The tension among the spearmen hadn't completely dissipated, but their earlier show of force had clearly allowed them to relax a little. At least now, they weren't wound so tight they might snap at any moment.
Arthur stood at the front of the group, his gaze sharp and focused like a hawk's, never straying from the bandits' movements.
It didn't take him long to notice that the bandits seemed to have reached some sort of consensus. They were regrouping, preparing for another attack.
On the caravan's side, they had barely managed to form a defensive circle. It was crude and hastily thrown together, but it was better than nothing—it gave them at least a semblance of resistance.
Geoffrey, ever the quick thinker, had deliberately left a gap in the formation. It wasn't much, but it allowed the group to adjust or retreat if needed.
Arthur issued a low, calm order: "Fall back in staggered formation. Watch your footing." His voice was steady and firm, like an anchor in a storm, grounding the nervous guards and giving them a sense of stability.
The spearmen began to retreat slowly, their movements cautious and deliberate.
Their earlier ferocity had clearly shaken the bandits, who now hesitated, unwilling to charge recklessly. In the back of the bandit ranks, a few of their leaders were shouting curses, even resorting to punches and kicks to force their men forward. But the chaotic commands weren't doing much to rally the group.
Then, suddenly, a burly bandit leader let out a furious roar. Wielding a massive machete, he charged forward, his movements wild and aggressive. It was clear he was trying to use his sheer momentum to inspire the others to follow.
Arthur watched the scene unfold with cold detachment, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Fools. Just a bunch of reckless mountain thugs. They've got courage, sure, but no discipline whatsoever.
If he had the choice, he'd rather face a group of farmers. Farmers might lack combat skills, but at least they were easier to command.
These bandits, on the other hand, were bold but utterly undisciplined—a weakness Arthur could exploit.
As the bandit leader and a handful of others charged forward, Arthur didn't hesitate. His voice rang out, sharp and commanding: "Halt! Thrust!"
The spearmen reacted instinctively, their training kicking in. They stopped in unison, adjusted their stances, and thrust their spears forward in a single, coordinated motion.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The sharp tips of the spears pierced the charging bandit leader. His body froze mid-charge, then crumpled to the ground, blood gushing from multiple wounds. He didn't even have time to scream.
The sight of their leader's gruesome death brought the bandits' charge to an abrupt halt. They froze in place, their earlier momentum evaporating in an instant.
This time, the bandits were completely demoralized.
No one dared to take another step forward. They stood there, glancing at each other with wide eyes, fear and hesitation written all over their faces.
Arthur seized the moment, ordering the spearmen to retreat back into the caravan's makeshift defensive circle.
Geoffrey rushed over as soon as they were back, his face a mix of awe and admiration.
He had witnessed the entire fight firsthand, and Arthur's performance had left him speechless.
"Sir Arthur, you truly live up to your reputation as a knight of the Count's elite order!" Geoffrey exclaimed, his voice brimming with genuine respect. "I've never seen such skill in battle—especially that counter-charge just now. It was nothing short of extraordinary!"
His words were full of praise, and for the first time, he began to wonder if Arthur's earlier "boasts" might not have been exaggerations after all.
When they got back to the city, Geoffrey resolved to dig deeper into Arthur's background. He wanted to know when Count Avington's knightly order had produced such a remarkable warrior.
But Arthur paid no attention to Geoffrey's flattery.
His focus remained on the battlefield as he quickly assessed the condition of the spearmen.
Fortunately, no one had been injured.
The crude leather armor they wore had done its job. One unlucky guard had taken an arrow to the chest, but the arrowhead had barely pierced the leather, leaving his skin untouched.
The others were completely unharmed. The length of their spears had allowed them to maintain a safe distance throughout the fight.
Arthur felt a wave of relief but couldn't help a small, mocking thought: Pathetic. If these bandits had been even halfway competent—trained militia, for example—this skirmish could've been far bloodier.
But these bandits were nothing more than a disorganized mob. Aside from their numbers, they posed little threat.
Wasting no time, Arthur began organizing the caravan's defenses.
He distributed weapons to everyone, assigning the caravan guards to key defensive positions. The porters and laborers were stationed at the rear, ready to reinforce the line if needed.
Arthur allowed the spearmen a brief rest but ordered them to remain alert, ready to respond to another attack at a moment's notice.
Meanwhile, the bandits were clearly locked in a heated argument.
Their earlier failure had left morale in shambles. Losing over a dozen men without gaining anything was a bitter pill to swallow, and the smaller leaders among them were struggling to accept it. If they retreated now, their authority would undoubtedly be questioned. After a round of shouting and bickering, they finally decided to press on with another attack.
This time, they tried to learn from their mistakes. They hastily assigned roles and attempted to organize themselves, hoping a more coordinated assault would break through the caravan's defenses.
But they had severely underestimated Arthur's preparations.
Standing behind the defensive line, Arthur watched their movements with a cold, mocking smile tugging at his lips.
"These idiots… do they really think they're some kind of army?" he muttered under his breath, his tone dripping with disdain.
To him, the bandits' so-called "organization" was nothing more than a desperate, futile attempt to salvage their pride.
The caravan's wagons, though crude, were sturdy enough to serve as makeshift barricades. Even a trained military force would struggle to breach such a defense without proper siege equipment. If it were up to Arthur, he'd have already prepared oil to set the whole thing ablaze. But these bandits weren't here to kill—they wanted loot, not scorched earth. Fire wasn't an option for them.
The bandits regrouped, clearly preparing for another charge. Yet their movements were still chaotic, lacking any real strategy or discipline.
Arthur stood motionless, his sharp eyes scanning their every move. His expression was calm, but his gaze was filled with contempt. Do they really think they can break through with this pitiful excuse for a plan? he thought. What a joke.
It wasn't arrogance—it was simply the truth. Without overwhelming numbers or the willingness to suffer heavy casualties, this ragtag group of bandits had no chance of breaking through the caravan's defenses.
And unfortunately for them, they had neither.
"Sir Arthur, should we… try negotiating with them?" Geoffrey's voice broke the silence, tinged with nervousness.
Clearly, he was starting to waver. The merchant was considering the possibility of paying the bandits off to avoid further bloodshed. After all, if they could strike some sort of deal, perhaps future trips along this route would be safer.
Arthur didn't even bother turning to look at him. His response was curt and dismissive: "Not yet. Negotiations only work after we've beaten them back. Otherwise, do you think they'll settle for a small sum? Do you think you can satisfy their greed?"
His tone was calm but carried an undeniable authority, leaving no room for argument. Deep down, Arthur knew the truth: one more failed attack, and the bandits would likely give up and retreat. Negotiation wouldn't even be necessary. These weren't hardened criminals—they were just desperate villagers playing at being bandits.
Of course, Arthur didn't bother explaining all this to Geoffrey.
There was no need.
As expected, the bandits launched another charge, their war cries echoing through the air.
This time, their movements were even more frantic, as if they were trying to overwhelm the defenders with sheer numbers.
But what awaited them was an even tighter defensive line.
The spearmen's long weapons thrust forward with precision once again, their sharp tips piercing through the bandits at the front. Those unlucky enough to climb over the wagons were immediately swarmed by the caravan guards, who cut them down before they could even swing their weapons.
The wagons, which had seemed like little more than dead weight earlier, now proved to be an impenetrable fortress, completely halting the bandits' advance.
Geoffrey, standing safely at the rear, let out a long sigh of relief as he watched the bandits falter once more.
"Turns out these bandits aren't so tough after all," he muttered, a hint of confidence returning to his voice. "All bark and no bite."
Hearing this, Arthur finally turned to face him, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
He knew all too well that once a client started thinking the situation was under control, they'd begin to undervalue the person who had made it so. Arthur wasn't about to let that happen.
Without hesitation, he shattered Geoffrey's newfound confidence.
"If I were leading those bandits," Arthur began, his tone calm but cutting, "I'd have burned this place to the ground first. Then I'd wait for you to flee in panic and pick you off one by one. If I wanted your money, I'd strike at dawn, when you're half-asleep and unprepared. Even if I had to attack head-on, I'd bring battering rams to smash through these wagons in minutes. Poisoning your supplies or setting up an ambush? Those are so simple I wouldn't even bother mentioning them."
Each word was like a dagger, slicing through Geoffrey's fragile sense of security.
The merchant's face turned pale as he listened, his earlier bravado crumbling. He stared at Arthur, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and awe.
Arthur's expression remained calm, but his words had done their job. Geoffrey now looked at him with a newfound respect—one tinged with unease.
Geoffrey couldn't help but think to himself: If this guy ever decided to switch careers and become a bandit, would anyone even stand a chance?
It was clear now—there was a world of difference between professionals and amateurs.
In that moment, Geoffrey abandoned any lingering thoughts of cutting costs. He silently vowed to himself: From now on, I'll spend the extra money to hire elite guards like Arthur. What's the point of saving money if you end up dead?
The battle raged on, but it was obvious the bandits' morale had completely collapsed.
After yet another failed charge, leaving more bodies on the ground, the bandits finally broke. They couldn't take it anymore.
They had come here to rob and make a quick profit, not to throw their lives away.
Without any signal or coordination, the bandits began to scatter and flee.
The cowards were the first to run, and soon after, the rest followed suit, turning tail and bolting for the hills. Even the small-time leaders, who had been barking orders earlier, gave up on maintaining any semblance of control and blended into the fleeing crowd.
A few of the more conscientious bandits stayed behind to carry off the bodies of their fallen comrades, but most didn't even bother. They abandoned the dead without a second thought, running faster than anyone else.
In the blink of an eye, the bandits were almost entirely gone.
All that remained were a few corpses they couldn't carry, along with scattered weapons and bits of gear left behind in their haste.
On the caravan's side, the tension finally eased. Many of the guards and workers collapsed to the ground, their legs giving out beneath them. Relief washed over their faces as they realized they had survived.
Most of them had been convinced they were going to die today. The fact that they had made it through felt nothing short of miraculous.
"Who would've thought we'd run into such a big group of bandits…" someone muttered under their breath, their voice trembling with lingering fear.
Despite the chaos, the caravan's losses weren't as bad as they could have been.
A few unlucky guards had been injured during the fight, and one had tragically lost his life. Several wagons had sustained varying degrees of damage, and some of the goods had been destroyed or lost in the scuffle.
But compared to the worst-case scenario—being completely wiped out and looted—these losses were almost negligible.