Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

The militia had no trouble capturing the gang of bandits, and Winters was not surprised.

Armed with three arrows and nearly forty men, if they couldn't handle a mere twenty or so bandits, wouldn't that make the hunting expedition he led a complete farce?

Anglu had unwittingly made a point—"Battling bandits is much easier than hunting."

For the "Fishing and Hunting Tribe," hunting was synonymous with military training.

Setting up routes, planning timing, dividing and conquering—this was a typical military operation.

As Winters followed the migration of the Red River Tribe, he noticed that the camp setup and take down of the Herders during migration wasn't much different from marching an army.

Winters took the militia on several hunting expeditions, partly because they truly had nothing to eat and needed to participate in production and partly to train his subordinates.

...

The militia captured the group of bandits, and they took the opportunity to plunder their homes.

"We captured twenty-two bandits alive. Two who tried to resist got themselves killed," Pierre said, without particular joy or anger, resigning himself, "There are a few broken swords and spears, but only a few bags of wheat and rye for food."

Winters also sighed, "How can they be so poor?"

"If they weren't poor, they wouldn't have turned to robbery," Pierre quietly asked, "Let them go? Or?"

He made a throat-slitting gesture.

Winters thought for a moment, then said, "If we let them go, they'll just become bandits again."

"Then I'll take care of them right now," Pierre turned to leave.

"I didn't finish speaking! Don't rush," Winters stopped Pierre, noticing the young man's increasingly grim hands.

Pierre waited quietly for Winters' order.

Winters was troubled, "Killing them all indiscriminately, what does that make us? These are honest farmers, driven to desperation."

"I'll handle it, you don't have to worry," Pierre said softly.

"That's not what I mean," Winters patted Pierre's arm, "Pick out the habitual bandits, deal with them. Take the rest back to Wolf Town."

Pierre's eyes widened, "Are you going to recruit them?"

"Of course not," Winters shook his head with a wry smile, "Where would I get that much food? Even if we were to recruit, we would need to select the better ones."

"Then…"

Winters made up his mind, "Give them something to eat, find them some work, let them settle down for now and take it one step at a time. If we don't have enough food, we'll just have to buy or trade for it. Let's hold out until the autumn harvest is in."

"Then... under what name do we hold them?" Pierre thought quickly, "If they're not part of the militia."

"Convict laborers, how about that?" Winters countered, "After all, they've been bandits, and by law, they should be hung. We're sparing them, so it's only right for them to perform labor. We'll make it clear to them it's not for life, and if conditions allow, they can be released to return home."

"I think that could work," Pierre nodded firmly, "I'll arrange it."

After speaking, he saluted, turned, and left.

Winters watched Pierre's retreating figure, uncertain of his own feelings.

Pierre was a good young man—intelligent, reliable, and capable.

Winters could trust Pierre with his life, and Pierre would not hesitate to entrust his life to him.

But Pierre had changed; he was not the carefree little Dusack he used to be.

Perhaps it was the world that changed, and Pierre chose to respond with a cold heart.

Winters felt a brotherly affection towards Pierre and hoped to protect him, to keep him from straying down the wrong path.

But as for the future, he was no longer certain.

Winters sighed; what right did he have to worry about Pierre? He had changed as well.

"Convict laborers?" Winters chuckled wryly, shaking his head, "Now we really have become a slave-using Fishing and Hunting Tribe."

...

Mid-July.

Clear skies.

Outside Blackwater Town, Saint Giles Valley Village.

A crude two-story round wooden fortress stood alone at the edge of the forest.

The fortress was small, with a diameter of not even twenty meters.

Originally, the wooden fortress was a refuge for the villagers of Saint Giles Valley in Blackwater Town to hide from bandits, but it had instead been occupied by a gang of bandits.

Pierre, using a door as a shield, made his way towards the wooden fortress with rapid strides.

"Bandits inside, listen up! Surrender now, or we'll set fire to it!"

While Pierre was attempting reason with those inside, Winters was outside the range of the crossbows, manufacturing a crude siege hammer with three arrows.

In just one week, the militia had cleared out several groups of bandits near Wolf Town.

As Winters said, militia and bandits were natural enemies.

Bandits wrought havoc on common folk, their depredations rivalling those of conscription teams.

Apart from the glaringly obvious reasons, Winters had a more covert idea: he wanted to get some food from the bandits.

Hunting alone could never fill their bellies. Moreover, the best parts of the game were used to trade for grains, leaving only offal and trim behind.

No one could stand eating wild vegetable and intestine soup every day.

However, as it appeared, this plan had already fallen through. Alas, the bandits didn't have any surplus food either.

But the bandits still had to be eradicated, without a reason or all the more with one.

Saint Giles Valley provided Winters with a very compelling reason: two large carts of wheat.

Not barley, not rye, nor oats.

It was wheat—the best grain.

The news that the Garrison Officer of Wolf Town had returned spread to the nearby villages, and so did the news that he was leading troops to exterminate the bandits.