped Doug's corpse of everything worthwhile: longsword, three daggers, worn leather armor, small round wooden buckler on his forearm.
His horse had a saddlebag: two silver coins, hard black bread, dried jerky—packed full.
All Balun's by rights. Some eyed it greedily, but none dared complain.
They took Doug's head too. Bounty poster said he was wanted. Merc guild would pay.
And the horse. Balun suddenly owned one.
"Barrel. Sell all this for coin."
"Pardon? Oh, sell it, got it."
"Yeah. High price."
"Yes, sir. In the city, I'll convert it all and hand it over."
"Really?"
"Pardon?"
"Lie, die."
"Gasp! O-of course! Why would I cheat Lord Balun?!"
Balun kept the buckler, three daggers, rope, and head. Rest for sale. Didn't need it.
Horse tempting, but he couldn't ride. Buy one later if needed.
"Truly amazing, sir. How are you that good...?"
"Move out. Long road."
"Yes, sir!"
Thus, Balun's group crossed the Gray Plains toward the city.
* * *
No more bandit encounters after. Eight straight days—one brief run-in. Barrel was right; that one was rotten luck.
Made travel smooth. Experienced merchant knew safer paths—beast-free even.
Night camps with them, day marches. Eighth day: signs of human work. Wide highway. Occasional travelers.
Highway led to... something faint in the distance.
"Lord Balun! Look there!"
"Hm?"
"The city!"
Balun poked his head out the wagon. Barrel pointed.
"That a city?"
"Yes! Milford! In the Grandia Kingdom!"
Closer: silhouette sharpened. Elongated walls, huddled houses, bustling folk.
Balun's face lit up.
City! Real civilization!)
Tears welled. How he'd suffered surviving that savage tribe. Life-or-death struggles—heart-wrenching.
No more. Civilized world: safe.
Learn the language quick, figure out society, adapt. Then snag a decent house, steady job, live easy.)
Daydreaming, they reached the walls. Driver halted; two guards did a quick check.
Balun watched from the wagon: soldier gear, clothes, architecture, walls...
Medieval vibe, huh?)
Stroked his chin, nodding. First city: European medieval fantasy style, like movies/games.
Not disappointed. Expected it from Ironclad tales growing up.
Better than stone age. Grateful.)
Sudden commotion outside. Balun craned his neck.
Voices carried.
"No, can't go in!"
"C'mon, please let us...!"
"Told ya, no barbarians. No means no—quit yapping!"
"Why so strict? No such rule before."
"Just scram. Or ditch that filthy barbarian."
Balun caught snippets. Sounded about him.
"What's going on?"
Balun hopped out. All eyes on him.