The brigand panted heavily, his face as pale as paper. He was wounded, bleeding profusely, and the mix of pain and terror made even breathing difficult. His lips trembled slightly as if he was struggling to keep himself composed, but the fear in his eyes betrayed him.
Dismas looked down at him and slowly unhooked the flintlock pistol from his belt.
"'No one'?" He chuckled, his tone light and teasing, but the pistol in his hand was steadily lifting, its dark barrel aiming squarely at the brigand's head.
Caedmic frowned slightly but did not intervene.
Reynauld stood silently to the side, his expression as stern as ever, neither stepping in nor stopping what was about to happen.
"Let's play a little game," Dismas murmured, his voice calm. His finger curled around the trigger as he pressed the muzzle closer, inch by inch, until the cold metal touched the brigand's forehead.
The brigand's breath hitched. His pupils shrank, and his entire body instinctively tried to recoil, but the wound on his leg held him in place, making escape impossible.
"You have one chance," Dismas whispered, then pulled the trigger.
Click—!
An empty shot.
The brigand flinched violently. His eyes lost focus for a moment, and sweat broke out on his forehead. He was frozen in place, as if he had just returned from the brink of death.
Dismas narrowed his eyes, observing his reaction, then—
Deliberately, he loaded a lead ball into the flintlock, poured in gunpowder, and locked the safety back in place, making sure the brigand saw every movement.
"Next time, it'll be real," he said softly.
The gun remained trained on the brigand's forehead, his voice as casual as if they were merely making conversation. "So, who hired you?"
The brigand gasped, his lips quivering as the last remnants of his composure crumbled.
"Wait… wait… I—I'll talk! Just don't shoot…" His voice cracked with panic, his head shaking frantically.
Dismas arched a brow, then glanced at Caedmic with a smirk, as if to say: See? This is how you make people talk.
Caedmic said nothing, merely watching.
The brigand's breath came in short, desperate bursts. He gritted his teeth, as though weighing how much he should reveal.
Caedmic's voice was calm but heavy. "Who ordered the ambush?"
The brigand swallowed hard before finally spitting out, "...Someone from town gave us the tip."
Dismas raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his gaze. "Oh? Someone from town?"
Reynauld's expression darkened slightly. "Who, exactly?"
The brigand hesitated, his lips trembling, but in the end, he spoke.
"We usually roam the forest, robbing passing caravans. A few days ago, some hooded man came to us. Said that a 'man who shouldn't return' would be passing this road in the next couple of days… If we killed him, he'd pay us handsomely."
Caedmic's gaze turned cold.
A man who shouldn't return—there was no need to guess; they meant him.
In the game, nothing like this had ever happened. Hamlet was just a starting point for the player, filled with scripted NPC interactions. But here, in reality, the danger was waiting for him from the very moment he set foot in town.
Someone knew he was coming. Someone wanted him dead.
Caedmic instinctively tightened his grip on his sword. The feeling… was completely different from the game.
He took a slow, deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. His tone remained steady. "Who was he?"
The brigand bit his lip, shook his head, and said hoarsely, "...I don't know. He never gave a name. Kept his voice low, wore a black cloak… but he had money. And he knew your movements."
He gasped for air and continued, his voice grave. "That bastard is definitely from town."
Caedmic clenched his fist slightly.
Who would know his whereabouts? A relative who didn't want him inheriting the estate? A party with conflicting interests? Or someone who knew the manor's secret—someone who didn't want him to return?
Countless possibilities flashed through his mind, but none had a clear answer.
Dismas, however, was unfazed. He pressed on, "And who are you people?"
The brigand hesitated before murmuring, "…We're deserters."
Dismas raised a brow, nudging the gun against the brigand's forehead. "Be specific."
"We—we were from the Red Hammer Corps," the brigand panted, his voice cracking from pain. "Two months ago, our unit was deployed to the south, but we didn't want to die there, so our captain led us in deserting."
Red Hammer Corps— In Caedmic's inherited memories, they were a northern border regiment tasked with hunting down outlaws and enemy raiders.
A strict, disciplined force. But if they had been sent south, that meant…
They were likely being used as expendable troops.
Dismas narrowed his eyes, still keeping the gun pressed against the man's forehead. "Go on."
The brigand swallowed hard. "There were eight of us. We fled all the way here and set up camp in the forest outside town. We got by robbing merchants."
Then, with a bitter chuckle, he added, "We thought we'd hit the jackpot this time… but we ran into you monsters instead."
Caedmic fell into thought. If the deserters had a camp, that meant they had supplies. Possibly even more information.
Dismas chuckled lazily. "So, boss—should we pay them a visit?"
Caedmic nodded slowly, his expression calm. "Of course."
Reynauld's cold gaze fixed on the brigand. "Where is your camp?"
The brigand gritted his teeth before answering, "Two miles east, in a wooded ravine. There's an old hunter's cabin—we set up there."
Caedmic's eyes darkened. "What's in the camp?"
"Three left…" The brigand's voice turned pleading. "And… our captain."
Dismas squinted. "How well armed?"
The brigand hesitated before forcing out, "…Better than common vagrants. Most of it's what we took from the army."
He took a shaky breath and continued, "There are two shortswords, a flintlock pistol, and the captain's gear—he carries a single-handed sword and a flintlock."
Reynauld's expression turned sharp. "So, he's your leader."
The brigand nodded weakly. "He's the strongest among us. We survived because of him."
Then, in a last desperate attempt, he begged, "Now that you know… can you let me go?"
Caedmic glanced at Reynauld and Dismas, waiting for their verdict.
Reynauld's tone was cold. "If we let him go, he'll warn the others."
Dismas scoffed. "Don't be naïve, little lord. You really think a man like this would keep his word?"
Caedmic stared at the wounded deserter for a moment, then finally spoke.
"We can't leave him alive."
The brigand's pupils shrank. Just as he opened his mouth—
"Bang!"
The flash of the flintlock lit up the night.
The bullet punched through the man's skull. His body jerked, then fell limp, lifeless.
Caedmic silently watched the corpse.
This was different.
This wasn't an enemy swinging a blade at him—this was a man he had chosen to kill.
But it had to be done.
Dismas holstered his pistol, tilting his head at Caedmic with a meaningful look. "Congratulations, dear employer. You've taken another step into 'reality.'"
Caedmic remained silent. He simply stared at the corpse.
The bullet wound on the brigand's forehead was a dark, shadowy hole under the night sky, with blood slowly seeping into the dirt.
He knew—this wouldn't end here.
Dismas flicked the barrel of his flintlock pistol, glancing at Caedmic with a lazy smile. "So, what now?"
He spun the pistol once in his hand and asked nonchalantly, "Shall we deal with the remaining three tonight? Or head back to Hamlet for a drink and come back tomorrow?"
Caedmic lifted his gaze and looked at Reynauld. He knew the knight's advice was always grounded in strategy.
Sure enough, Reynauld hesitated for a moment before speaking, "We should return to town first."
Dismas shot him a sideways glance, his expression turning serious. "Oh? And why's that?"
"We've already fought once tonight," Reynauld said, his voice steady and commanding. "You have some minor wounds. My shoulder took a shot. Caedmic may not be exhausted, but this was his first true battle of life and death. We all need time to recover."
Dismas let out a low, skeptical hum. "So you think we should leave now? Give them a night to realize their men are missing and let them get on high alert? Hell, by morning, they might be waiting with muskets primed, ready to ambush us."
Caedmic frowned slightly. He quickly weighed the pros and cons.
Attacking now meant catching the enemy off guard, ending the threat before they realized they were being hunted.
Waiting until morning, however, risked the brigands discovering their missing comrade and preparing accordingly—whether by fortifying their camp or fleeing altogether.
Here, things were far more complicated than in the game.
In Darkest Dungeon, he could save and reload whenever he wanted. But here, once a decision was made, there was no turning back.
He turned to Dismas. "What would you do?"
Dismas narrowed his eyes, rolling the flintlock in his hand. "If it were up to me? I'd strike now."
His tone was lighthearted, but there was no playfulness in his eyes.
"They have no idea we're onto them. If we move tonight, we have the element of surprise. If we wait until dawn, our advantage is gone."
He nudged the musket they had taken from the dead brigand with his boot. "Don't forget, we picked up some new toys—this rifle and another flintlock. We can put them to good use."
Reynauld's frown deepened. "We know nothing about their captain's skills. He's trained, disciplined. If we rush in unprepared, we could be walking into a trap."
Dismas smirked. "Afraid?"
Reynauld remained unshaken, his tone even. "No. I simply refuse to let you and Caedmic gamble on a fight we could approach with more certainty."
Caedmic's gaze shifted between the two men.
A nighttime raid meant eliminating the deserters before they became a greater threat. But their leader was not some common brigand—he was a veteran soldier. Stronger. More experienced. He might have already sensed that something was wrong.
If they returned to town, they could recover. But by the time they came back, the enemy might be gone. Or worse—waiting for them.
Caedmic inhaled deeply. He knew he couldn't hesitate. He had to make the call.
His eyes swept over Reynauld and Dismas before he finally spoke.
"…We strike tonight."
Reynauld frowned but didn't object immediately. He waited for Caedmic to explain himself.
Caedmic's voice was steady. "They won't expect us so soon. We can use that to our advantage and finish this before they realize we're after them."
He paused, his gaze growing sharper. "And we can't let their captain escape."
His fingers unconsciously curled around his sword hilt. "If he gets away—or worse, if he leads his men into Hamlet—we'll go from hunters to prey."
Then, he looked at Dismas and added, "And if we win, the spoils are yours."
Dismas' smirk widened. "I like the way you think, my generous employer."
Reynauld remained silent for a long moment before sighing.
"…Then we need a plan."
Dismas grinned, tilting his head. "You're right, Ser Knight. Let's talk about how we're going to kill them."
Reynauld paused for a moment, then replied, "Let's scout their camp first and decide our next move. Time is of the essence, so we should get going now."