Avi strode through the battlefield, the metallic tang of blood thick in the air, meticulously inspecting each severed green-skinned head. Though the wily old fox named Kees only offered a silver coin for each scalp, money was money, and they needed to seize every opportunity.

"Boss, we've got a haul of nineteen green-skinned heads here. Enough to keep our cups filled for a few days!"

Rafe approached, dragging his colossal sword. His form was smeared with the gore of the greenskins, emanating a pungent odor.

"Are you unharmed, boss?" Avi inquired with concern.

"I'm untouched. These greenskins scatter at the sight of me. Only the larger ones dared to challenge, but they posed no threat," Rafe reassured.

"How many did you dispatch?"

"Four. The greenskins were scarce," Rafe replied, wiping his blade with a cloth found nearby. "Boss, a fine sword makes all the difference. This one is as effortless as splitting firewood."

"Indeed. With more earnings, we'll procure superior weaponry."

Avi ruminated, "The soldiers' swords are mundane iron. To confront the greenskins directly, we'll need superior equipment. We must equip them better when the funds permit."

"Captain, our weapons are failing us," a spearman interjected.

Before Avi could delve into his musings, the grim reality intruded. "Several comrades' weapons have shattered. The greenskins are relentless!"

"How many are weaponless?"

"Let me count... seven." The spearman's countenance mirrored the futility of their situation. "The greenskins charge without fear, and we're powerless."

"I understand. You've performed admirably. The spoils from this battle will afford us new gear," Avi assured.

"Any casualties?"

"Seven injured, but the bleeding is stemmed."

...

Clearing the battlefield would consume time. Avi delegated the task to the soldiers, escorting Rafe to scour the greenskin camp for survivors.

Their efforts proved fruitful. Amidst debris, tents, and muck, they unearthed seven or eight enslaved goblins. Avi and Rafe dispatched them swiftly, denying them mercy.

Beyond the makeshift prison encircled by wooden stakes and stones, a dozen emaciated men lay, barely clinging to life.

"Are you well?" Avi's voice reverberated. "Whence do you hail?"

Whether from starvation or resignation, the men stared vacantly, mouths agape but silent.

"They starve," Avi surmised. Turning to Rafe, he instructed, "Fetch water for them."

"Understood," Rafe complied, sheathing his blade and departing for the river.

Avi scavenged provisions from the camp: dried meat, bread, mushrooms. The origin of the meat, whether beast or orc 'rations,' was a thought he dismissed. He deposited the food within the prison confines.

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The feeble men stirred at the sight, crawling towards sustenance, hands grasping at morsels they couldn't consume.

Their parched mouths, sealed by scabs, rendered speech futile.

Rafe returned with water, carried in crude bowls. Avi endured the stench, proffering cups to the captives.

Water elicited a greater response than food. The prisoners clamored for the cups, quenching their thirst. Rafe made numerous trips, sating their drought, as mercenaries concluded their cleanup and converged.

"Captain, who are they?"

Indeed, the emotional and practical complexities of their situation were palpable. Each of them had traversed a path fraught with peril, shaped by the ever-looming threat of the Greenskins within the Broken Leaf Tribe. Their familiarity with the Greenskins' tactics was undeniable.

"Poor souls," Avi couldn't help but empathize with their plight. He instructed several uninjured soldiers, "See if you can clear away these obstacles. Let's bring them back with us."

Driven by a genuine sense of compassion, the mercenaries swiftly dismantled the makeshift barricades and began extracting the trapped individuals, one by one.

Their physical debilitation was evident; they could scarcely lift their heads. Avi understood that expecting responses from them at this juncture was unrealistic. He simply reassured them of their safety and refrained from further communication after receiving their silent consent.

The Cheating Mercenaries efficiently packed their belongings. After administering basic first aid to the severely wounded and attending to minor injuries, they embarked on their journey back with the twelve rescued captives in tow.

The return journey proved relatively smooth as they retraced their steps through the dense undergrowth. However, the presence of the injured and the Greenskin captives notably impeded their progress.

It wasn't until nightfall that they emerged from the forest onto the sparsely vegetated grassland. Under the gentle glow of the moon, Avi made the decision to halt their march and establish camp for the night. After enduring two battles, the team was too fatigued to risk traveling through the night.

Beneath the canopy of the solitary night sky, only a flickering campfire illuminated the rudimentary campsite. The makeshift tents, swaying gently in the nocturnal breeze, seemed precarious and susceptible to collapse.

These tents, fashioned after the Greenskins' method, were supported by single tree branches thrust into the ground. Lacking the means to acquire proper camping equipment, the mercenary group made do with what they had.

Even so, their supply of animal hides was woefully insufficient. Avi reluctantly instructed the healthy members of the team to vacate their tents for the injured and rescued captives, a decision that elicited murmurs of dissent within the group.

"It's understandable to prioritize the injured among us without complaint, but those rescued individuals should be serving us instead. Why are we treating them like honored guests and sacrificing our sleeping space for them?"

"Yeah! I don't understand what the captain is thinking. Why prioritize outsiders over our own people? What kind of logic is that?!"

Amidst the chorus of opinions, Avi felt the weight of the situation bearing down on him. Despite his attempts to explain the principle of "priority for the wounded" to the team, these straightforward individuals, who had accompanied him from the village, remained unconvinced of the merits of humanitarian ideals; they trusted only their own.

"Those guys might just heal their wounds, fill their stomachs, and then turn on us! I won't sleep tonight. I'll help keep watch for you guys."

"Not just you alone. You take the first half of the night, and I'll take the second half. How's that?"

Distrust towards outsiders pervaded the entire team, shattering the once harmonious atmosphere within the group.

Facing such a situation for the first time, Avi, as a novice captain, found himself consumed by self-doubt. He sat alone by the fire, watching the flames dance merrily, yet his mood grew increasingly somber.

"Could this be related to my leadership abilities? Or perhaps a lack of charisma...?" Avi pondered. "Is it possible my eloquence is lacking?"

Relying too heavily on the system, he had forgotten the simple actions an ordinary person would take in such circumstances—clarifying the situation would likely dispel the team's current doubts.

In handling such matters, Rafe proved more adept than Avi. With his straightforward and folksy language, he quickly dispelled the doubts of the team members.

"Are you guys daft? We saved these folks. When we send them back to the city, they'll surely reward us, won't they? Just look at the clothes they're wearing. It's plain as day they're not ordinary farmers. Are we, a bunch of paupers, worthy of their gratitude?"

Although his words lacked refinement, Rafe ultimately assuaged the doubts of the team members. As long as they understood the captain's decision was beneficial, the mercenaries were willing to accept it.

Thus, the Cheating Mercenaries and their rescued prisoners spent a relatively peaceful night—excluding those who kept vigil throughout the night.