In the grim aftermath, Lanor, the fallen noble turned mercenary, mercilessly pounded the old farmer into a bloody pulp, fueled by bitter rage. "How did it come to this?" he mused, the weight of his actions sinking in. "I am really sorry, old man," he whispered amidst the brutal onslaught.

Each blow seemed absorbed with stoic acceptance as if the old man had resigned himself to the cruel fate Lanor had bestowed upon him. "You made me do it," Lanor's remorseful words echoed, acknowledging the futility of his excuses. "I know I am just making excuses at this point," he admitted, fists still striking. "But... I really want to hurt you."

Something dark within him was provoked, only stopping when the old man ceased to move. "And... I want you to remember my name... my name is Lanor of Keening, heir to House Haval!"

Despite the agony etched across the old man's face, he made no effort to struggle against the merciless beating. "Such... such a pity, really," Lanor murmured, halting his fist from further punishing the poor old man.

The old man's feeble breaths continued a somber backdrop to Lanor's ears, Lanor's mind in a chaos of emotions. The creaking door echoed as the candlelight flickered, and Kael entered the gruesome scene. Kael's eyes widened, taking in the battered figure of the old farmer and Lanor standing over him. "What in the hell, Lanor? Why?"

Lanor turned to face Kael, hands stained with the old man's blood. "It had to be done, Kael. He was stubborn, a threat to our survival," Lanor explained, desperation in his voice. Kael narrowed his gaze, sensing there was more to the story. "Survival, Lanor? You're not telling me everything. What really happened here?"

Lanor hesitated, conflicting emotions crossing his face. "Kael, you wanted this from the beginning. We can't afford to play nice anymore. It's about survival, about ensuring our group's future." Kael's expression hardened, realizing the darker turn their path had taken. Despite his suspicions, he chose not to press further, acknowledging the harsh reality they had embraced – a departure from their earlier nobler principles. And Kael... Kael liked this development very much.

The Gray Wolf Mercenaries gathered somberly at the front of the old farmer's house, their faces reflecting a mix of curiosity and concern. Lanor of Keening, their leader, stood before them with an air of authority, his gaze fixed on the battered entrance. He raised his hands, summoning a glowing orb through his arcane magic, illuminating the area around him, no need for torch light.

Facing Lanor was Kael the Hound, his loyal second, his eyes had a glint of amusement. Gon, Tye, Perry, Marek, Dendeng, and Joruk, the rest of the mercenaries, formed a stoic semi-circle around their leader, their expressions ranging from curiosity to quiet contemplation.

The atmosphere was charged with tension as Lanor addressed his comrades. "It had to be done," he declared, the glow from the magical orb accentuating the severity of his words. "He was stubborn, a threat to our survival."

Kael's smiled, and the others exchanged knowing glances. As Lanor continued to explain, a heavy silence enveloped the group, the flickering glow orb spell casting shadows on their faces, emphasizing the gravity of the situation.

As Lanor spoke of survival, the orb's glow reflected in their eyes, revealing the hard choices they were forced to make for the sake of their group's future.

But the truth was... it wasn't really such a hard choice to make. They have power, and they use it. That was all there was to it.

Lanor's mind was a tempest of conflicting thoughts as he surveyed the consequences of his merciless actions. He was a hypocrite, he realized.

Tied to a post by Gon, the strongman of the group, the old man had offered no resistance, amplifying Lanor's sense of guilt. "He really is a farmer, huh?

Under the glow orb spell he had cast, Lanor grappled with the rights and wrongs of his mercenary path, questioning the choices that led him to this grim moment.

Amidst the chaos of Lanor's internal conflict, his thoughts drifted to the broader consequences of the Gray Wolf Mercenaries' recent actions. As he stood over the battered farmer, Lanor couldn't help but ponder the repercussions of the ongoing war between the Mundar Kingdom and the Fandral Empire. The calculated destruction of Fandral supply lines, orchestrated by his mercenaries, would undoubtedly have sent shockwaves through the delicate balance of power.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Lanor's mind, though clouded with remorse, sharpened as he speculated on the potential outcomes. He envisioned the Mundar Kingdom gaining a strategic advantage, the Fandral Empire reeling from the disruption, and the once-sturdy alliance between nobles unraveling in the face of the Gray Wolf Mercenaries' ruthless tactics.

His conflicted gaze shifted from the bloodied scene before him to the broader geopolitical stage, where the consequences of their actions reverberated far beyond the immediate brutality inflicted upon the old farmer. In that moment, Lanor couldn't escape the realization that the choices made in this backwater of a homestead might reshape the course of a larger, blood-soaked conflict between two mighty powers.

The Mundar Kingdom needed the Gray Wolf Mercenaries, he thought. But then Lanor remembered the Sword Saint, the Fandral Empire's champion...

While Lanor grappled with his internal conflict, a short distance away, Gon, the robust strongman of the Gray Wolf Mercenaries, was engaged in a more pragmatic endeavor. His powerful hands skillfully wielded a sharp blade he found in the barn as he slaughtered a pair of goats, their bleats silenced by the efficiency of his actions. Tye, the skilled woman archer, assisted him, her movements precise and purposeful.

As the goats succumbed to Gon's blade, the two mercenaries exchanged words amid the gruesome task. "We've got to eat something," Gon remarked, his deep voice resonating with a certain practicality born of the harsh mercenary life. Tye nodded in agreement, her expression revealing a blend of boredom and weariness.

"We can't afford to let sentimentality cloud our survival, Tye," Gon continued, wiping blood from his hands onto a cloth. "These are desperate times, and desperate times call for desperate measures."

Tye, stringing her bow, glanced at Gon with a wry smile. "Desperate or not, Gon, I won't let us forget our humanity entirely. There has to be a line we won't cross. I did say though I was in agreement of robbing the poor old man."

Gon grunted in acknowledgment, aware that he made the same choice, giving implicit consent to the robbery.

Ignoring the tense atmosphere, Perry, who fancied himself charismatic, found a moment of respite with Dendeng, the skilled dual sword wielder. As the flickering light from the campfire danced across their faces, Perry flashed a playful smile.

"You know, Dendeng, they say a smile can be just as deadly as those blades of yours," Perry teased, his eyes glinting with a mischievous Perry-ness if that was even a word.

Dendeng, amused but not easily swayed, replied with a sly grin, "Flattery won't spare you from my blades, Perry. Remember that."

Undeterred, Perry offered, "How about we gather some wood together? I've heard there's safety in numbers, especially when there's a chance for lively conversation. You know the goats would need some cooking...

Dendeng, sheathing one of her swords, considered the proposition. "Fine, but don't think your silver tongue will get you out of collecting more than your fair share."

The duo ventured into the nearby woods, Perry throwing his jokes at Dendeng as if he experienced them himself. As they gathered wood, their banter flowed effortlessly, revealing a camaraderie beneath the surface.

"Tell me, Dendeng," Perry inquired with a subdued grin, "have you ever considered leaving the life of a mercenary for something a bit more... romantic?"

Dendeng chuckled, her dual blades glinting in the moonlight. "Romantic, Perry? In our line of work, survival tends to take precedence over romance."

Perry winked, undeterred by the pragmatic response. "Who says we can't find a bit of both, my fierce friend?"

Their laughter resonated through the night, momentarily lifting the weight of the grim circumstances they found themselves in.

The wood pile grew, and quickly, they made a campfire with Lanor's magic. At this point, the magic in the glow orb spell had been exhausted.

Gon, Marek, and Joruk converged around the flickering campfire, where Lanor's arcane magic had summoned a warm blaze from the carefully gathered wood. The trio had taken charge of preparing the goat meat that Gon and Tye had skillfully slaughtered earlier. The air was filled with the rich aroma of roasting meat as the flames danced in the darkness.

Gon, seasoned by years of survival in the mercenary life, expertly carved the meat, distributing portions among the makeshift cooking utensils. Marek, the silent and observant member of the group, tended to the fire, ensuring a consistent heat for the cooking process. Joruk, known for his jovial demeanor, cracked a joke, attempting to lighten the somber mood that lingered.

As the goat meat sizzled over the flames, the camaraderie among the three mercenaries became evident. Gon's gruff exterior softened as he shared a rare smile with Marek, acknowledging the silent cooperation that had developed between them. Joruk, his laughter echoing through the camp, added a touch of levity to the otherwise heavy atmosphere.

Lanor, having momentarily set aside the weight of his internal conflict, observed the scene from a distance. The glow from the campfire cast flickering shadows on his face, highlighting the complex emotions that lingered within him. The simple act of cooking together served as a brief respite, a reminder that amidst the chaos and darkness, there were moments of unity and shared purpose among the Gray Wolf Mercenaries.