Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 453

Chapter 453: Fight evil for good(2) Chapter 453: Fight evil for good(2) The battle was over.

The forest clearing, once filled with the clash of steel and the screams of dying men, had fallen into grim silence.

The bandits who had chosen to fight lay strewn across the ground, their lifeblood soaking into the dirt, watering the ground with their life essence.

Those who had tried to flee had not made it far-skewered from behind by relentless pursuers, who found themselves not to have much mercy for a kind that thrived on attacking harmless people.

A handful had thrown down their weapons and surrendered, now forced to their knees, hands bound behind their backs as they awaited whatever judgment was to come.

Robert took it all in with a cold, assessing stare.

There was no glory here, only bodies and the stink of death.

His focus shifted as he turned toward the men who had called for him.

They were already moving, vanishing into the largest tent in the camp-a ragged but sturdy structure, likely where the bandits had stored their most valuable goods.

Or, as they had said, their prisoners.

His boots crunched against the bloodied ground as he made his way forward, pushing aside the tent’s heavy fabric and stepping inside.

Inside the tent, the air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, damp straw, and something foul and yet human.

The dim light filtering through the fabric walls cast eerie shadows over the figures within.

Women.

Dozens of them.

Huddled together.

Their clothes-what little they had-were torn and filthy.

Their faces, streaked with dirt and dried tears, carried the same look: hollow, distant, and afraid.

Some clutched at each other, their thin fingers digging into the flesh of their companions as if grounding themselves to something real.

Others shrank back, pressing themselves against the wooden poles that supported the tent, their eyes flitting toward the entrance like cornered animals awaiting the next cruel hand.

Robert did not need to ask what had happened here.

The answer was written across every bruise, every fresh scar, every pair of vacant, terror-stricken eyes.

One of the men who had led him here stepped forward, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

“It’s over,” he said, his voice firm yet gentle.

“The bandits are dead or scattered.

You’re safe now.” Another spoke up, his tone softer, “We are not here to hurt you.

We came to free you.” The women did not move at first.

Their fear was not so easily dispelled, their bodies tense, as if expecting a cruel trick.

Then, slowly-hesitantly-some began to look up, their gazes flickering between the men’s armor and their weapons, no longer drawn in violence but slung across their backs in rest.

A murmur spread through them, a tremble in the air as realization settled in.

The men in front of them were not their captors.

They were their liberators.

A shuddering breath was released from somewhere within the group, followed by another.

Shoulders sagged.

Tears welled up, but this time, they were not ones of despair.

They were free.

The four of them silently drew their daggers, the sharp glint of steel catching the dim light inside the tent.

Without a word, they moved among the women, cutting away the coarse ropes that bound their wrists.

The fibers had dug deep into flesh, leaving behind angry red welts, torn skin, and dried blood crusted around the wounds.

Some of the bindings were so tight that even after being severed, the women’s hands trembled and twitched, their circulation struggling to return.

Robert stepped forward, his dagger steady in his grip, and reached for the nearest girl.

She was young-too young.

Not much older than his own daughter would have been.

The realization made something in his chest tighten, but he ignored it, sliding his blade carefully beneath the rope and slicing through it with one clean motion.

The moment her hands were free, she let out a ragged sob and threw herself against him.

Her frail arms wrapped around his torso as she buried her face against his chest, her thin shoulders shaking violently.

“Thank you,” she gasped, the words tumbling out between sobs.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you-” Robert did not move.

He stood there, rigid as stone, his dagger still clutched in his hand, the sharp edge of the blade glistening with the fibers of the severed rope.

His mind struggled to process the warmth of the girl clinging to him, her tears soaking into the fabric of his tunic.

He felt nothing.

No relief.

No satisfaction.

Not even discomfort.

Only emptiness.

The girl’s grip on him only tightened as she kept repeating her broken thanks, her voice hoarse from crying.

“Thank you… thank you… thank you…” The words came out in gasps, as though speaking them aloud might somehow undo the horrors she had endured.

Robert did not respond.

He did not return the embrace.

He did not even look down at her.

He only stared past her trembling form, his dagger still hanging loosely in his hand.

Was he supposed to feel something?

Relief?

Satisfaction?

A sense of righteousness for having-if not saved her-at least played a part in it?

Wouldn’t that be hypocritical?

His stomach twisted at the thought.

He had been on the other side of this before.

He had led warriors on forays into enemy lands, ordered the burning of villages, watched from horseback as his men stormed through homes and took their spoils however they pleased.

He had never partaken in the raping-not out of any moral objection, but because he had considered it beneath him.

But he had allowed it.

Led them to the next village, knowing exactly what awaited the women there.

So why now, standing in the aftermath of the same cruelty he once facilitated, was he supposed to feel anything , perhapse even disgust?

Not at the bandits.

Not at the horror in this tent.

But at himself.

Disgusted or not , one by one, the women were freed.

The ropes that had bitten into their skin, leaving behind raw, bloody welts, fell away as daggers worked through the bindings.

Some women flinched at the touch, others simply stood there, hollow-eyed, as if even the prospect of freedom was too distant to grasp.

When the last of them had been cut loose, the three men gently guided them outside.

They did not resist, nor did they celebrate.

As they stepped into the open air, their gazes fell upon the battlefield.

Bodies-some of the very men who had held them captive-lay strewn across the clearing, lifeless.

The metallic scent of blood lingered in the air, mixing with the dampness of the earth.

The women did not react.

They did not cry, did not spit upon their corpses, did not scream curses at them.

They only looked.

Tired.

Defeated.

Empty.

And then, at the quiet urging of their rescuers, they walked forward, leaving behind the place of their suffering.

Robert did not follow them.

Instead, he turned away and let his feet take him elsewhere, his mind drifting back to the girl who had clung to him moments ago.

She had been young. About the same age his own daughter would have been, had she lived and not been taken by sickness years ago.

He had not thought about her in a long time, strangely, he now did.

But now, as he walked, his thoughts betrayed him.

He imagined her in that tent, bound, bruised, and broken, whispering those same desperate words of thanks to some nameless warrior who had come too late.

His jaw clenched.

He turned his gaze away, pushing the thought from his mind, though it lingered like a shadow at the edge of his consciousness.

He knew what awaited these women.

It did not take a genius to know what they had been kept alive for, and it did not take a genius to know what their lives would be now.

No man would take them in, and many of their own families would reject them-not out of cruelty, but out of cold, practical survival.

They would be seen as damaged.

As burdens.

As dead weight.

Robert said nothing.

He only kept walking, seeing if ahead of him there would be salvation or the hot holds of all the hells that the gods created awaiting him.Suddendly, his eyes fell upon a familiar corpse-the last man he had killed.

The bandit’s body lay sprawled across the blood-soaked earth, his lifeless eyes staring blankly at the sky above.

His axe rested where it had fallen, useless in death, while his rusted chainmail bore the mark of Robert’s blade.

Robert’s gaze lingered on the corroded links of metal.

That was the only reason his sword had pierced through so easily.

Had the chain been well-kept, had the man been a soldier instead of a raider, would things have ended differently?

Would he still be standing here, or would it be Robert lying cold and still in the dirt?

He studied the bandit’s face.

Had he known?

In his final moments, had he understood that his life was ending?

Or had he only felt confusion-a dull, hazy bewilderment as the pain bloomed inside him?

Or perhaps, in those last few breaths, there had been clarity for the fact that the hells awaiting their new guests.

Perhaps he had seen something Robert had yet to grasp.

He exhaled through his nose.

He did not know.

Just as he did not know if the road he had just begun to walk-the one paved in blood, redemption, and uncertainty-would lead him anywhere at all.

Would it be his salvation?

Or would it be just as meaningless as everything else?

He did not have the answer.

And so, he walked on.