The Gray Wolf Mercenaries, exhausted and worn, stumbled upon the homestead of an old farmer. Lanor, a fallen noble turned spell sword and leader of the mercenaries, surveyed the humble surroundings.

Lanor, all business, gave his orders. "This looks like a good place to rest. Kael, take a look around and make sure it's safe." They were very hurt and desperate for a proper rest.

Kael, the second in command nodded and slinked into the shadows, utilizing his expertise over stealth. The remaining mercenaries wearily and warily kept watch of the surroundings, glancing at the old man who continued chopping his firewood.

"What brings you to my land, strangers? Looking for trouble or just passing through?" The old farmer brandished his axe, cleanly chopping the wood into half. He was almost finished.

Lanor, attempting to sound diplomatic, replied, "We mean no harm. Just seeking a moment of respite. We've been on the road for days."

"Roads? Funny..." The farmer thought aloud.

Lanor realized his foolishness, perhaps the exhaustion finally catching up to his brain. "Well, I meant roads as in a metaphor... The forest is quite confusing, like a labyrinth."

The old man didn't mind as he solely focussed on finishing his wood blocks for the fireplace tonight.

"Days can be harsh, especially for those carrying weapons. What's your business that has you travelin' so far?"

Lanor hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "We are... mercenaries. Gray Wolf Mercenaries. Just trying to survive in a world that doesn't offer much to folks like us."

The old farmer eyed them with suspicion but didn't press further. Kael returned, reporting no immediate threats.

Kael whispered, "Seems quiet, Lanor. But we should keep an eye out. These remote places can hide surprises."

That was when the old farmer had finished chopping his wood. He carried them over and was about to go when Kael came to him rather aggressively. With intimidation in mind, Kael began his tricks. "Hey, old man, shouldn't you offer us a little bit of hospitality?"

The old man just gazed at Kael dead in his eyes.

Undeterred, Kael just smiled as the old man did not really seem much to him. Kael, always calculating, revealed a gold coin in between his fingers with a sly grin.

"Old man, your crops may feed you, but coin can buy you more than just sustenance. How about you share some of your harvest with us, and we'll leave you in peace?"

And to drive further the nail to amuse and hammer the benefits, Kael moved his fingers and multiplied the gold coins into two. "On top of some food, we could also use some rest... Hey, I checked the barn, and it isn't so bad, we can rest there..."

The old farmer, a weathered soul with a stern gaze, shook his head. "I've worked in these fields for decades. I won't be giving away what's rightfully mine to the likes of you." The farmer said it almost spitefully but managed to hold his tongue at the last second.

"But the barn's yours..." He added as he turned around.

Kael's eyes narrowed, and a menacing undertone crept into his voice. "You see, refusing us isn't wise. We could make your life very difficult, old man. A few crops won't be missed in the grand scheme of things."

"I've faced hardship before, and I'll face it again. I won't let fear dictate how I live my life." The old farmer turned to face Kael, still stubborn in his ways. "And it was better you lot weren't fed. I would not like you lot return to your war soon. This way, I might have just saved a few more people."

Kael could not believe the hypocrisy he was hearing. "Yeah, and thanks to you, a lot of Mundarians would be dead!"

"Ironic, considering it was coming from a mercenary's mouth," The old man spat on the ground just by Kael's boot. "You think of yourself a hero, son? Because I don't."

With finality, the old farmer turned around and walked away.

Lanor, overhearing the conversation, stepped in. "Kael, we're not here to terrorize innocent folk. We'll find another way to sustain ourselves, recuperate, and spring back up again."

Kael, displeased with the resistance, shot a piercing glare at the old farmer. "This isn't over, old man. Remember, we're always watching."

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The old farmer stood his ground, unyielding as the mercenaries begrudgingly moved away, seeking the barn that the old man had allowed them to use.

Accompanied by goats and chickens, the mercenaries gathered in the barn, helping themselves with whatever they could find to make improvised bedding... except Lanor. With careful steps, Lanor came by the old man's doorstep.

Lanor, realizing the potential conflict, decided to take a diplomatic approach. If not, he would be satisfied with just clearing the air. He approached the old farmer with a calm demeanor.

"Old man, we mean no harm. We're just passing through, and we've faced hardships on our journey. A share of your harvest could make a significant difference for us."

The old farmer, a picture of hard-headedness, crossed his arms. "I've toiled for these crops, and I won't part with them just because you've had a rough journey. Find your own way to survive."

Lanor persisted, attempting to appeal to the old man's sense of empathy. "We understand your attachment to your work. We're not asking for charity. We can offer protection or assistance in return. Perhaps there's a task we can help you with?"

To Lanor's eyes, the old man wouldn't be losing to such a deal. It was not like Lanor's group was robbing him, and they were offering justified prices too.

"I've managed these fields alone for years. I don't need help from your kind. Now, be on your way." The farmer replied with spite.

"Why? Tell me why!?" Lanor was losing grip of his patience. "We are hungry, weak, and need help. If you can not help us, help yourself, a gold coin is more than enough! Look at this shabby place! You call this a home?"

The tension hung in the air as Lanor, realized a calm rage brewing behind the old man's eyes.

Farmer? What a joke!? The bloodthirst was real, and Lanor felt it on his spine. "Very well, old man. We won't press you further. May your fields yield bountifully."

"..."

The old man's silence disgusted Lanor, making him feel increasingly annoyed by his own inability to persuade the other.

When Lanor returned to the barn, he noticed his mercenaries gathered in a corner.

Kael, Gon, Tye, Perry, Marek, Dendeng, Joruk, and lastly, Lanor— all remaining eight, the last of the Gray Wolves, had come together to discuss.

Lanor joined the crowd of mercenaries forming a circle. He sat by the accumulated wood using it as an improvised chair.

As Lanor scanned the dimly lit barn, he spotted Kael with an uncharacteristically confident grin. Suspicion crept into Lanor's mind, and he asked with a stern expression. "What's going on, Kael?" Lanor demanded, his voice cutting through the hushed whispers, and subtle eye contacts the mercenaries were exchanging.

Kael glanced up from where he sat, a sly grin playing on his lips. "Just discussing alternative solutions, Lanor. We can't rely on the old man's generosity, can we?"

Lanor frowned, sensing the brewing dissent within his group. "We won't resort to force or theft. That's not our way."

One of the mercenaries, a burly figure named Gon, chimed in, "Lanor, we're starving. Waiting for the farmer's charity won't fill our bellies. We are hurt. We need to heal, and rest, and what do you suggest?"

Before Lanor could respond, Kael interjected, "We're not waiting. We're taking matters into our own hands. Look around us. We are desperate, and lost!"

Lanor's eyes narrowed. "No. We won't rob the old man. We're mercenaries, not bandits."

"Yes, we are mercenaries, not bandits... but not knights either!" Kael added, impatient.

Lanor stood firm. "There's always another way. I won't lead us down a path of brutality."

Gon, frustrated, retorted, "And what if the old man's stubbornness costs us our lives? We can't afford to be weak."

Kael, discontent evident in his eyes, muttered, "You're risking our survival for principles, Lanor."

"I won't compromise our integrity for a quick solution," Lanor declared.

The tension further escalated as the mercenaries continued to debate their next move. Kael, with a calculating glint in his eyes, spoke up, "Lanor, your principles won't fill our stomachs or heal our wounds. Waiting for charity won't save us. We need to take matters into our own hands."

Gon, the burly axe-wielder, grunted in agreement. "I'm with Kael on this one. We can't afford to be weak and starve while we wait for this old fool to change his mind."

Tye, the skilled archer, chimed in, "I hate to say it, but we need to survive. Desperate times call for desperate measures."

Perry, the spearman with a poor sense of humor, added, "I'm all for a good laugh, but starving ain't my idea of a joke. We should do what we must to get by."

Marek, the tribal slingshot expert, nodded in agreement, "Mundarians would have done the same. Survival first."

Dendeng, the dual-wielding swordswoman, crossed her arms, "I've faced tougher decisions. We're mercenaries, not saints."

Joruk, the savage from the south, grunted in approval, gripping his axe tightly. "Old man or not, we can't afford weakness."

Lanor, though determined, could feel the weight of the group leaning towards the darker path. "I won't let desperation compromise our integrity. There's always another way."

Kael scoffed, "Another way? We're running out of time, Lanor. We can't rely on ideals when our survival is at stake... and we need to return to the battlefield, fast!"

"Lest the war finish itself before we get our spoils..." Uttered Lanor with disgust aware of what was at stake. For him, it was the chance to revive his noble house.

As the arguments continued, the mercenaries seemed to be reaching a breaking point. The majority favored a more forceful approach, eager to take what they needed from the stubborn farmer.

Gon spoke with a growing impatience, "Lanor, we respect you, but we need to eat. We can't afford your hesitation."

Tye notched an arrow, her frustration evident, "I'd rather be alive and well-fed than stick to some moral high ground."

Perry grinned, "Morals won't fill an empty stomach. Let's do what we gotta do."

Marek, ever practical, urged, "Lanor, think about it. We need a plan, not just ideals."

Dendeng unsheathed her curved swords, "Enough talk. Let's show this old man the consequences of denying us."

Joruk raised his axe, ready for action. "Time's up, Lanor. Survival demands sacrifice."

The barn became a battleground of conflicting ideals, and Lanor, torn between principles and the pressing needs of his comrades, had to make a decision that would shape the destiny of the Gray Wolf Mercenaries. And Lanor... he would make a decision... one he thought he would never make.