Chapter 289: The Western Regions Grasslands

After exchanging a few polite words, Obian turns to Henwell. “So, you must be the famous lord of Blood Hill!”

Henwell tilts his head back, sitting arrogantly on his horse. “Oh? You’ve heard of me?”

Obian studies Henwell’s face, gradually getting lost in thought.

Henwell furrows his brow. “Hey! What are you spacing out for? Speak up! What do you want from us? Is your king sending you to kill me? If that’s the case, you’re overestimating yourselves. Though you’re a captain, you don’t seem strong enough to face me. If it were your leader Zimmerman, maybe you’d have a chance!”

As he speaks, Henwell silently prays, hoping no god who governs family affection oversees this world, lest a sudden thunderbolt strike him down.

Obian’s adjutant steps forward to argue, but Obian raises a hand to stop him.

Instead, he quietly observes Henwell under the moonlight.

Feeling Obian’s gaze pounding in his chest, Henwell tenses.

Obian chuckles softly. “Heh, alright, kid, I won’t argue with you. What I did tonight was simply what I must do as a knight and noble of the kingdom. “

”I couldn’t stand by and watch. You don’t need to thank me, and you don’t need to worry about us. Our mission is just to escort you safely out of the kingdom. I don’t expect any more fighting tonight. Rest well, kid.”

With that, Obian leads the knights back to the nearby manor.

Watching Obian leave, Hubert grumbles in dissatisfaction. “That old fool, putting on airs like that—reckless to the end…”

Henwell swings his war spear lightly, tapping him. “Shut up! Show some respect! At least he helped us tonight. Whether he’s friend or foe, that’s for later. Tonight, we owe him one.”

Henwell drops the subject and begins organizing treatment for the wounded.

Tonight’s battle involved only elite attackers.

Even the kingdom’s finest cavalry units were deployed, and the rest were fierce mercenary groups.

Thanks to Inksteel-made weapons and gear, there were no significant casualties.

Still, quite a few knights suffered injuries that need prompt care.

Otherwise, it would affect future battles and even their journey ahead.

The next day, Henwell arranges for a dozen injured knights to rest on the wagons. When they set off, the knights nearby follow closely behind.

The two groups travel almost side by side, and for the next two days, no large-scale ambushes occur.

By now, they’ve entered the western nomadic lands, where traditional villages are scarce.

But this region is notorious for horse thieves—swift and elusive bandits who prey on merchant caravans, causing headaches for every trade group.

Of course, this poses no problem for these two knight groups.

At first, a few small bands of horse thieves attack, only to be swiftly wiped out.

Then, surprisingly, a force of over a thousand horse thieves gathers.

To them, a hundred-strong escort with a dozen wagons must be carrying great wealth.

Clearly, they assume the knights and the western expedition are allied.

Facing nearly a thousand horse thieves charging in, Henwell and Obian coordinate perfectly. One launches a frontal assault, while the other strikes from the flank.

Two fierce charges later, the horse thieves lie scattered and defeated.

After fighting side by side, the tension between the two groups eases considerably.

After another day’s journey, Henwell and company stop to rest in a local tribe.

Shortly after arriving, Waintu lowers his voice. “Lord Henwell, there’s a problem. Many of those horse thieves from earlier are from this tribe.”

Orak snaps, “Don’t talk nonsense!”

“No lie, my lord. See that man with the severed arm? I cut off his arm myself!”

Henwell replies calmly, “They’re herders now, not horse thieves.”

“But…”

Henwell turns to everyone. “They’re horse thieves only when mounted and masked. Now that they’re off their horses and tending their herds, they’re herders, not thieves.”

Waintu frowns. “What kind of logic is that? They were robbing and killing before, and now just because they’re unmasked, they’re good people?”

Henwell nods. “Exactly. That’s the rule of the western grasslands. Even if you’ve killed a horse thief’s kin, if you meet them in the tribe, they still treat you as a guest. Grudges are settled on horseback; life on the ground is peaceful, hospitable, and friendly.”

Waintu asks in surprise, “Is this a law set by the Kingdom of Ika?”

Henwell shakes his head. “No. It’s the rule of the western grasslands. Where it originated, no one knows. But one thing’s certain: all the nomadic tribes in Ika’s Western Regions abide by it.”

This information comes from Fred’s report to Henwell: merchant caravans are only ambushed within a specific zone.

Within this area, the horse thieves are brutal, leaving almost no survivors.

But once inside a tribe controlled by those thieves, the horse thieves won’t pursue any further.

Moreover, as long as one stays within this zone, it remains relatively safe until they leave it.

Henwell personally suspects this has something to do with the monsters roaming there.

Traveling at night across the grasslands is forbidden, they must journey by day.

No matter what, they must reach the nearest tribe settlement before dark.

If that’s impossible, they have to use the protective talismans given by the tribespeople to build a makeshift altar-like structure.

It’s highly likely this will help them survive the dangerous night.

Henwell’s explanation is loud enough for Obian nearby to hear.

Obian then orders his men not to mention the tribespeople acting as horse thieves.

He also instructs them to avoid causing trouble.

After a while, the tribal chief arrives to welcome everyone into the settlement.

He arranges tents for both groups, placing them very close together.

After all, these fully armored knights look like they belong to one unit.

Neither side corrects this misunderstanding.

Henwell has some boxes unloaded. Some filled with refined salt, others packed with curved blades without handles.

These are supplies Fred prepared for Henwell.

Seeing this, the chief beams with delight, calling the herders to slaughter sheep and cattle, and sends over local grassland wine.

Using somewhat rusty common language, the chief asks Henwell and the others what they want in exchange for these gifts.

Henwell doesn’t hesitate and lists his requests: dried meat, fermented mare’s milk, maps, guides, and a large number of protective talismans.

The chief goes off to arrange everything, telling Henwell’s group to wait through the night.

At the same time, he warns them not to leave their tents no matter what sounds they hear after dark.