The massive caravan unloaded all its goods at the busy docks of Seagard.
Wine barrels and crates shipped by longship were carefully transferred onto waiting wagons and pack animals. The clang of metal hoops hitting stone pavement, the shouts of wagoners, and the noise of the port blended together, marking the start of the overland leg of the journey.
The convoy then set off, traveling south along the Kingsroad. They would pass the ancient, weathered ruins of Oldstones, cross through Fairmarket—a town not overly prosperous but full of life—and then arrive at the usual rest stop, Lord Harroway's Town.
After resting for a night in the town, Euron would part ways with the caravan. The caravan would head upstream to reach Harrenhal. Euron needed to continue south to Maidenpool, then to Duskendale, and from there take a ship to Dragonstone.
The plan was sound, but journeys rarely go without mishap.
When the massive caravan left Fairmarket and moved along the Kingsroad winding through the hills toward Lord Harroway's Town, danger had long been lying in wait in the dense woods and jagged rocks flanking the road.
The attack exploded without warning.
Deadly projectiles poured down like a hail of death! Rocks whistled as they smashed down, pebbles slung from slings emitted piercing shrieks, crude iron axes spun through the air, and sporadic arrows and short spears aimed straight for lives—the attack was overwhelming, instantly enveloping the caravan.
In the chaos, Euron's reaction was lightning fast.
He grabbed Lisa beside him and pulled her close, using his own body as her first shield. Simultaneously, the [Kami-e] (Paper Art) technique from another world was pushed to its limit. His body seemed to lose all weight, becoming a leaf fluttering in the wind. With an astonishing intuition bordering on precognition, he performed small, precise dodges in the split second before impact.
A boulder grazed his cloak and smashed into the dirt; a throwing axe embedded itself into the wooden railing of the wagon behind where they had just stood. Protecting Lisa, he executed a swift and fluid roll along the ground, skillfully using the massive wheel of a wagon loaded with salted meat and root vegetables as temporary cover.
The heavy wagon body blocked most of the direct attacks. Only the incessant "thud-thud" sounds could be heard—arrows and spears biting deep into the wood, and dull thumps of rocks hitting crates. The salty smell of cured meat and the earthy scent of vegetables mixed with rising dust, permeating the air around them.
A savage war cry tore through the sky. Nearly a hundred figures seemed to burst from the ground, leaping from behind bushes and boulders on the hillside, howling as they charged the convoy below.
The attackers were like nightmares bred in the shadows of mountain rocks, revealing the terrifying characteristics of their respective tribes.
Most were thickset and hairy, wearing crude furs and "armor" that was rusty or simply pieced together from hard leather. Their weapons were equally varied—badly chipped axes, wooden clubs bound with stones, sharpened old scythes, and even pointed wooden spears.
The warriors of the Black Ears were the most horrifying. Hanging around their thick necks on leather cords were shriveled, blackened trophies—ears cut from their enemies, dangling as they charged, symbols of barbaric martial prowess.
Members of the Burned Men were covered in terrible scars. Many were missing a finger, or had twisted burn scars all over their faces and arms—marks left by their cruel coming-of-age rituals or internal punishments, making them look like demons crawled out of a fiery hell.
The Stone Crows were known for their dense, messy beards that covered half their faces. Their roars were the crudest and loudest, noisy and threatening like a flock of crows.
The more primitive Painted Dogs were nearly naked, barely covering themselves with rough bark and large leaves. Their bodies were smeared with mud and moss, blending almost perfectly with the shadows of the woods when they moved, yet the wooden spears and stone axes in their hands carried deadly intent.
Additionally, one could spot the slippery, tricky-attacking members of the Milk Snakes, and the pale-faced warriors of the Moon Brothers, who seemed more active under moonlight. These primitive tribes lived year-round in the Mountains of the Moon in the Vale. Though they often fought each other over blood feuds and resources, when facing a common "fat sheep," they could quickly form temporary alliances.
Especially now, with winter just passed and food scarce. Aside from robbery, they had no other source of livelihood.
News of the massive cargo convoys heading to Harrenhal had long attracted their greedy gazes like blood attracting sharks. This sizable caravan naturally became a must-take target in their eyes, hoping to make a fortune, eat their fill, and spend a prosperous spring.
The air was filled with a nauseatingly sweet smell—expensive "Kraken" red wine gushing from smashed oak barrels, mixing with mud and blood to create a strange, sweet, and metallic aroma along with the rich scent of wine. However, this intoxicating fragrance now heralded heavy losses and crisis.
Euron's sharp gaze swept the battlefield, and his heart sank. When leaving the Iron Islands, besides bringing Lisa and the loyal "Cleftjaw" Dagmer, he had carefully selected ten elite Ironborn guards. At this moment, only eight remained standing to fight.
The fate of the other two was tragic: one guard failed to dodge in time, and a crude but powerful iron axe was embedded right in the center of his forehead, eyes wide open, dead instantly. Another guard had an arrow shot through his mouth, the sharp arrowhead piercing out through the back of his skull, dragging out red and white matter—a horrific death.
Just then, like a dam breaking, the howling mountain clansmen broke through the initial ranged skirmish. Like mad beasts, they threw themselves into close quarters, crashing fiercely into the surviving caravan guards and Euron's Ironborn warriors. Instantly, blades clashed, and roars and screams blended into one. Euron shoved Lisa toward a safer gap under the wagon, drew his newly acquired twin blades, Oto and Kogarashi, with a reverse grip, and met the oncoming enemies.
The battle was fierce and chaotic. The mountain clansmen relied on numbers and fearless ferocity to attack madly, but their equipment was poor, and they lacked unified command, often fighting individually, which led to a disorganized brawl.
Though outnumbered, the caravan guards and Euron's Ironborn were better equipped, well-trained, and coordinated. They formed a defensive line with their backs to the wagons, using the terrain to split the enemy, often forming groups of two or three to surround a lone savage, temporarily stabilizing their formation.
In the center of the battlefield, Euron was a whirlwind of death. The twin blades Oto and Kogarashi danced in his hands, moving so fast they left only trails of cold light. His swordsmanship was precise and efficient; every cut aimed for vitals—throat or heart—with no wasted, flashy movements, like a cold performance of death. As more corpses fell at his feet, including two tribal leaders who charged at the front, he finally attracted the attention of all the savages.
In an instant, dozens of blood-crazed mountain warriors let out frantic howls, closing in on him from all sides, attempting to drown him with sheer numbers.
Facing the surging encirclement, Euron's eyes were cold. He crossed his twin swords in front of him. At the same time, the fire elemental life Apollo, which had been hovering over his left shoulder, happily split into two streams of searing liquid fire. Like living vines, they instantly wrapped around the blades of Oto and Kogarashi!
In a flash, the twin swords transformed into two burning divine weapons of scorching flame. The raging firelight illuminated his expressionless face, radiating a suffocating heat wave.
At the final moment before the encirclement closed, Euron moved!
[Rokushiki — Soru!]
Euron's figure blurred abruptly in place, vanishing like a ghost. He broke through the not-yet-fully-formed encirclement at a speed almost imperceptible to the naked eye. In the next second, he appeared behind a savage who was raising a stone axe with a bewildered face.
The burning twin swords crossed in a searing arc. The hairy head flew skyward instantly, the severed neck cauterized black by the high temperature.
In the next moment, Euron's true art of slaughter unfolded fully. The power of his Nitoryu (Two-Sword Style), enhanced by fire, skyrocketed. He was like a tiger among sheep. The burning twin swords turned into countless deadly arcs of fire. Wherever he passed, severed limbs flew, and the smell of burnt flesh permeated the air. The tribal warriors besieging him didn't even have time to react before being torn apart and swallowed by flames and steel in horror.
In just a few breaths, the dozens of aggressive attackers who had surrounded him were all turned into burning charred corpses at his feet.
The remaining dozens of mountain clansmen had their fighting spirit utterly destroyed by this terrifying sight, akin to witnessing a demon god. With a collective scream, they dropped their weapons in panic, turned, and fled wretchedly back into the mountains, not daring to look back even once.