Time rewound to just five minutes earlier.
Corleone leaned quietly against a rough tree trunk, the shadows swallowing most of his figure. Thanks to the heightened awareness granted by Insight Lv.1, he could clearly observe the subtle movements happening throughout the camp.
When he saw Uswik being called away by Vague, a chill crept into his thoughts. Corleone never underestimated anyone. As he often told himself, women and children could afford carelessness, but men could not. In a world where human life was cheaper than grass, a single mistake could end everything.
Every word.
Every step.
Every breath.
—all had to be handled with absolute caution.
He initially assumed Vague would immediately act against the so-called "traitor," but it now appeared the man still possessed some restraint and intelligence.
After a moment of contemplation, Corleone drew in a slow breath and stepped out from the sheltering darkness.
Waiting passively? Entrusting his life to chance?
Only a fool would do that.
If no opportunity presented itself… then he would create one.
Plan B—Initiate.
With each step forward, the timidity and fear belonging to a humble farmer faded from his expression. In their place emerged a calmness sharper than a blade.
He walked directly toward the fat man, Zorro, who sat by the bonfire tearing into roasted meat. Corleone extended his hand and spoke firmly:
"Give me a roasted lamb leg."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried complete confidence—almost entitlement.
Zorro lifted his head, grease shining on his round face. For a moment, he simply stared, wondering if he had misheard.
He recognized this so-called farmer-doctor—the man who had survived by sheer luck. While the leader's injury required Corleone's treatment, that hardly meant the man could overstep his place.
Seeing Corleone's serious gaze, Zorro let out a contemptuous snort.
"That lamb leg is for Commander Vague, boy."
He grabbed a burnt, meatless sheep's head from the spit, tossed it at Corleone's feet, and said coldly:
"You get that. Now take it and get lost."
But Corleone didn't even glance at the charred skull. His eyes stayed locked on Zorro as he raised his voice slightly and declared:
"I… want… a roasted lamb leg."
The challenging tone instantly drew the attention of several nearby Warriors' Group members. Conversations stopped. Faces turned. Amusement sparked.
A lowly farmer?
Challenging Zorro?
Had he gone mad?
Zorro's face flushed with rage as he lurched to his feet, hand gripping the hilt of his weapon.
"Are you looking for death?"
"I'll say this once more—only the sheep's head! Talk back again, and I'll chop you up and roast you instead!"
Spit flew from his lips, nearly striking Corleone—yet the supposed farmer didn't back away. Instead, he spoke with even greater resolve:
"I am eating a lamb leg today."
Zorro exploded.
But before he could unleash his fury, a dark figure shot out from the side—
Bang!
A boot slammed into Corleone's waist, hurling him into the mud.
It was Yigo.
"I've tolerated you for too long, quack!"
The muscular Dothraki warrior positioned himself between Zorro and Corleone, glaring with hatred.
"You didn't treat Commander Vague properly! He's feverish and infected, and it's all because of you!"
"And now you dare try to steal the Commander's lamb leg?"
"I'll kill you!"
Before anyone could react, Yigo drew the fine steel longsword Vague had gifted him. The blade gleamed coldly beneath the firelight.
Zorro stood frozen.
Wait… I was the one being provoked. Why is he reacting like this?
"Don't be reckless, Yigo!" Zorro snapped, stepping forward in alarm. "The Commander still needs him to—"
His words suddenly halted.
Because Yigo's sword, which appeared aimed at Corleone, abruptly shifted mid-strike—driving straight into Zorro's unguarded throat.
Zorro's eyes bulged wide, filled with shock and disbelief. He tried to speak, but only blood and silence came out. Yigo twisted the blade, then ripped it free. Warm blood sprayed, and Zorro toppled to the ground.
The camp fell silent.
Laughter died. Conversations faded. Cups stopped mid-air.
Everyone stared in stunned horror.
Why had Yigo—the Commander's most trusted guard—suddenly slain Zorro, one of the Commander's closest men?
But then Yigo lifted his blood-soaked sword and shouted with all his strength:
"Long live the Warriors' Group!!!"
The roar split the night—like a spark into a powder keg.
Rorger and Fang were the first to react. Ecstasy burst across their faces.
It worked.
Even the strongest warrior, Yigo, had switched sides.
The Deputy Commander was a genius.
Their advantage was absolute.
Across the camp, the loyal veterans—Timmon, Pug, Tog Jos, and others secretly aligned with Vague—looked utterly bewildered.
The slogan was correct… but why had Yigo killed one of their own?
They didn't have time to think.
Because the moment Yigo's shout faded, Rorger, Fang, and the others had already drawn their blades and charged.
Survival instinct kicked in, and steel flashed as the veterans drew their weapons to defend themselves.
Clang!
The sound of metal striking metal shattered the illusion of unity within the Warriors' Group.
Neutral soldiers, drunk and confused, looked around blankly.
Why were they fighting?
But they heard Yigo's cry.
They knew his rank.
They knew his loyalty.
Which meant—
Timmon, Pug, and their group must be the traitors.
"Follow Yigo!"
"Kill the traitors!"
Weapons were raised. More men joined. The chaos spread like disease.
No one could tell friend from foe.
No one paused to ask questions.
They simply followed the strongest man they saw—and struck down anyone who looked suspicious.
The camp transformed into a battlefield. Screams, steel, rage, and desperation merged into a single monstrous roar.
Firelight flickered over twisted faces. Blood sprayed and soaked the ground.
Meanwhile, beneath an oak tree far from the bonfire…
The moment those five words—Long live the Warriors' Group—reached them, Vague and Uswik froze.
Their forced smiles dissolved instantly, replaced by fury and betrayal.
"You damned bastard…" Vague snarled, reaching for his sword. But fever and weakness slowed his movements.
"You filthy dog!" Uswik roared, acting faster. He had been tense from the beginning—waiting for the slightest signal. The moment he recognized the uprising, he drew his blade and thrust toward Vague's heart.
But Vague, a man capable of conquering even the Dothraki, reacted with astonishing speed. He hurled himself backward, narrowly avoiding death. The sword only tore open his leather armor.
"Traitor!" Vague bellowed, pulling free his heavy broadsword. Though not as fine as Yigo's gifted steel, it was brutal and deadly.
The two men clashed, blades glinting in the dim light.
Every strike was full strength. Every movement was survival.
Vague still had power and experience—but his fever robbed him of endurance. His lungs burned, and his sword felt like iron ore.
Uswik, on the other hand, fought like a serpent—never clashing head-on, always evading, wearing Vague down.
"Is that all you have, Vargo Hoat?" Uswik taunted, blood streaking his cheek. "Where is the great lord of Harrenhal? Show me!"
He spotted an opening the moment Vague overextended, ducked low, and slammed his shoulder into Vague's chest.
Vague stumbled and fell, dropping his broadsword into the mud.
Uswik lunged in triumph—only for Vague to twist and kick his wrist, sending his longsword flying.
Vague flipped, pinning Uswik to the ground. His hands clamped around Uswik's throat, and he lowered his head, baring yellowed teeth—
—and bit into Uswik's face.
Uswik screamed as flesh tore away.
Savagery overtook him. He clawed into Vague's festering ear wound, ripping pus and rotted flesh free.
Vague shrieked, body convulsing from agony.
They writhed in the mud—two fallen leaders, stripped of dignity, fighting like animals for the right to live.
Honor was gone.
Swordsmanship was gone.
Only primal instin
ct remained.
And high above them, perched in a crooked-neck tree, the true instigator watched the chaos unfold—smiling with satisfaction.
"Heh… seems those years spent climbing apple trees finally paid off."