"This can't be happening!"
The bandit wielding the long sword was terrified.
Moments ago, they had the upper hand—how had everything changed so quickly?
The bandits were no longer intent on fighting; they wanted to run.
"Sir, please spare us!"
But Borne had no intention of leaving any of them alive.
He gathered energy in his core.
His right arm began to tense and charge.
With a swift step, he closed in on the bandit, who had no time to react.
*Impact Fist!*
Aimed at the bandit's abdomen, Borne's right fist shot through his stomach, sending blood and entrails spraying backward in a fan-like arc.
The long-sword-wielding bandit coughed up blood and collapsed, dead before he even hit the ground.
The force of Borne's punch blew the surrounding dust and sand into the air.
Borne looked down coldly at the fallen bandit.
He knew that if he spared these bandits, the nearby villagers would inevitably suffer at their hands in the future.
The bandit with the long sword fell backward, landing in a pool of his own blood.
Borne picked up the long sword and methodically slashed down at the heads of all five bandits.
Then he began to clear the battlefield.
He gathered five homemade bows, seven arrows, one long sword, a spear, a pitchfork, and two staffs.
He let out a sharp whistle, and his brown warhorse, Radish, came galloping over from the hill.
He placed the weapons across the horse's rump, securing them with a length of rope, then gave the horse's head a gentle pat.
The five bandits had only eleven copper coins between them, with nothing else of value.
Borne dragged their bodies to a spot further from the road and covered them with sand.
Unfortunately, he didn't have any lime powder with him.
He placed the five heads in a hemp sack, tying it securely to his belt.
He planned to investigate the area around the mountain base first to see if there were any signs of the Thunder Tiger, and then return to the village to let the village chief claim the bounty.
For Borne, these five heads were only a minor achievement, far from enough to earn a promotion—they were of little use to him.
The blood-stained man and his horse continued along the dirt road.
Along the way, Borne carefully observed both sides of the path, looking for any unusual claw marks or traps.
A gentle breeze blew through Borne's hair. After the recent battle, he remained vigilant and cautious.
"It seems there are no signs of the Thunder Tiger or more bandits," he thought.
Borne turned his brown warhorse around and headed back toward the village.
He felt a sense of calmness throughout the journey.
"Hopefully, these heads will be of some help," he mused.
The village came back into view, and the familiar glow of the fire still shone brightly.
However, he noticed that the door to the village chief's house was left open.
Borne cautiously approached the entrance and heard the old man's heavy sighs from inside.
"What should I do, oh…"
He opened the door and asked the chief what had happened.
"What's going on?"
Seeing Borne had returned, the old man quickly put away his worried expression and smiled, asking.
"Sir, why are you back?"
Borne untied the sack from his belt and said to the elder.
"I heard you sighing repeatedly outside the door just now, so I thought you might have something troubling you."
The old man's face showed a hint of concern.
"The village's able-bodied men have all been taken away for forced labor, and the harvest is becoming less and less. I'm too old to work anymore," the elder said, holding his left leg.
Borne was momentarily stunned.
"What happened?" he asked, puzzled. Seeing Borne's lack of understanding, the elder explained:
"Every autumn, the stewards come with monks to collect taxes. At first, we could scrape together enough to pay, but as time went on..."
The old man paused, letting out another heavy sigh.
"The authorities increased the taxes, and we had to pay a tithe every year. Gradually, no one could afford it anymore. Those monks came and took the men from the village away."
Borne was taken aback; he had no idea this was happening while he was in the army.
"When I was young and freshly discharged, I could still get some support, but later they canceled the subsidies," the elder's voice trembled, on the verge of tears.
"Now, life in the village is getting harder and harder. A few years ago, my two sons were also taken for forced labor, and they haven't come back since."
Borne quickly raised the burlap sack in his hand.
"Take this, go and find someone to claim the bounty immediately."
The old man accepted the bag and asked, "What's in here?"
"These are the heads of five bandits from the area."
When Borne finished speaking, the old man suddenly looked distressed.
He opened the bag, looked at the heads inside, and his face grew sorrowful.
His cloudy eyes showed no light, and his brows furrowed deeply.
"It's them, isn't it? Ah, in times like these, the world turns men into living ghosts," he murmured.
Borne froze and asked, "You know them?"
The old man wiped away his tears and replied.
"These men were once the most capable in the village, but when they couldn't afford the taxes anymore, the monks seized their houses and land. Soon, they had no choice but to flee the village and hide in the woods."
Hearing this, Borne's expression stiffened, realizing he might have done something wrong.
"It's alright; you did the right thing. You don't need to feel uneasy about it. These five went on to commit many crimes afterward; they brought this upon themselves," the old man reassured him.
"You should take their bodies away. This bounty won't sustain us for long."
"No, you should keep it," Borne insisted. "It may not be much, but it can help you get through these difficult times."
He left the bag behind, saluted the elder with a formal military gesture, and left.
The sun shone down from above, casting its light on the ground and his body, but Borne felt no warmth—only an overwhelming chill.
Looking around, the village could no longer be described as "quiet"; it felt desolate everywhere.
Borne mounted his warhorse and left the village.
As he rode, memories of things his grandfather had said to him as a child and the scenes he had witnessed came flooding back.
"These past few months, we haven't caught enough game, and the taxes are coming due soon. I'm not sure we'll make up the difference."
"I'll go into the mountains in the next few days and see if I can catch some more," his father had said.
Young Borne had peeked through the crack in the door, watching his grandfather and father, their faces drawn with worry.
Back then, Borne only thought that when the leaves fell and the wheat in the fields ripened, the village would become lively, because many people in black clothes would come.
He saw those people taking things from the neighbors' houses, and when they came out, for some reason, the neighbors were bound with their hands tied.
Before long, those people came to Borne and his grandfather.
Borne saw his grandfather handing over most of the furs and meat they had.
The strangers looked around their house before finally leaving.
Borne had asked his grandfather why those people came to the village and why they took the neighbors away.
His grandfather didn't answer; he puffed on his pipe, letting the smoke obscure his expression.
He just quietly sat beside Borne, gently stroking his head.
Remembering these moments, Borne felt a deep discomfort in his heart.
The wind blew against his face as he slowly disappeared down the road.