Harvest
The battlefield was cleaned up swiftly, the spoils of war listed down.
The second-class caravan was transporting cloudiron ore. While this material was slightly worse than lafite steel, it was still a great choice for making weapons and armour. Weapons made from it, in particular, could be enchanted to a great extent. As far as the cost efficiency went, this was the best material for magic equipment.
These carriages of ore didn’t seem like much, but back in the human kingdoms they could be sold off for 150,000 coins. Now, they naturally fell into Richard’s hands. Outside of that, the horses, weapons, and armour that they collected amounted to several tens of thousands more.
Blackwing’s armour also caught Richard’s attention. It was made from the hide of a sunset dragon, giving it powerful defence and darkness resistance. There were three enchantments added on, including defence, stealth, and a powerful resistance to magic. The magic resistance was comparable to two enchantments on its own; even in Norland, few mages could imbue a set of armour with this attribute. The total number of effects put this armour’s quality near the legendary realm. Of course, Sinclair’s daggers had possessed an entire six effects, including the extinction and destruction effects. They were true legendary weapons.
Richard flipped over the armour in his hands and appraised it, gaining an approximate understanding of its value. The hide was naturally sturdy, and the processing had clearly been outstanding. Even the twelve fireballs had not been able to harm it.
Looking at this armour, Richard couldn’t help but consider himself lucky. Without the magic penetration rune, even with Outburst his fireballs might not have been able to put the assassin down so easily. With this thought in mind, Richard called Olar over and handed the armour to him, “I’ll give this to you. Once we get back, make yourself familiar with it.”
The elven bard was a decent appraiser in his own right. He could tell the armour was unordinary the moment it entered his hands, and he was only more startled after he took a closer look, “No, Master! Absolutely not! This armour is too precious, I cannot take it. I am of low status, and it isn’t worth it to waste such precious equipment on me.”
Richard pushed the set into Olar’s hands, saying in a commanding tone, “Take. It.”
“This… I understand, Master.” Olar’s hands were trembling slightly as he took the gift. Something with such great defence and magic resistance basically gave him another life on the battlefield.
“There’s no need to worry. You might have signed a slave contract with me, but I see you people as my followers, not my slaves.”
Olar was extremely surprised, unable to help but take another look at Richard. Follower was not a word that could be used flippantly. It had a specific meaning when uttered by a lord in Norland, granting one a set of complete privileges and strict obligations. Richard’s words made him to the mage what the thirteen were to Gaton…
The slaves had all been imprisoned by then. Out of the hundred or so captives, most of them were merchants or other personnel; less than twenty of the guards had survived. Six of the assassins under Blackwing had also been taken alive. These killers were surrounded by heavy infantry, with an outer circle from the Demon Hunting Spears. Knowing that they had no chance of escaping alive, those with frail wills had chosen to surrender. Perhaps it was because they had taken too many lives themselves, but they weren’t as willing as the guards to battle to the death.
Gangdor pointed at the killers and asked, “Boss, what do we do with these people?”
Richard slowly walked past the six assassins, his icy gaze brushing across each one. Terror, apprehension, nervousness… he saw it all in their eyes. Outside of that he also saw something else, a gigantic figure— that of Medium Rare.
“They are still useful…” he began.
The assassins immediately heaved a sigh of relief, all thanking Richard for his benevolence as they vowed to work for him and remain loyal forever.
Richard looked at them and said indifferently, “You do have your uses, but not in what you expected. Zendrall!”
The necromancer answered the call and moved up, looking at the assassins with turbid eyes as he said gloomily, “They can work, but they’re not that good.”
The assassins were likely more familiar with mages than they were with warriors. “Necromancer!” one of them suddenly shrieked.
All of them were left aghast, beginning to struggle in an attempt to flee at all costs. Some even tried to die with the guards watching over them.
The necromancer inspired a deep terror in their hearts. Given their knowledge of how to deal with mages, they understood that their power would not be reduced if they were turned into undead while still alive. In fact, there were high chances of their might even increasing. However, this was an excruciating process that scarred the very soul with indescribable pain. Death was a sweet ending compared to this sort of torture, even if their souls were fated to have no release in that either.
However, Gangdor pounced over and beat them up, knocking all of them down. A team of barbarians carried them and followed Zendrall. Late in the night, they would all become little pets of the necromancer.
“How about the others, boss?” Gangdor asked again.
Richard looked at the rest of the prisoners. He initially wanted to execute them all, but some slight hesitation eventually changed his mind, “Turn the willing into slaves. Those who refuse are to be executed.”
A dozen people who could not be tamed were pulled out of line and beheaded by the falchions of the desert warriors. All of them cursed loudly at Richard before their deaths, swearing that Red Cossack would definitely seek vengeance on their behalf.
A dozen blades fell, and a dozen heads rolled.
Flowsand sighed at the sight, “It must be these kinds of people that brought Red Cossack to their current status.”
Kellac sighed as well, the wrinkles on his face growing more prominent, “Every organisation that can survive in the Bloodstained Lands needs to have spirit. A spirit that comes from people like them.”
Compared to the ruefulness of the two officials of the Eternal Dragon, Richard was much colder. He had to do his best to suppress the hatred within him, avoiding calling Zendrall back. When he was by Medium Rare’s body, he had wanted to throw every member of Red Cossack, from the leaders to the slaves, to the necromancer regardless of whether they were alive or dead. He could refine their souls into energy for his spells.
“That spirit can be destroyed as long as enough of them are killed,” Richard stated calmly.
Kellac said nothing, merely shaking his head. As one of the leaders of the Demon Hunting Spears, he still knew a fair number of people in Red Cossack. However, now that he was a priest of the Eternal Dragon, his faith had taken over his entire existence. Leaving his body in his god’s hand had become a deep-rooted habit.