The edge of a breastplate appeared through the doorway first, followed by the towering figure of a man clad head to toe in full plate armor.
Breastplate, pauldrons, vambraces, cuisses—every piece fit snugly against his body.
The iron-gray armor looked like an unfinished set that had yet to be painted, but it already possessed all the defensive qualities of full plate.
“Wait!
Who’s in charge here?
Let’s talk.
There’s no need for this to end with both sides killing each other.
What do you want?” a gruff voice called out.
Rhoen raised his left fist.
Every soldier stopped at once, though they remained on full alert.
He strode forward at an unhurried pace, the rings of his mail shirt clinking softly with each step.
Standing 2.2 meters tall, he cast a long shadow across the beach until it reached the feet of the armored leader.
The man looked up.
He had to.
Among the bandits, he was already considered tall—half a head taller than the subordinate crouching behind the ship’s gunwale beside him, standing there like an iron tower.
But Rhoen was even taller.
When he tilted his head back, the bevor of his helmet caught under his chin, preventing him from craning his neck all the way.
All he could see was Rhoen’s jaw.
The armored man fell silent for a moment before pushing up his visor, revealing a fawning smile.
“My lord, I’m Walter,” he said, unable to completely hide the nervousness in his voice.
“I’m the owner of this ship.
These men are sailors I hired.
I’m a legitimate merchant—the kind who pays taxes.”
He paused, his gaze flicking toward the bushes behind Rhoen.
Five Battanian Fian Champions stood there with their bowstrings half drawn, their arrowheads glinting faintly with a cold light.
Walter quickly looked away and forced an even broader smile, the flesh on his cheeks bunching together.
“My men and your soldiers have already lost enough lives.
If this continues, neither side stands to gain.”
“So how about we negotiate?
I’d be more than happy to pay a tax to compensate you for your losses.”
He deliberately stressed the word “tax,” as though that single word could redefine the relationship between them.
Rhoen said nothing.
He took one step forward.
Walter instinctively retreated several steps.
When he realized what he’d done, shame and anger flushed across his face.
A dark red spread over his cheeks, even making the old scar across his face appear deeper in color.
Even so, he didn’t dare reach for his weapon.
The soldiers surrounding him watched him with unmistakable vigilance.
Their eyes made the warning perfectly clear.
Touch your weapon, and you’ll be skewered where you stand.
Rhoen stopped at the edge of the spear formation.
The soldiers parted their spears to either side, opening a gap for him.
Standing there, he looked down at Walter.
“Negotiate?
Very well.
I like negotiations.
But before we begin…” Rhoen said calmly, his voice as still as a windless lake, “…shouldn’t you show a little sincerity first?”
The moment he spoke, the beach fell silent.
Walter swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the bevor of his armor.
“O-Of course,” he replied.
I only have one request—spare us.”
Without waiting for Rhoen’s response, he beckoned behind him.
Two bandits carried over a wooden chest and set it down heavily on the sand.
Walter slowly lifted the lid.
Inside was a chest filled with brand-new Nilfgaardian florins, their golden luster gleaming enticingly.
“I’m not a Nilfgaardian.
This is just an ordinary merchant ship.
It’s not worth your trouble, my lord.”
He stepped aside, leaving the chest of gold completely exposed before Rhoen.
“As long as you agree…
it’s all yours!”
Rhoen looked at him.
Walter looked back at Rhoen.
“Have your men lay down their weapons,” Rhoen said, his tone as calm as ever.
“Then I’ll consider it.”
Walter’s hand hung at his side.
His fingers curled, then slowly relaxed again.
He was still smiling, but the warmth had vanished.
Only the upward curve at the corners of his mouth remained.
“My lord,” he said, his voice lower than before, “I’ll tell you the truth.”
“This ship is indeed a slave ship, and these men aren’t sailors.
But what does that have to do with me?”
His iron gauntlet dropped and tapped against his breastplate.
“I’m just the man who gets the job done.
The people above me told me to sail this ship here.
Why?
I don’t ask, and I don’t want to know.
The less you know, the longer you live.
I’m sure you understand that better than I do.”
His voice settled into a steady rhythm.
“You kill me, and they’ll send someone else tomorrow.”
“The day after that, the ships will keep sailing, the slaves will keep being transported, and nothing will change.
How many of them can you really stop?”
He paused, as if swallowing, then raised a finger.
“Keep me alive, and I can supply you with equipment.
I can feed you information too—which ships are arriving, when they’ll arrive, how many people they’re carrying.
You’ll know in advance.
If you want to ambush them, you can.
If you’d rather avoid them, you can do that too.”
“I have connections inside the Nilfgaardian army.
Nothing important, but I hear things.
Troop movements, patrol routes, which areas are under tighter inspections lately…
I’ll know before anyone else.
If you’re operating in Velen, that information is worth more than gold.”
“You see?
Everything I’m telling you is the truth.”
Walter spread both hands, palms facing upward.
He took half a step forward, his boots pressing softly into the sand.
He slowly shook his head.
“I can’t lay down my weapons.”
His right hand dropped to his side.
It didn’t grip the hilt of his sword—it merely hung beside it.
“I’ve survived for decades because I learned one thing.”
He looked Rhoen straight in the eyes.
“Never put my life in someone else’s hands.”
“So, my lord, you can take the money.
I can promise you the equipment right now.
As for the intelligence, give me a way to contact you, and I’ll deliver reports every half month.
As long as you nod your head, all of it is yours.”
“But I won’t lay down my weapons.
If you think we can still negotiate under those terms, then let’s negotiate.
If you don’t…”
He never finished.
Rhoen moved.
He didn’t draw a weapon.
He simply stepped forward.
Walter reacted half a beat too slowly.
Rhoen’s hands were already there.
His massive palms clamped onto both sides of Walter’s bevor.
All ten fingers tightened at once, and the mail links beneath the armor let out the harsh sound of metal snapping under unbearable strain.
Walter’s eyes nearly bulged from their sockets.
His hands shot up to seize Rhoen’s forearms.
He drove his legs against the ground, his iron boots gouging two furrows through the sand.
It made no difference.
Rhoen’s arms tensed, and both hands twisted in opposite directions.
Crack!!
Rhoen let go.
Walter’s body toppled backward, his face frozen in utter disbelief.
Rhoen looked down at the corpse.
The firelight flickered across his face, leaving half of it buried in shadow.
“First, I don’t negotiate with dead men.”
“Second, intelligence you can’t trust is worse than no intelligence at all.”
“Third, now that you’re dead, the money and the equipment are mine anyway.”
Everyone on the beach froze.
The recruits still held their spears leveled forward, the spearheads trembling faintly.
Erwin stood beside the chest, his glasses having slipped halfway down his nose.
He didn’t even bother pushing them back up.
Everyone was staring at him.
“What are you waiting for?
I said leave no one alive!!”
Miko was the first to move.
The spearpoints rose once more.
The shields locked back into place.
The spears crossed again.
Five squads went from standing still to advancing in the space of a single breath.
The beach once again filled with the clash of steel, the wet sound of spears piercing flesh, screams, and curses.
Rhoen stood beside the chest of gold without sparing Walter’s corpse another glance.
Behind him, the beach was left with nothing but fire and blood.