The Blackiron River originates from the western shore of the Watchers' Sea. It flows past the southern slope of the third peak of the Paglus Triple Peaks and enters an underground river beneath the Immortal Bastion. There it splits into three branches heading north, west, and southwest, known locally as the First, Second, and Third Branches of the Blackiron.
The Second Branch happens to run along the southern foothills of the Gorial Mountains.
To save travel time, dozens of small wooden boats—enough to carry over four hundred people—had already been requisitioned. The Noxus conscripts boarded them, and under the steering of the boatmen, the flotilla drifted downstream along the Second Branch. By dusk, they reached the southern foothills of the Gorial range.
After an hour spent regrouping, the sky had already turned dark. Lester, after consulting with his adjutant Altman, chose an open flat area to make camp and sent a dozen quick-footed disabled veterans northward as scouts.
In front of the fire pit, everyone laid down simple fur bedding.
Lester, Altman, and Meredith sat in a loose triangle, eating hard bread and boar jerky along with the other Noxian conscripts. The Blackiron River was nearby, so water was not an issue.
"Commander Lester."
Swallowing the tough jerky, the bald-headed Altman began giving his opinion.
"I suggest we spend the night here and leave in the morning. Traveling in the dark isn't wise."
"Before that—tell me, are there any dangerous beasts nearby?"
"There are plains wolves and mountain boars, but as long as there's fire and people around, they won't attack."
Taking a small bite of food, Lester reached into the fire and pulled out a charred stick, extinguished the flame, and turned it into a crude charcoal stylus.
"Chieftain Nadalz had you lead the path before. You should know the terrain well. Use this and draw out the western side of the Gorial range—what the land looks like, and how many villages there are."
"Huh? How do I draw that?"
Altman dumbly accepted the stick, scratched his head, and drew a long, triangle-shaped circle.
"This is where we are—at the southern foot of the Gorial Mountains."
"And along the mountain road north, are there any dangerous areas we should watch for?"
"Uh… what counts as dangerous? Do you mean the road?"
Meredith rolled her eyes, snatched the stick from him, and—much to Altman's embarrassment—began sketching on the ground.
"Triangles for mountains, circles for peaks, dots for valleys, dashed lines for roads."
A simple, symbol-based sketch map was completed quickly.
Lester gave a thumbs-up—she truly was a top-tier mage.
Acknowledging Lester's praise with a nod, Meredith continued.
"About seventeen thousand steps north of us—roughly 12.7 kilometers—is Nohr Village.
Further north, about thirty-four thousand steps—25.5 kilometers—is North Nohr.
North Nohr sits slightly north of the mid-section of the Gorial Mountains. Beyond that, there are no more settlements of ours. Most who roam there are bandits and marauders. In the northwest Gorial region lie the territories of the Mostak and Upor Tribes.
This mountain path isn't too treacherous, except for a small high ridge slightly east of Nohr Village—around 300 steps long."
"Any place someone could hide?"
"A hiding place… hmm."
After thinking for a moment, Meredith answered uncertainly.
"There is a small hollow slightly north of that high ridge. The elevation is high, but the depression itself is easy to overlook. Unless someone is actively searching, they likely won't notice it…"
Afterward, Lester held a brief meeting with fifty veteran soldiers.
Finally, under Lester's forced-march orders, the Noxian conscripts split into three groups, each moving north at different speeds toward Nohr Village.
The first group: thirty disabled veterans plus Lester and the five mages.
The second group: ten veterans and the not-so-old adult conscripts and youths.
The third group: ten disabled veterans and over two hundred elderly folk who could not move quickly.
To Lester, lacking trained soldiers, proper weapons, and armor meant the decisive factors would be speed, morale, and clever strategy. The elderly could only serve as reserves—he had no expectations of them.
If possible, he didn't want the elders fighting at all, but harsh reality was not his to choose. Everything depended on circumstance. Victory was the only goal.
He needed time to arrange the battlefield he envisioned. Therefore, he had to get there first—before the bandit group reached Nohr Village.
…
North Nohr Village
The mounted raiders who had driven off the villagers dismounted and approached their chosen women, loosening their clothing.
The firelight grew wilder with the rising screams. Despairing cries of pain from women mixed with the raucous laughter of men, echoing across the mountains.
Randel, charging a bandit with a wooden-handled axe, was slammed to the ground by a shield. His axe was kicked away by a large, filthy foot, and the bandit pinned him down.
"Hatred—now that's a wonderful feeling. Hatred lets you do things you couldn't do before. It makes you strong. Look at me—am I strong?"
The burly one-armed man looked down at the pinned villager. There was curiosity in Dault's scarred face.
"That's your wife, right? She's beautiful. You're a lucky man—luckier than me."
"You beast! Animal! Come at me if you have the guts! Attacking women—is that all you can do?! Aahhh!! Lando! Lando!"
The man beneath him broke down sobbing, and Dault understood—crying was all he could do.
There was nothing else left for him.
Beside the blazing houses, four or five men laughed obscenely, venting their lust.
"Boss, I'm next after this—"
He didn't finish before a fist smashed into his face.
"Get lost. The only reason the boss let you join was so a useless idiot like you could at least wash our feet and clothes—not touch the women. Get out, or I'll cut you to pieces!"
Dault only laughed cheerfully as his underling was scolded for cutting in line.
"See? That's the importance of strength. Bandits live by strength. To keep this restless bunch fed, I've worked damn hard. Luckily you weaklings help me save some effort…
What? Still crying? You Noxians claim to fear nothing, but you cry louder than women! Hahahaha.
And that soft little worm who tried to touch your wife—he's one of yours, right? Caught outside the village. My men hadn't even touched him and he already pissed himself. Then he spilled every secret you had. Hahaha! Noxians—pathetic!"
A chill touched the back of Randel's neck, then warmth trickled down.
The voices faded. His eyes widened, blank, staring at his wife—lifeless—still insulted, still cursed and defiled even after death.
Unaware that the man beneath him still grieved, Dault casually swung again, severing the villager's head and mounting it on a stake.
The stake slowly turned red.
"See? Take a good look. This is how Noxians die."