Chapter 315: Ring of Warriors

The two nobles were dead, and naturally, the war ended just like that.

The baron’s men all retreated, while the warriors who had stood with Hode were gathered by the Northern Warriors, temporarily encamping on the battlefield.

They did not even bother with the decapitated viscount. Instead, under the deliberate or casual lead of one warrior, they surrounded the Comrades Group.

Those burning gazes made the men of the Comrades Group feel sudden fear.

But in the next instant, they thought again—our commander could easily behead a lord, and he avenged the lord’s death. You cowards, who failed in your duty, dare to look at us like this?

So the men of the Comrades Group glared back.

One warrior stepped forward, shouting loudly:

“Since the lord died on the battlefield, even if we returned to the castle with his body, we would still be executed by the successor. I have no wish to go back. Strong commander of the Comrades Group, I admire your might. I want to join the Comrades Group!”

Hode saw it clearly. This man was the one who had passed him the message before, the one who had led the first retreat, and the one who later rallied the warriors for the charge. Now again, he stepped out.

Hode did not know what was in his mind, so he chose silence.

As expected, Zeke stepped out and shouted:

“The Comrades Group welcomes every warrior who pursues Honor, but clearly, you—who fled at the very first moment after the lord’s death—are not one of them.”

The man retorted:

“But I was the one who led the charge afterward!”

Zeke roared:

“You only wanted to disguise yourself as a warrior! At the first sign of danger, you ran. When it came to bullying the weak, suddenly you became a warrior. Is that what you call a true warrior?”

The man raised his warhammer, shouting:

“In the North, ‘warrior’ has always been the title of the strong. And I believe my strength is enough to be called a warrior!”

Zeke laughed loudly and shouted:

“I do not think so.”

With that, he raised his greatsword, and the two clashed. The crowd hurriedly backed away, their dull minds still processing the bluntly simple exchange.

The two fought fiercely. Everyone could see that this was absolutely a battle at the warrior’s level. Their feet split the frozen earth, sparks flew from the collision of greatsword and warhammer, the sound shook the ears painfully, and veins bulged on their reddened faces.

As the fight grew fiercer, the warrior with the hammer ripped off his crude leather armor, baring his torso.

His muscular body was covered in dense scars, and veins snaked across his arms like little serpents.

“Roar!” He bellowed like a beast, charging at Zeke.

Zeke gripped his sword with both hands and slashed toward him.

Their fight grew hotter and more intense. Flying shards of iron scratched bloody marks across the bare warrior’s chest, and the heat of battle seemed to warm the small battlefield.

The onlookers turned toward Hode, but he only stood silently beneath the Wolf-Head Banner, watching.

The clash of two equally matched warriors could not end quickly. They fought from afternoon till dusk, until at last, Zeke chopped off the warrior’s head.

He raised the head high and shouted:

“I admit his bravery was at the level of a fourth tier, as taverns would say—the level of a warrior. But without Faith, I do not believe he deserved the title of a Northern Warrior!”

With that, he tossed the head aside in disgust.

“Hou-hoo! Hou-hoo! Hou-hoo! Comrades Group! Comrades Group! The vice-commander is the true warrior!” the Comrades Group roared.

Hode noticed clearly—it was first the men who had followed Zeke who started the chant, then it spread to the rest.

Their voices were fevered. Hode did not know whether they shouted because they had just discovered that the vice-commander was also at the warrior’s level, or because of the momentum of his display, or simply because battle stirred them to vent their fury.

Nor did he know if Zeke and the slain man had once been close—at least, earlier, a single glance between them had carried a tacit understanding no strangers could have.

Zeke turned to the viscount’s warriors and shouted:

“As I said, the Comrades Group welcomes every true warrior who pursues Honor! But understand this—the Comrades Group is not some bandit rabble of cowards with only brute strength. We are true warriors!”

Inwardly, Zeke was grieving, but he was also tense.

This viscount’s land had been chosen by Hode at random, and their arrangements here were far from complete. After cutting down a childhood friend, Zeke knew—none of the lord’s warriors standing opposite were theirs anymore.

Still, Zeke also knew the king, Aureus Fernando’s, plan. After this war, the Comrades Group must be built around a core of Northern Warriors. Now he had proven himself, and soon he would be formally recognized at the tavern as a fourth tier.

But one man was not enough—they needed more.

Fortunately, others stepped forward.

Or perhaps it was inevitable. After all, when they had only stood silently watching his duel with his friend, the outcome had already been set.

As his friend had said: the lord was dead, and yet they—the warriors—still lived. Returning to the viscount’s castle would only bring punishment.

So, before long, the four warriors who had marched with the lord declared their wish to join the Comrades Group. But they said:

“We have all completed the Northern Trial. To treat us like ordinary members would be an insult.”

Their words belittled the others, yet none in the Comrades Group were angered. They only nodded, as if it were natural.

For the strong always held privilege.

And the more warriors joined, the stronger the Comrades Group would become.

So Zeke replied:

“In the Comrades Group, the commander is whom we all follow. Beneath him, Vice-Commander Cooper and I aid him in leadership. At the same time, we are to form the Ring—the strongest circle of warriors within the Comrades Group. Each member must be one who has completed the Northern Trial.”

“But even completing the Northern Trial is not enough. To truly become part of the Ring, one must earn the approval of most Ring members and of the commander. Only true warriors, who pursue Honor, can become Ring Warriors!”

He added:

“Before that, however, Vice-Commander Cooper will give you a test. If you earn his recognition, you may join the Comrades Group as probationary Ring Warriors!”

The mentioned Cooper froze for a moment. But seeing Zeke’s look of “Can you do it?”, he abandoned thought, stepped forward, and shouted:

“Defeat me! Or knock me down!”

If they could not even best him, weakened as he was slipping from third tier, then they were unworthy of the Ring.

Though Cooper had only just learned of this “Ring,” he understood one thing—he himself was a member, and the stronger the Ring, the better.

Yet his body clearly showed his age—thin, short, a bit shrunken.

The first warrior to face him scowled, feeling underestimated—only to be swiftly knocked down.

Cooper then realized—the man was as “weak” as Hode had once seemed, back when Cooper had first floored him easily.

But since that warrior had been recognized by a lord as a warrior, Cooper knew he himself had not truly fallen from the third tier. It was just that, recently, the foes he faced had been far too strong, all fourth tier!

With this realization, Cooper smiled, blood staining his face, the grin turning feral.

The Morning Star sank completely. Bonfires were lit, warriors dueled through the night.

Not only the warriors’ tests, but also trials for others who wished to join the Comrades Group.

By dawn, their numbers had grown to just over a hundred. Alongside the two vice-commanders, two more who had managed to knock down Cooper became probationary Ring members.

The rest departed with sunrise.

And as they left, the Comrades Group’s exploits spread. With bard apprentices already singing their deeds across the North, wanderers and vagabond warriors finally could not resist—they tested life as mercenaries.

Some worked under the name of mercenaries, others formed their own groups.

But unlike the mercenary companies of York Territory, they did not call themselves “XXX Mercenary Company.” Instead, they copied the Comrades Group: “XX Group.”

Even if outsiders still saw them as mercenary companies, the distinction of name alone already separated the North from Greenwood.

It was as though some unseen hand deliberately guided this choice, to set apart North and Greenwood.

At the same time, pamphlets spread months earlier—preaching killing, indulgence, and liberation of desire—finally ignited.

The viscount and baron had both died suddenly in war, without leaving uncontested heirs. Those with rights to inherit launched struggles for the titles.

Northern nobles had always settled such disputes simply: single combat.

But now, heirs were backed by strange men wielding the power of “wisdom”—schemers who stirred intrigue, assassination, poison, ambush, alliances and betrayals, plunging their lands into chaos.

The baron’s land fared better—small as it was, conflict ended when the strongest man massacred half the population, seizing the barony.

The viscount’s land was not so fortunate. Four heirs became three, then two, and one was poisoned in the castle. Those who fled accused the survivor of dishonor, calling loyalists to kill the plotter. No one cared who truly poisoned or killed whom.

The first heir, holding the viscount’s castle, simply hired mercenary companies, gathering nearly ten warriors and four hundred soldiers. He crushed his rivals and ended the half-month struggle.

When bard apprentices embellished and spread word—of the Comrades Group’s commander slaying a baron, and of mercenaries deciding inheritance wars—lords realized mercenaries were no longer mere wanderers. They could sway noble wars.

Some grew alarmed, even ordering mercenary taverns destroyed.

But mercenaries had finally found a place to live openly. How could they allow their “homes” to be smashed?

Some fought back. Others fled to taverns in safer lands.

Meanwhile, lords who tolerated mercenaries discovered: if they recruited these armed men, their own power would swell. Even tavern mercenaries, though not elite, were close enough.

They thought of purging the taverns, but being weaker among peers, they feared losses. Now, mercenary taverns were no longer without warriors—many had joined in the past month.

Some minor lords, comparing, found that mercenaries in their taverns outnumbered their own warriors. Better to leave them be—especially as taverns paid handsome taxes and improved security.

Hearing of inheritance wars won with mercenary aid, other lords grew restless. If others could hire mercenaries to win titles, why not them?

And after all—if mercenaries died in war, they owed no pay.

So they counted warriors, soldiers, mercenaries, all as part of their power. Compared to neighbors who destroyed their taverns, they seemed stronger.

Thus their Northern blood boiled, and they marched against weaker neighbors, declaring no pretext—only that might justified more land.

The North descended into chaos.

…

“Heh, these Northern savages.” Jeffrey’s eyes were bloodshot.

“Just gather the wanderers’ strength, let them think themselves mighty, and they launch wars of annexation,” Puniel marveled. “Do they not fear the King of the North?”

“This is the North—barbaric as ever,” Bevan said tiredly. He had only just returned to York City from his own territory.

His land was the foundation of his rising family; he dared not abandon it. But York City’s Senate was his source of power—he dared not ignore it either.

Even exhausted, he had come to meet Puniel and Jeffrey. They had once risen together, their lands once part of York Territory before Greenwood Kingdom.

But Bevan knew—given the chance, these two would not hesitate to expel him from the Senate.

So he forced himself to plot against the North with them.

Puniel asked, “The people around those lords—those were not ours?”

Bevan answered, “No. Our intel comes from caravans, mercenary taverns, and bard apprentices. The bards may align stories to our strategy, but they belong to Dean Oscar. He only experiments with amplifying events through storytelling. He would not leave his boys with the lords.

“As for caravans, while goods are accepted, merchants themselves are shunned. And mercenaries? Lords hardly care for them.”

Puniel nodded, looking at Jeffrey: “So, this must be his hand?”

Jeffrey nodded. “Only he could do this—just as with the Comrades Group of that former church knight.”

Puniel asked, “Do you know who it is?”

Jeffrey only glanced at him, then said, “The situation is clear. He does the work; we spread the word. That is all we can do, since Northern nobles still reject us.”

Puniel chuckled. “Haha, then they’ve not yet fought hard enough. Once blood runs, they won’t care North or Greenwood—so long as someone helps them win.”

Bevan’s gaze swept them both. “War will spread by Northern nobles’ own stupidity. But for us, a more pressing matter—Priest Agamemnon’s task. Of three million gold coins, only 1.4 million are scattered. It is already early December. New Year comes at month’s end.”

“The North is poor and barren. They choked after swallowing just 800,000 gold. Greenwood alone consumed 600,000 without dumping. Damn Northern beggars.”

Jeffrey turned to Puniel. “The arena at Frozen Furnace Fortress is built. Time to move. Hold a grand gladiator tournament—loud enough to overshadow war. Put ten thousand gold into the prize.”

Puniel frowned. “A tournament and ten thousand gold, fine. But why overshadow war? Do we not want war fiercer?”

Jeffrey looked at him like a fool. Before Puniel could snap, Jeffrey explained:

“We need time for them to mingle. To see the strength of wandering Northerners. Think—a warrior who wins ten gladiator matches in a row. Wouldn’t they want him?”

Puniel’s eyes lit. “Of course. Such a man, even if not loyal to a lord, is worth it just for his bloodline.”

Jeffrey said, “And what of the lords’ sworn warriors? Do not forget—Northern warriors are not knights sworn to death. They value Honor, not loyalty. If gladiators shine before all, while sworn warriors fail to match that glory—what then?”

Puniel muttered, “You mean…”

Jeffrey’s voice was sharp:

“Desire in lords we have already stirred. Now we must kindle desire in the warriors. Proud Northern Warriors, who boast of strength—yet see gladiators cheered, ten victories, even a hundred foes cut down. Such glory unmatched by any sworn warrior.

“And these gladiators earn far more gold than lords’ rewards. Tell me—will Northern Warriors still be content with mere loyalty?”

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