The lingering snow of winter had long melted, and the dirt road of Khyprian road was soaked and muddy.
Hooves and boot soles splashed mud mixed with withered grass, leaving marks of varying depths on the road.
As the last ray of twilight vanished behind the trees, the soldiers of the slaver Squad finally stopped, lazily beginning to set up camp.
Several cavalrymen dismounted, casually tossing their reins to the infantrymen behind them, complaining, "This wretched road is going to wear out the horses' hooves."
The spearmen, carrying their long spears, slowly erected tent frames; some even sat directly in the mud, pulling out their dry rations to chew on, completely abandoning the disciplined formation they maintained during the day's march.
Habee, the leader of this slaver Squad, reined in his warhorse, frowned at the chaotic scene before him, but said nothing more.
Days of marching had left him somewhat fatigued, and moreover, this forest had long been cleared by the dwarves, without even a decent green-skin in sight, so there was no need to maintain tight vigilance.
He dismounted, and two infantrymen quickly stepped forward to help him remove his silver heavy armor—the patterns on the heavy armor were stained with a good deal of mud, yet its excellent craftsmanship was still evident, reflecting dazzling light in the sun.
"Sir, your tent is ready," a servant respectfully said, pointing to a brown tent twice the size of the others nearby, with a small black flag bearing an eagle's head hanging at the entrance, signifying its owner's status.
Habee nodded; without his heavy armor, he appeared somewhat slender, but his black inner armor still tightly wrapped his body—years of military life had taught him that in the wilderness, one must never let down their guard, and even if the surroundings seemed safe, the inner armor must always be worn.
He took the waterskin offered by the servant, twisted open the cap, and took a sip; the cold water slid down his throat, slightly dispelling some of his fatigue.
"Go tell the soldiers guarding the prisoner carts to keep a close eye on those green-skins; don't let them cause any trouble," Habee leaned against the wooden post at the tent entrance, his voice carrying a hint of laziness, "We still have to travel early tomorrow; if anything goes wrong tonight, I'll skin them alive."
"Yes!" the servant quickly responded and ran off.
Habee turned and entered the tent, where thick wool blankets were spread, a folding camp bed was placed in the center, and a small wooden box in the corner contained his change of clothes and some dry rations.
He took off his helmet, casually placed it on the wooden box, lay down on the camp bed, and closed his eyes—the continuous journey quickly lulled him into a deep sleep, his hand unconsciously resting on the short sword by his pillow, a habit he had developed over many years.
Outside the tent, however, the soldiers guarding the prisoner carts wore unwilling expressions.
Three infantrymen squatted by the prisoner cart, their long spears casually leaning against the side of the cart.
One of the soldiers pulled out his wineskin, took a swig, and grumbled, "Why does Lord Habee get to sleep in a warm tent while we have to drink cold wind here watching these stinking green-skins?"
"Don't complain, he's the leader after all," another soldier sighed, his eyes darting towards the orcs in the prisoner cart—those green-skins were staring intently at them, their red eyes gleaming fiercely in the night, making his heart pound.
"Just get through this night; tomorrow we'll reach Katushir, collect our reward, and then we'll go to the tavern for a good drink and some fun."
The third soldier said nothing, only irritably kicked the wooden planks of the prisoner cart, making a "Clank" sound.
The orcs in the prisoner cart immediately became agitated, rushing towards the bars, their chains clanking "Clash," and emitting low "woo woo" growls, but they were firmly locked, only able to watch the human soldiers chatting outside.
The soldiers completely failed to notice that in the deepening night forest, dozens of small figures were swiftly moving.
The hobgoblins, using their height advantage of less than a meter, moved nimbly through the dense bushes, the fallen leaves underfoot rustling "Shasha," but these sounds were covered by the rattling of the prisoner cart and the chatter of the soldiers.
They all clutched something in their hands—some held axes, others gripped homemade bone daggers, and fierce light gleamed in their green-bean eyes, fixed intently on the sentries at the edge of the camp.
The moon reached the middle of the sky, and the forest night was exceptionally quiet, every soldier on duty was quite exhausted.
On the east side of the camp, two sentries were dozing, leaning against tree trunks.
Their crossbows were slung diagonally over their shoulders, their helmets askew, and they were snoring, completely unaware of the approaching danger.
Three hobgoblins, hunched over, silently crept behind them.
One of the hobgoblins suddenly pounced, covering the sentry's mouth with a rough burlap cloth, while the bone dagger in the hand of another hobgoblin instantly stabbed towards the sentry's waist—that was a gap in the chainmail, unprotected.
"Mmph!" The sentry's eyes instantly widened, his body struggling violently, but he was held down tightly by the hobgoblin.
The bone dagger was repeatedly plunged several times, and warm blood flowed out through the dagger's crevices, staining the hobgoblin's hand.
Before long, the sentry's body went limp and was dragged deep into the forest by the hobgoblin, leaving no trace of movement.
The sentry on the other side met the same fate.
Four hobgoblins worked together: some were responsible for covering mouths, some for assassinating, and others quickly collected the crossbows dropped by the sentries to avoid making noise.
In just half an incense stick's time, all six sentries around the camp were dealt with, without any alarm being raised, only a few gradually chilling corpses left deep in the forest.
Wreelx, leading twenty hobgoblin archers, silently climbed up the large trees around the camp.
They sat on thick branches, their bodies hidden in the dense foliage, their wooden bows already nocked with arrows, the arrowheads aimed at the center of the camp—as soon as Kurzadh gave the command, they could instantly unleash an arrow rain, drawing the humans' attention.
Wreelx narrowed his eyes, looking at the drowsy soldiers in the camp, a cunning smile curling at the corner of his mouth—these humans would soon pay the price for their carelessness.
Kurzadh, leading over fifty hobgoblin spearmen, was lurking in the bushes on the west side of the camp.
He could clearly see the location of the prisoner carts—eighteen prisoner carts were neatly parked in the center of the camp, with only four soldiers patrolling around them; the other soldiers were either sleeping in tents or chatting by the campfire, their guard laughably lax.
He raised his hand to check the sky; the moon had already risen to its zenith, silver moonlight casting a hazy glow over the camp, making everything indistinct—it was the perfect time for action.
"Dragu, is Scarface's side ready?" Kurzadh asked in a low voice.
The hobgoblin scout beside him quickly nodded: "Boss, Chief Dragu and Chief Scarface have already taken thirty archers to the high ground on the southeast side, just waiting for your signal."
Kurzadh nodded with satisfaction.
The high ground on the southeast side was the commanding point of the entire camp; from there, every corner of the camp could be clearly seen.
The hobgoblin archers guarding there could both suppress the human archers and provide support at any time, which was perfect.
He took a deep breath and gripped the iron axe at his waist.
In the camp, the human soldiers were still chatting, some even starting to pack their belongings, preparing to go to bed in their tents; the orcs in the prisoner carts continued to growl, their red eyes in the night like small flames; Habee in his tent was probably still sound asleep, completely unaware that a conspiracy against him had quietly unfolded.
Kurzadh raised his hand and gestured to Wreelx in the tree.
Wreelx immediately understood, suddenly stood up, and shouted to the sky: "Shoot!"
"Swish swish swish!"
Twenty arrows instantly shot into the sky, drawing silver arcs in the moonlight, then "thud thud" they landed in the open space in the center of the camp, splashing mud.
The soldiers in the camp were instantly startled awake.
"Who?!"
"Enemy!"
"Get your weapons!"
Confused shouts instantly echoed throughout the camp, soldiers rushing out of their tents, some frantically searching for weapons, others looking around, trying to locate the enemy.
The soldiers sitting by the campfire were so startled they jumped up, not even bothering to pick up the dry rations that had fallen to the ground.
A fierce glint flashed in Kurzadh's eyes as he suddenly stood up, waving his iron axe and shouting: "Charge! Smash open the prisoner carts!"
Over fifty hobgoblin spearmen instantly rushed out of the bushes, like a pack of hungry wolves, pouncing towards the prisoner carts in the center of the camp.
Their speed was extremely fast, their stone spears and iron axes gleaming coldly as they charged towards the soldiers guarding the prisoner carts.
On the high ground southeast of the camp, Dragu and Scarface also gave their commands.
Thirty arrows instantly shot towards the human archers on the east side of the camp; those soldiers who had just picked up their bows and crossbows were hit by arrows before they even had time to aim, falling to the ground one after another, screams rising and falling.