With a crisp clang, Karl drew the longsword from his waist, the gleam of the blade catching the torchlight as he casually spoke over his shoulder.
"Kosy, where's the king?"
The sudden draw startled Cauchy so badly that he flinched, his shoulders snapping up as though expecting that blade to swing toward him instead. Only after watching Karl angle the sword toward the bison's abdomen did he realize he wasn't the target. His stiff neck finally relaxed, though the ghost of fear lingered in his eyes.
"The king… just returned," Cauchy answered honestly, now standing straight and far less smug. "But he didn't look happy about coming back empty-handed. He went to drink to forget the embarrassment."
He hesitated before adding, "He should be in the inn's main hall right now."
Karl grunted in acknowledgment but didn't respond further. His attention had shifted entirely to the massive carcass before him. He crouched beside it, searching for something along the bison's belly while dragging the tip of his longsword lightly across the hide.
"What are you planning to do, boss?" Cauchy finally asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
Karl didn't answer immediately.
Instead, after locating the exact spot he wanted, he suddenly thrust the blade forward.
Steel sank into flesh with a controlled, precise movement—only a finger's depth—just enough to pierce the hide without stabbing the organs beneath. Then, gripping the hilt firmly, Karl drew the blade downward. His movements were practiced and unhurried, yet swift enough to seem almost effortless. A clean, straight incision opened in the thick hide.
The moment the belly split, the weight of the organs pressed outward. Fat, entrails, and half-cooled viscera spilled toward the ground with a wet, heavy sound. A pungent odor escaped with them.
Cauchy gagged. A few of the mercenaries who'd crowded in to watch took a step back, pinching their noses.
Karl, however, only nodded in satisfaction as he inspected the neatness of the cut.
"Perfect," he murmured. "Didn't even break the inner membrane."
Only then did he look up at the others.
"This bison's been dead for a while," he explained, wiping the blade before sheathing it. "If I don't remove the organs now, the residual heat will ruin the meat."
He stood, dusting his hands off. "Once an animal dies, the warmth trapped inside makes the fluids leak into the tissue. That's what spoils the taste."
The mercenaries exchanged looks—some impressed, some baffled, some simply disgusted.
Karl flashed a satisfied smile.
Then he turned toward the group of Blackrock Mercenary members who had gathered, curiosity and greed mixing openly in their eyes.
"So," he announced loudly, "now I need to take everything out of there. And it would be a lot easier if a few of you—who aren't completely useless, drunk, or busy chasing whores—would help."
Several men straightened reflexively.
Karl lifted a hand before they could speak.
"Oh, and by the way," he added casually, "I intend to present this bison to His Majesty."
That alone made several mouths snap shut.
But Karl wasn't done.
"If the king gives a reward—" He shrugged, stepping back two deliberate paces. "—everyone who works gets a share."
Silence.
Then chaos.
Every mercenary who had been admiring Karl's blade-work abruptly lunged forward like starving wolves diving for fresh prey.
"Boss! Pick me! I'm the quickest one here!"
"Don't listen to Bryce! He's a lying bastard! He can't even outrun an old woman with a cane!"
"You should choose me, boss—"
"Choose you? Hall, the last time you 'helped' a brothel girl, she ended up crying and you paid her with a silver stag!"
"And isn't this the same Hall who chipped his front tooth trying to open seashells because he didn't know what he was doing?"
The insults flew as hard as the elbows. Men shoved, tripped, cursed, and tried to sabotage one another in desperation to get closer to the bison. Someone even tackled another man onto the dirt with a triumphant yell.
Cauchy, muttering that all of them were shameless bastards, tripped a rival and vaulted over him to claim a prime position at the carcass.
Karl simply stepped aside and let the chaos unfold.
He uncorked the water pouch at his waist, took a leisurely drink, and pretended not to see any of the violence unfolding in front of him.
The Blackrock veterans immediately understood the silent permission in their young leader's behavior.
If he wasn't stopping them, then the competition was fair.
No rules. No restraint. No mercy.
The mercenaries bellowed and dove forward, fighting their way into a place near the incision. The stench no longer mattered. The blood no longer mattered. The mess didn't matter. Only rewards mattered—rewards that Karl had dangled before their eyes with expert timing.
Karl watched them with calm amusement.
Truthfully, everything he'd told them earlier—about the meat spoiling and the residual heat—was only half true.
The bison hadn't been dead long enough for any real damage to occur. In fact, Karl had bled it thoroughly; as long as the carcass was handled within a reasonable time, the meat would remain excellent.
But Karl had no intention of butchering an entire bison alone.
Nor did he wish to hoard all the fat by himself, though he originally planned to.
Yet he had never been a man who tried to eat everything alone.
He wasn't narrow-minded enough to keep every advantage to himself.
He understood a simple, universal truth:
If you want a horse to run, you must feed it grass.
Interest was eternal. Interest was loyalty. Interest kept a man's feet from turning away, even when there was no longer a powerful backer protecting him.
And that was precisely why so many hardened, shrewd sell-swords still followed him.
He was only ten years old. Ten. In the eyes of nobles, barely above a child. Yet these men—men who'd survived King's Landing's alleys and backstreets, men more wolf than human—chose to stay by his side.
Even after losing the protection he once had.
Even after being dragged north into freezing misery.
Even after the king's summons became a death sentence for most warm-blooded southerners.
Why?
Because Karl always made sure the benefits were worth it.
Because he never forgot to share.
Because he rewarded skill, loyalty, and hard work instead of birth or flattery.
He didn't demand respect; he earned it.
Which was why not a single one of these mercenaries had abandoned him—even when they all had the chance.
Karl lifted the pouch again, drinking slowly as he watched their frantic work. His expression remained relaxed, but his eyes were sharp.
He was far more prepared for the coming events than he let on.
And a man who understood preparation understood people.
He understood that loyalty wasn't built on fear.
It wasn't built on admiration.
It wasn't built on empty promises.
It was built on benefits—the kind that couldn't be denied or lost to gossip.
Those who followed him trusted one thing above all:
Karl always paid what he owed.
And he always paid well.
He sat down on a fallen log with a soft exhale, stretching his legs as the mercenaries worked like devils before him. The wet, rhythmic sounds of butchering filled the air—squelches, rips, curses, and heavy breaths.
Someone yelped.
"You idiot! Don't pull that, the fat's tearing—!"
Another snapped back, "Then keep your elbows out of my ribs, you ox!"
A third voice rose over the others, "Boss! Do you want the liver separated or whole?"
"No need to shout," Karl replied lazily. "Just don't ruin it."
"Yes, boss!"
Karl smirked.
He didn't need to give any more instructions.
They were competent, resourceful, and tough—survivors of a city that devoured the weak. Mercenaries, yes, but not the starving, desperate kind one found in low taverns with rusted swords and shaking hands.
These were the sort of men King's Landing bred like venomous dogs—fierce, clever, and too stubborn to die easily.
And every single one of them knew how to get a job done.
Karl leaned back slightly, feeling the weight of the waterskin in his hand.
Everything was progressing exactly as planned.
He took another long drink.
His gaze drifted over the bustling, blood-soaked scene, and in his eyes, there was something deeper than amusement.
There was calculation.
Preparation.
Expectation.
He was ready for what came next.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)