Assault on the Golden Wing (2)
Golden Wing Merchant Group. It was a caravan managed by Bastel Hartwell, and it had been doing quite well. Some might even say Bastel had a knack for business. But behind that glamorous success story lurked the solid backing of his mother's family, the Baron Rosenmund household.
With the support of the Rosenmund Barons, who managed the largest merchant group in the Arcadia Empire, Bastel's Golden Wing had achieved dazzling growth.
However, the news brought by the servant was enough to startle Bastel.
"The caravan was raided?!"
Bastel's voice trembled. His hand gripped the servant's shoulder tightly.
"Explain yourself properly—what the hell does that mean?!"
The servant, pale with terror, stammered on in a quivering voice.
"Th-they... they got completely wiped out by bandits..."
"What?!"
At the word "bandits," Bastel's face twisted in disbelief. Golden Wing wasn't some easy target for petty thieves. It transported vital goods under the Rosenmund Baron's influence, protected by a formidable escort of contracted mercenaries.
This can't be happening!
Bastel's mind reeled in chaos. Rage boiled up, but he fought to regain his composure. Taking a deep breath, he asked calmly,
"What's the damage? What the hell was the caravan master doing in a situation like this?!"
But the servant's response went beyond anything Bastel could have imagined.
"That's just it... Th-they were all annihilated... The caravan master too... he's dead."
Bastel's legs gave way. He slid slowly to the floor.
"No way... It's all over."
"Oh dear, young master Bastel!"
The servant rushed to support him, but Bastel's eyes had already lost their spark. Even with his mother's family's support, it was his caravan. And now it had crumbled overnight.
Clutching at his last shred of hope, Bastel asked,
"The goods... the goods are safe, right?"
It was a faint wish, but the servant shook his head silently.
"......"
An expected outcome, really. Bandits ruthless enough to slaughter everyone wouldn't leave the cargo behind. If only the goods had survived, he might have rebuilt. But the losses were too devastating. Even with compensation and new hires, Golden Wing's reputation was shattered. Who would trust a caravan stripped bare by mere bandits?
Worse, if the goods were gone, the "items" supplied by the Rosenmunds were likely taken too.
What am I supposed to tell Mother?
Bastel's head throbbed. He didn't know exactly what those items were, but their value was immense. And now they were lost. This fiasco would surely end the Baron's support—his business was as good as finished.
Still, he had to save face. Struggling to his feet, Bastel rasped,
"Contact the surviving mercenaries. Now! Tell them to do something!"
To salvage any honor, he needed to at least look proactive. Fail that, and his own reputation would tank alongside the caravan.
Bastel glanced down the hall where his half-brother Ethan had passed.
What? Good news?
Bullshit.
The scene at Golden Wing was straight out of hell.
The once-proud flag bearing red wings fluttered in tatters. As one approached, the thick stench of blood assaulted the nose. Corpses lay scattered like discarded dolls across the ground, cold and stiff, surrounded by smeared bloodstains.
Their eyes—once belonging to merchants—stared wide in frozen terror.
Amid the carnage, a man in a black mask moved slowly. Each step squelched with sticky blood.
"......"
He scanned the surroundings wordlessly. His gaze was icy, yet keenly observant, missing no detail.
Suddenly, shadows materialized from the darkness—several figures, faces concealed, but their disciplined posture unmistakable.
One knelt and reported,
"Reaper, sir. We've secured all the bandits' escape routes. Your orders?"
The masked man's identity was Reaper. He turned slowly, and the air grew heavy.
Reaper had been investigating caravans invested in the mine under Ariel's orders. But an unexpected twist: one had been utterly destroyed by bandits.
"......"
The goods and people were gone. With damage this severe, Golden Wing had no chance of recovery.
Truth be told, Reaper didn't care about the caravan. But this case was special. Ariel's directive—to secure lists of investors and nobles tied to the mine—came from the vice-captain but ultimately from the captain himself. The captain surely had grand plans for that list.
And these lowly bandits had interfered.
"The nerve..."
A sharp, gravelly voice escaped his lips.
Fortunately, salvation remained. The orders included nobles too, and this was Bastel Hartwell's caravan. The owner lived.
Still, the interference stood. Reaper issued a firm command.
"You have one hour."
No one misunderstood. One hour—the bandits' last free moments.
But Reaper's men finished in under thirty minutes. They dragged in the fleeing bandits, unconscious, with the stolen goods as a bonus.
"Any backers?"
Reaper's question drew a headshake.
"Apologies, sir. I couldn't uncover their backers."
The bandits were already battered from rough interrogations. But Reaper's mission ended here.
"We're done. Withdraw."
The stolen goods could stay—the noble would reclaim them. Punishing the bandits exceeded his authority.
With that, they dumped the bandits and melted into the shadows.
Soon, the thugs stirred. Their leader, Jake, rose warily.
"Wh-where...?"
They'd raided Golden Wing and fled—clear as day. Then... mysterious figures had captured them.
"Ah...!"
But no traces remained. They'd even spared their lives and left the loot intact.
"Heh, bunch of idiots."
Jake sneered. He'd thought death certain, but he was fine. Flexing his limbs, he bellowed,
"Get up! Move the goods! We leave before they come back!"
But as he urged them, the air churned unnaturally. A faint mist rose, thickening rapidly.
"Huh? What the—?"
Clear skies, no rain—yet fog blanketed everything, swirling like a living thing.
Panic echoed in the silence, only ragged breaths audible.
How to process this absurdity? As Jake faltered, a faint sound pierced the fog: wheels scraping earth.
Someone's coming!
The noise neared. Jake barked,
"Everyone, stay sharp!"
White shapes emerged from the mist—carriages. But not ordinary ones. Stark white exteriors bore eerie crow emblems.
"Eek!"
Jake screamed at the sight ahead. No horses. Instead, a nightmare beast with six legs, pale and translucent, innards writhing visibly. Horns gleamed like blades on its head. No eyes—just a gaping skull-mouth lined with fangs.
Before horror could settle, the doors opened. Figures in white robes stepped out, faces veiled, exuding crushing pressure. The air chilled in their wake.
Terror silenced Jake. In the hush, they murmured casually,
"What rare toys after so long."
Their voices held delight. The talk continued.
"Right after the captain returns, so many toys—this must be his grace too. He'll love the gifts from our captain."
"Daring to disrupt the captain's plans... bold, and oh so grateful."
"Come now, time's short. Fresh toys like these must be enjoyed prime."
Chills ran down Jake's spine at their creepy banter. Escape? Impossible. Paralyzed like a mouse before predators.
"Board quietly."
Like puppets, they obeyed, piling into the spacious carriages. Doors shut, and the vehicles vanished into the fog.
As they departed, the mist lifted, leaving Golden Wing in profound silence.
"Well, this is..."
I sighed, surveying the scene. The grand dining hall glowed softly. The table brimmed with delicacies: steaming fresh bread, herb-scented roasted meats, vibrant vegetables and fruits—a feast fit for kings. Quality even my past life on Earth couldn't match.
So this is noble life.
Impressive in person. But one glaring issue: I was alone.
Father, Benedict Hartwell, was tied up with work. Stepmother and Bastel skipped dinner. Little sister Eloise was too young, fed separately by servants.
"Kinda lonely."
Is this family? A question arose.
Black Raven still hasn't claimed their reward?
Seems their skills slipped while I was away.
Time to drill them hard soon.
Resolving to issue orders for their improvement—not mine—I picked up my fork.