[June 29, 298 AC (Thursday) | Evening, 18:30 | Westeros > Deep in the Mountains of the Moon] Over the next five days, this already crumbling band of fugitives snowballed, drawing in the most vicious scum of the Mountains of the Moon.
The Black Ears, the Moon Brothers, and the Howlers appeared one after another.
The campfires in the canyon grew from just two to more than a dozen.
Once their numbers exceeded two hundred, the grand pie Tyrion painted with his words—promising the Vale of Arryn—could no longer cover up the deep-seated hatred in these Wildlings’ bones.
During these five days, Soren walked on thin ice.
He wasn’t afraid of Shagga’s axe or the Vale’s pursuers.
He was terrified that stepping on an ant by mistake might deduct his last remaining Honor Point and cause him to be erased.
To maintain that meager amount of Honor, he forced himself to become a “master psychologist of savages.” The night before last, a Moon Brother scout captured an herbalist running errands for Vale nobles.
They were preparing to skin him and hang him on a tree as a display of force, following their old customs.
Soren didn’t lecture them on chivalrous mercy.
Instead, he kicked over the Wildling holding the knife and cast out a far more poisonous bait with a cold sneer: “Skin him for a show?
That’ll only make Lysa Arryn send more armored knights to wipe you out.
Send him back alive with his pants soaked in piss to tell those Vale folk—Tywin Lannister’s son is bringing a hundred thousand mountain demons down the slopes.
Isn’t keeping those flatland softies awake in their castles with terror much more fun than a lousy piece of human skin?” Deeply impressed by this “insidious psychological trick,” the Wildlings laughed and let the man go.
And in his mind, Soren silently listened to the system notification for gaining points: [Protected innocent civilians].
As for the internal brawls over half a roasted sheep, which threatened to erupt into bloody blade fights at any moment, Soren managed to turn them into an art form as well.
Standard break-ups didn’t work at all.
He drew a circle in the camp and established a new rule: Want to grab meat?
Fine.
Put your knives away, get in the circle, and do arm wrestling or rock lifting.
Decisive vendetta fights that could have turned lethal transformed into games of brute strength, like stags in rutting season.
Relying on this extreme micro-management, walking the knife’s edge with bluffs and trickery, his Honor Points slowly climbed from the critical 1 point to 7 points.
However, this evening, the real troublemakers arrived.
Four Wildlings waded across the shallow stream and swaggered straight into the center of the camp.
They wore no decent leather armor, nor did they paint their faces, but each bore terrifying, dark-red burn scars across their chest, cheeks, or arms.
One man’s left ear cartilage had even been burned entirely away.
“It’s the Burned Men Shagga mentioned.” Bronn prodded his cheek with his tongue, spat out the weed in his mouth, and rested his hand on his hilt.
“The one leading them…
must be Timett Red-Hand.” To prove they felt no pain and had guts, these lunatics burned their own flesh over open flames for their coming-of-age ceremony.
And Timett, walking at the very front, was a ruthless killer through and through—his left eye socket was a hideous, charred bloody hole, carved out by his own hand using a red-hot knife during his ritual.
Timett’s single eye didn’t even glance at Tyrion sitting in the distance.
He walked straight up to the Stone Crows’ campfire and kicked over the simple wooden rack roasting a leg of mutton, sending it tumbling into the muddy ashes.
A young Stone Crow reached out to grab the meat, only to pull his hand back, scalded.
“Burned Men eat first,” Timett said, his voice raspy and low, sounding like a leaking bellows.
“Bullshit!” Shagga roared in fury, leaping to his feet.
The rusty, multi-pound battle-axe in his hand was raised high in an instant.
“Mutton belonging to Shagga son of Dolf will not go to fools who burn their own meat!” Timett glared with his single eye, completely unbothered by Shagga’s intimidating size.
He even let out a twisted, cold sneer, turning to look at Tyrion nearby.
“Listen here.
I don’t believe flatlander lies.
Killing this Halfman and taking his head down to the lowlands for iron and grain is much faster than waiting for him to deliver an empty Vale.” Before his words finished echoing, Timett unsheathed a serrated, coarse iron blade from his waist that had been heated in the fire.
With a reverse slash, he aimed directly for Soren’s throat!
The Burned Men never wasted breath; they only used blood to prove who ruled.
Bronn’s eyes narrowed.
Just as he was about to draw his sword, he realized it was unnecessary.
Soren’s pupils contracted.
His Agility of 22 unleashed fully in that moment.
Dodging with a swift sidestep, he barely avoided the lethal strike.
The searing blade skimmed past his chin, leaving behind a burning smell.
Before Timett could change his posture, Soren’s left hand struck out like an iron vise, locking onto Timett’s blade-wielding wrist!
Their strength collided in midair with a crash.
The combined force of 18 Strength and 22 Agility was enough to overturn a bull, but Timett’s arm was like a rooted oak.
In the brief stalemate, he actually held his ground against Soren’s pressure.
Even more terrifying, amid the creaking crackle of compressed bones, Timett didn’t retreat.
Instead, he twisted his wrist into Soren’s force, allowing his own joint to scream on the verge of dislocation, just to force the glowing-red tip of the blade inch by inch toward Soren’s eyes!
This berserk state of completely disregarding losing his own hand filled the confrontation with barbaric violence.
Soren’s brows furrowed tightly.
Pain and pure physical suppression meant nothing to this self-mutilating lunatic.
Ordinary suppression wouldn’t work.
Forcing a kill would inevitably trigger a bloody, costly battle.
Soren took a deep breath and decisively issued a mental command.
[Consume single-use auxiliary check: Inciteful Speech (Beginner).] [Notice: Speech approach and psychological pressure success rate significantly increased.] Soren smoothly released Timett’s wrist, using the momentum to step back half a pace, causing Timett to lose his balance and fall.
Soren turned to meet Tyrion’s gaze, and in a fraction of a second, the two exchanged a tacit understanding.
Tyrion nodded slightly, handing full authority over to him.
Soren slammed his scabbard against a nearby boulder, the crisp bang ringing out and subduing the entire camp.
“Lord Tyrion gives his command!
A new rule is set for the Mountains of the Moon!” Soren’s full-throated voice echoed across the camp.
Enhanced by Inciteful Speech, every word landed like a sledgehammer.
“From this day forth, any tribe along the way that refrains from internal strife and refrains from killing allies will not only pick steel swords and chainmail first when we reach the flatlands, but will also receive double the gear of anyone else!
As for those who cause trouble and strike down allies first, they get only the broken junk others leave behind—or nothing at all!” The Wildlings began whispering to one another, the bloodlust in their eyes gradually replaced by calculation.
“Pick first” and “receive double”—this stark, massive difference in self-interest instantly gripped the core of greed in every mountain clan.
“And if anyone dares to be the first to kill an ally,” Soren delivered the second, even more lethal rule, “not only will I withhold swords from him, but I will also suggest Lord Lannister put a bounty on his head.
Ten suits of chainmail for it!” Soren knew the nature of these mountain clans all too well.
If a bounty of ten suits of chainmail hung over a chief’s head, brothers who shared drinks last night would slice off his head while he slept tonight to claim the loot.
Timett rubbed his swollen, deformed wrist as he stood tall, his single eye still locked onto Soren.
“Rules are made for those who fear death.
The Burned Men do not fear death.” “I know you don’t fear death.” With Inciteful Speech active, persuasive arguments surged naturally into Soren’s mind.
He didn’t speak of profit; instead, he struck with surgical precision at the core of Timett’s madness.
“Gouging out an eye and burning your own flesh can indeed make the Burned Men fear you,” Soren’s voice was low and magnetic.
“But if you spend your whole life hiding in these stony hills scaring a few savages, you’re nothing more than a lunatic.” Timett’s single eye narrowed.
“However, if you bring the Burned Men down the mountain with me,” Soren looked straight into his eye, “and let those self-important knights of the Vale and lords of the Westerlands witness true madness on the plains for the first time—letting all of Westeros remember the name ‘Red-Hand’…
that is true terror.” Timett’s breath hitched.
Soren’s words were like a venomous thorn, plunging deep into his innermost ambition.
Yet he did not submit immediately.
Timett kicked up the iron blade resting near his feet, its handle still glowing faint red with embers, and aimed the tip at Soren.
“Lowlanders have sweet tongues.
Prove your courage matches your words.” The entire camp held its breath.
Soren did not back down.
As he crouched to pick up the blade, his palm subtly smeared across the damp mud and plant ashes near the stream—utilizing the Leidenfrost effect from evaporating water and the thermal insulation of ashes.
Then, with an expressionless face, he reached out and firmly gripped the glowing-red back of the iron blade!
“Sizzle—” A harsh searing noise echoed alongside rising white smoke.
The damp mud dried instantly, and the staggering heat broke through his defense, burning his flesh.
Blisters erupted across Soren’s palm, and excruciating pain caused the corner of his eye to twitch slightly, but he didn’t even knit his brows.
He forced the blade back in front of Timett.
“My fire is only used to burn my enemies,” Soren said coldly.
Timett stared at the blade, then at Soren’s burned hand.
He submitted to no one, but this brand of madness—even more rational than his own—convinced him that this gamble was worth following.
“The Burned Men will walk with you for a spell,” Timett took the blade and snorted coldly.
“If the Halfman lies, I burn his tongue.
If you’re a coward, I chop off that hand.” With that, Timett turned and led his men to the edge of the camp.
[Ding!
Quelled a bloody conflict with absolute martial force, interest structures, and verbal maneuvering, establishing preliminary order.] [Honor Points +2.
Current Honor Points total: 9/100.] Tyrion leaned against a wooden post nearby, lightly clapping as he watched the seamless display.
“A masterclass in leadership, Soren.” The dwarf smirked, his mismatched eyes full of admiration.
“Dangling double profits as bait, then taming a lunatic with ambition and audacity.
I’m not even sure my father could train them to be this obedient in five days.
Did you spend time at the Citadel before?” “Learned it in piles of dead bodies, that’s all.” Soren walked back to Tyrion’s side, rubbing his reddened palm.
“That trick works, but it won’t keep you alive in a pile of corpses.” Bronn tossed Soren an unsharpened scrap heavy sword.
“Catch.
Itching for a workout?” Over the past few days, Soren and Bronn had formed an unbroken habit.
Whenever they made camp, they would spar for real.
Soren drew the old sword.
Although the system-provided [Wandering Swordplay (Proficient)] was strong, it was only a dimensional strike against savages; against true experts, he severely lacked dirty combat experience.
“Clang!” The two swords clashed.
Bronn didn’t care about formal forms at all.
Pinning Soren’s practice sword with his blade, he raised his elbow and slammed it toward Soren’s throat!
Soren leaned back to dodge and tried to retreat.
Bronn’s knee was already incoming, aiming for Soren’s inner thigh and crotch from a treacherous angle.
Forced off balance, Soren stumbled back two paces.
By the time he raised his head, Bronn’s blade tip was resting firmly against his chest.
“Your slashing motions are clean, and your explosive power is like a bull,” Bronn mocked mercilessly, tilting his head.
“But if I wanted to kill you, I’d throw sand in your eyes, slice your Achilles tendon while you’re blind, or crush your nuts.
Swords are just for finishing the job.” Soren panted heavily.
Bronn was right: in a fight without rules, Wandering Swordplay wasn’t dirty enough.
“Again,” Soren reset his stance.
He closed his eyes, quickly replaying Bronn’s underhanded moves in his head.
In the next exchange, when Bronn closed in again, Soren didn’t defend.
He ducked, grabbed a handful of dry ash near the campfire with his left hand, and hurled it viciously at Bronn’s face!
The instant Bronn instinctively closed his eyes and dodged, Soren turned his wrist and smashed the heavy iron pommel of his rusty sword hard into Bronn’s ribs.
“Thump!” Bronn let out a muffled grunt and fell back two steps.
Clutching his ribs, he hissed through cold air and grinned.
“Damn it, you learn fast!” [Ding!
Detected host undergoing high-intensity, no-holds-barred combat training.] [Comprehended advanced practical combat skills.
Activated White Trait: [Black Blade Initiate].] [[Black Blade Initiate] (White): Success rate and fluidity of all non-traditional attacks such as sand-throwing, crotch-kicking, and elbow strikes increased by 15%.
Note: White traits cannot be upgraded through training; they can only be overwritten or consumed.] The system sound in his mind made Soren smile slightly.
Dirty, sure, but absolutely practical.
Just as night fell completely and quiet snoring settled over the camp, the system flashed again: [Phase Target 1 Progress Update: Mountain Clans Preliminary Integration.] [Evaluation: Host continuously avoided meaningless slaughter and established basic constraints.] [Phase Compensation: Honor Points +1.] [Current Honor Points: 10/100.] [Congratulations to the host for surviving!
Honor Points have exited the critical state, reaching the first milestone threshold!] [System Trait Draw Mechanic unlocked.] [Currently, you may draw one of the following three temporary White Traits (valid for 10 days) as a phase reward:] [A: [Eagle-Eye Flash]: Slightly increases visual distance and night perception, marginally increases dodge rate against ranged projectiles.] [B: [Marching Hooves]: Reduces walking energy consumption by 20%, lowers chance of spraining ankles.
No bonus for riding.] [C: [Intimidating Vocal Cords]: When shouting loudly, grants an extra 5% psychological suppression effect, especially effective against weak-willed targets.] Looking at the three traits before him, the corners of Soren’s mouth twitched violently.
“What kind of trash is this?” Soren complained furiously in his mind: Option A’s night perception was something he had had since the beginning with Basic Beast Vision; Option B, lower chance of spraining ankles?
He had 18 Strength and Physique right now, built like an ox—did the system take him for a draft horse pulling a mill in Westeros?
Still, among these mountain clans who ruled by lung capacity, axes, and scars, the third one was at least the most useful.
Soren sighed.
“I choose C,” Soren decided helplessly.
[Temporary Trait [Intimidating Vocal Cords (White)] equipped, valid for 10 days.] Soren touched his throat, feeling no obvious difference.
He looked up toward the pitch-black end of the canyon.
Tomorrow, who knew how many troubles would await this patch-covered troupe?
But at least now, he had another trick up his sleeve.