From the caravan's route, it was clear that this stretch of the journey made up about a third of the entire trip. Yet, along the way, there were barely any villages, and the population was pitifully sparse.
This was obviously no ordinary trade route.
If it were just for regular business, this path would undoubtedly leave the caravan bleeding money.
Arthur mulled it over silently: If this job involves smuggling contraband, I might need to renegotiate my fee.
Geoffrey, clearly noticing Arthur's doubts, hesitated briefly before speaking with a calm demeanor. "This area is rich in furs, which are excellent materials for making leather armor. Thanks to my master's connections, we can trade with a few of the local villages. That's why we have to take this route."
"I see," Arthur nodded, gradually piecing things together. Perhaps this was the real reason the caravan needed to hire guards.
Bandits weren't always professionals.
In a place like this, mountain folk could easily grab a piece of cloth to cover their faces—or not even bother with that—pick up a hoe or a hunting bow, and suddenly transform into "bandits." The furs they just sold to you could just as easily be "reacquired" for free the moment your back was turned.
Still, a job's a job. You take the money, you solve the problem.
Arthur wasn't surprised by any of this.
He'd seen real bloodshed before, so these petty tricks didn't faze him.
At the end of the day, as long as your blade was sharp and fast enough, even the fiercest bandits could turn into "friendly and hospitable" locals.
If not, well, you'd just have to use force to make them "see reason."
Although Arthur didn't think much of these so-called bandits, he knew better than to underestimate them.
Strategically, you can look down on your enemy. Tactically, you must always be prepared.
He quickly gave orders to tighten security, snapping the soldiers out of their relaxed state.
The Falcon Caravan didn't have many long-term clients, which suggested that the caravan's backers didn't have much influence in this region. Still, since they had established relationships here, the trades went smoothly enough.
As the caravan prepared for the return trip, only two more villages remained on the route.
But Arthur's sense of caution only grew stronger.
He knew the caravan wouldn't risk taking this route without good reason. If the journey had been relatively peaceful so far, the real danger was likely waiting in the final stretch.
Especially the last two villages, which were deep in the heart of the forest.
As the caravan drew closer to these areas, the atmosphere grew increasingly tense. The seasoned caravan members, who had traveled this route before, became noticeably quieter, while the guards instinctively tightened their grips on their weapons.
This oppressive tension was a heavy psychological burden for the newer recruits.
Arthur understood that a certain level of pressure could help people grow, but too much would only lead to collapse.
The guards under his command weren't battle-hardened veterans—they were just a bunch of green recruits fresh off the farm.
To ease their nerves, Arthur decided to "embellish" his past a little.
"Relax, don't be scared," he said in a deliberately rough tone. "Back in the day, I killed so many bandits I lost count. Hell, I've even got Orc heads hanging in my living room as decorations."
The story was so absurd it bordered on ridiculous, but Arthur delivered it with such a straight face that it sounded completely believable.
In truth, he had participated in a few skirmishes against bandits, but the number he'd actually killed could be counted on one hand. As for Orcs? He'd never even seen one.
But the recruits didn't know that.
Arthur's status as a knight gave his words an air of authority, and his vivid storytelling quickly drew them in.
Arthur had watched plenty of fantasy shows and movies in his previous life, like Game of Thrones and The Lord of the Rings. While those stories had little to do with reality, they were more than enough to impress these farm boys.
He painted a colorful picture, describing the bandits as a bunch of weaklings who couldn't put up a fight, while portraying himself as a hero who cut them down effortlessly.
Gradually, the guards began to relax, and the tense atmosphere eased. This was exactly what Arthur wanted—to keep them alert but not paralyzed by fear.
As for the bandits, whether they were as weak as Arthur claimed was anyone's guess. But one thing was certain: these makeshift "part-time bandits" weren't likely to have any real organization or discipline.
A thunderous crash shattered the forest's silence as a massive boulder tumbled down from somewhere above, slamming onto the road ahead of the caravan and kicking up a cloud of dust.
Yet, for all its dramatic flair, this "ambush" was utterly ineffective—it didn't even scratch the caravan.
Moments later, a ragtag group of bandits emerged from all directions, waving an assortment of weapons and screaming at the top of their lungs.
A few stray arrows flew out from the forest, weak and poorly aimed, more like hunting arrows fired half-heartedly than a real threat.
Aside from one unlucky guard who got hit in the backside, everyone else was unharmed.
Still, the psychological pressure on the rookie guards skyrocketed in an instant.
After all, when you're armed with short weapons and facing arrows—no matter how feeble—they're enough to make anyone nervous.
Arthur had anticipated this.
Calmly assessing the situation, he barked out orders the moment the bandits appeared. "Circle the wagons! Everyone fall back to the center, now!"
The caravan guards, though panicked, began moving sluggishly to form a makeshift defensive ring around the wagons under Arthur's sharp commands.
"Move faster! You're not snails!" Arthur's voice cracked like a whip, snapping the recruits out of their daze.
Geoffrey stood off to the side, pale-faced and visibly shaken by the scene unfolding before him.
Though he'd traveled far and wide and seen his fair share of trouble, this was the first time he'd encountered an ambush of this scale.
Watching Arthur take command without hesitation, Geoffrey felt no resentment—only relief.
After all, this wasn't his area of expertise.
"How did it come to this?" Geoffrey muttered to himself, his eyes scanning the scattered bandits. A rough count put their numbers at over two hundred.
In contrast, the caravan's guards barely numbered a few dozen. They were hopelessly outnumbered.
"I knew this trip wasn't safe. I should've hired more people…" he muttered regretfully under his breath.
Deep down, Geoffrey understood the situation all too well. Thanks to Count Avington's connections, his trading company had opened up a lucrative new trade route, but it had inevitably encroached on others' interests.
The mountain folk might have been slow to react at first, but sooner or later, jealousy and desperation would drive someone to act.
This ambush was likely inevitable.
But greed and a gambler's optimism had blinded Geoffrey to the risks. Hiring more guards would've meant higher costs, and for a merchant, profit was always the priority.
Arthur, however, paid no attention to Geoffrey's regrets.
His focus was entirely on the battlefield.
"Numbers don't win battles," Arthur muttered with a cold smirk as he dismounted his horse.
He knew this ordinary nag would be useless in combat—more of a liability than an asset.
Drawing his steel longsword from his belt, Arthur's sharp gaze swept over the caravan guards, who were still fumbling to form a proper defensive formation. He calculated quickly: I need to buy them some time.
The caravan guards weren't professional soldiers. Their movements were slow, their coordination clumsy.
Arthur took a deep breath and shouted, his voice booming like a war drum. "Spearmen, form up! Interlock your ranks and prepare to charge!"
His commanding tone cut through the chaos, rallying the guards.
The rigorous training he'd drilled into them was finally paying off. The spearmen moved to follow his orders, their actions still a bit awkward but no longer panicked.
In stark contrast, the bandits were a complete mess.
They charged at the caravan, weapons flailing, shouting incoherently, with no semblance of organization.
A few bandits who seemed to be their leaders tried to rally them, but each had their own ideas—some wanted to charge, others hesitated, and a few were already thinking about retreating.
Arthur watched the disorganized mob with a cold, calculating smile. He knew these bandits were no real threat.
"Spearmen, advance! Hold your formation and prepare to thrust!"
The fifty-foot gap between the caravan and the bandits closed quickly as the spearmen advanced in a tight formation, their long spears angled forward for maximum reach and impact.
"Thrust!" Arthur roared.
The front line of spearmen lunged forward in unison, their spears piercing through the bandits at the front with sickening ease. Blood sprayed into the air as the bandits crumpled to the ground.
The bandits who tried to dodge found themselves trapped, as the second line of spearmen stepped up to fill the gaps, maintaining the relentless pressure.
"Pull back! Thrust again!"
The spearmen moved like a well-oiled machine, repeating the simple but effective motions: thrust, withdraw, thrust again.
The results were devastating. The bandits, untrained and uncoordinated, were no match for the disciplined formation. They fell like wheat before a scythe.
The front ranks of the bandits were decimated, and the rest began to falter.
Some tried to break the spears with their weapons, but the second line of spearmen easily countered their clumsy attempts.
The true nature of the bandits—a disorganized rabble—was laid bare.
Some tried to charge, others hesitated, and many outright turned and fled.
The so-called leaders of the bandits screamed themselves hoarse, trying to rally their men, but no one listened.