"Holy sht!"
As the Guild Leader, Mouse_Is_Duck was shoved right to the front. He didn't even get a clear look at the enemy's face before he was knocked to the ground and literally trampled offline by countless feet.
A frontal assault was clearly too much to ask of the Brotherhood Without Banners, a group of players who excelled in dirty tricks but lacked any real combat skills.
Facing a native army fighting with their backs against the wall, the front row of players was instantly bowled over. The Brotherhood's entire battle line wavered, looking like it would collapse in a single blow.
Fortunately, Flying_Bat, the Guild Leader's right-hand man, stepped up at the critical moment and shouted:
"Brothers, don't fight them head-on! Show them our specialties!"
Realizing what he meant, the players hurriedly pulled out their so-called "specialties" from their waists.
Cloth pouches filled with lime powder and chili powder were hurled from the hands of the Brotherhood players.
A sky full of red and grey dust instantly descended upon the crowd, eliciting ear-splitting screams.
The stinging pain in their eyes forced the most aggressive sailors and guards to cover their faces and instinctively retreat.
"Now!"
Player Caramel_Cotton_Candy flicked out his hidden blade. Swinging a hand axe, he lunged forward, burying the axe deep into the skull of a sailor who was wailing in pain, while his right hidden blade pierced the man's throat.
Flying_Bat, one half of the guild's dynamic duo, had somehow acquired two transparent jars filled with an unknown liquid.
"Clear out!"
Flying_Bat shouted, unscrewing the lids and splashing the unknown liquid onto the sailors and guards opposite him.
"Argh!"
Sizzle.
White smoke rose from the faces of the two sailors who were hit.
"Holy crap! It's sulfuric acid! Which genius made this?"
"Damn, we even have sulfuric acid? The Brotherhood is full of talent!"
The players instantly recognized the liquid Flying_Bat had thrown. It was sulfuric acid, the mother of industry!
And now, Flying_Bat was using it as a weapon against the enemy.
"They are demons too!"
Seeing this, the natives felt like the sky was falling.
As the old saying goes: morale is boosted by the first drum roll, depleted by the second, and exhausted by the third.
Fighting with their backs to the wall gave the sailors and guards a burst of high morale and combat power. But after their offense was thwarted by the Brotherhood's dirty tricks, and then witnessing such a terrifying "magic" attack, the native army's morale collapsed completely. They scattered on the spot.
"Where do you think you can run?!"
"Enemies in front and behind! Why don't you cowards dare to fight to the death?!"
Despite Magister Ordello and Admiral Pymber's desperate attempts to stabilize their demoralized troops, no one was listening to their orders anymore.
"Drop your weapons! Hands on your head and squat down if you want to live! Resisters die!"
As the Grenadier Corps closed in and demanded surrender, it was the straw that broke the camel's back. The soldiers lost all will to resist, dropping their weapons one by one and obediently squatting down.
"Cowards! A bunch of cowards!"
Magister Ordello was hopping mad. He used his longsword to strike a sailor squatting near his feet, but the sailor would rather endure the pain and squat a bit further away than stand up and fight back, even against a Magister.
Compared to the furious Magister Ordello, Admiral Pymber was much more pragmatic seeing the tide had turned.
He was the Fleet Admiral of Pentos, but he could easily be the Fleet Admiral for House Targaryen too.
Pymber felt he had done right by Pentos; he had fought as hard as he could.
So, the Admiral gracefully dropped his longsword and, without feeling any humiliation, followed the players' instructions to squat down with his hands on his head.
"They squat, you kneel! Do it, or your head leaves your shoulders."
Player Laws_Cannot_Touch_Me, seeing a die-hard element still standing tall among the captives like a crane among chickens, walked up unhappily. He drew the longsword at his waist, placed it against the man's neck, and threatened him word by word.
"You! I am one of the Magisters of Pentos. I can surrender to you and hand over my sword, but you should treat me with the courtesy due a noble!"
Ordello's face changed colors like a dye shop as he gritted his teeth.
"Fck your mother!"
A player standing next to Laws had no intention of indulging him. He went straight up and kicked the defenseless Ordello to the ground.
"You! You baseborn scum! Shameless mercenaries! You insult me! You insult a Magister! You should repent in the Seven Hells for this!
"When your Beggar King receives my ransom and releases me, I will make you understand the consequences of insulting a noble!"
Ordello cursed furiously.
Admiral Pymber, squatting nearby, looked up in surprise. A strange look flashed in his eyes, and he silently scooted backward.
"Heh, oh sht, look at you acting tough." Laws and the other player laughed in disbelief.
"Damn, I've lived this long, and you're the first NPC who dares to talk to me like that."
Laws waved his hand behind him, and a familiar player handed him a jar of Wildfire.
"Come on, let me show you the consequences of an NPC insulting a player."
Right in front of Ordello, Laws slowly removed the stopper from the jar and leaned toward the Magister.
"What are you doing? I'll do it! Please, put down the jar!"
The Magister finally learned to use "please," but it was too late.
"Ahhh!"
Doused in Wildfire from head to toe, Magister Ordello transformed into a human torch in agony. He flailed and struggled, emitting ear-splitting screams.
The sound made all the other captives lower their heads and tremble in silence, afraid that making a sound would attract the attention of these lunatics and lead to the same fate.
Standing not far away, Ser Jorah Mormont narrowed his eyes, taking in the scene.
There was once a King in the Seven Kingdoms who loved punishing his enemies and perceived sinners with Wildfire.
He also had a group of fire-obsessed sycophants under him.
That man was Viserys's father, the Mad King, known to all in the Seven Kingdoms.
Jorah lowered his head, lost in thought.
They say half of the Targaryens are mad.
As the bards sing:
Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin.
As a Kingsguard, Jorah worried that one day Viserys would be seduced by these fire-obsessed lunatics into focusing only on crooked paths and dirty tricks, forgetting the righteous path a true monarch should walk.
"A bunch of damned fire-playing madmen!" Ser Jorah looked with dissatisfaction at the "Pyromancers" laughing maniacally.