The morning in Graystone Town was awakened by the sound of a hammer striking. Tom stood at the entrance of the blacksmith's shop, watching Roy's bare torso glisten with a bronze sheen under the glow of the forge. The former drunkard was now wielding a sledgehammer, sweat dripping down his well-built back muscles.
"The seventh one." Roy tossed the finished spearhead into the quenching barrel, steam hissing as it rose. He wiped the soot from his face. "Two quarters of an hour faster than yesterday."
Tom picked up the cooled spearhead, its blade gleaming coldly in the morning light. A system interface popped up automatically:
**[Standard Spearhead]**
Quality: Fine
Craftsman: Roy Ironanvil (Blacksmith Level 3)
Trait: Durability +1
"Unacceptable," Tom tossed the spearhead back onto the workbench. "I want a tip that can pierce chainmail, not a toy for farmers to scare stray dogs with."
Roy slammed his fist onto the anvil. "Damn it! I haven't touched a bottle in three days! This is better than the standard equipment of the knight's regiment!"
Tom untied a wineskin from his waist, shaking it so the liquid inside made an enticing sound. "Finish ten standard spearheads, and this is yours." He leaned close to the red-eared blacksmith. "And it's dwarven-brewed Firewine."
Outside the blacksmith's shop, ten recruits were training. Mark, a former poacher, was demonstrating how to pierce a moving target—a dummy made of straw and old leather armor—with a spear.
"Your wrist must strike as fast as a venomous snake!" Mark's spear tip pierced through the gap in the armor, hitting the dummy's heart. This former poacher was now the commander's personally appointed training instructor.
Tom checked the system panel:
**[Bruce's Free Company]**
Average Level: 5
Morale: 75%
Special Skills: Spear Mastery (Roy), Stealth (Mark), Combat Expert (Carl)
Uncle Henry waddled into the training ground, holding a wax-sealed letter. "Tommy, something's happened in the north."
The letter was from Eagle's Nest Castle. Three caravans near Bloodcrow Gorge had gone missing, and survivors claimed to have seen a black flag embroidered with a dripping dagger.
"The Blood Dagger Bandits," Tom rolled up the letter. "Perfect timing to test our new spearheads."
That evening, the entire company assembled. Twenty newly forged spears crafted by Roy were distributed, each spearhead engraved with fine spiral patterns—designed by Tom based on modern ballistics to increase penetration.
"Remember," Tom scanned the group while mounted on his warhorse, "we're not here to be heroes. For every live capture, you'll get one silver stag. For every intact weapon seized, fifty copper coins."
Mark whistled. "Now that's more like it. Those honor-spouting knights never mention how to divide the spoils."
The group departed Graystone Town under the twilight. Henry stood on the city wall, watching them leave, clutching the money bag Tom had left behind—enough to ransom ten captives.
Three nights later, the cliffs of Bloodcrow Gorge loomed like the fangs of a giant beast under the moonlight. Tom sent Mark, along with three soldiers skilled in stealth, to scout ahead.
"About twenty men," Mark returned, blood staining his boots. "Eliminated two sentries. There's… something strange in their camp."
The so-called camp was a natural cave. By the light of the campfire, Tom saw what Mark referred to as "something strange"—five corpses nailed to the cavern walls, their chests cut open.
"Black magic," Carl muttered. This former mercenary had seen similar scenes on the border. "They're extracting hearts to make oil."
The bandits sat around the fire, gambling and drinking, completely unaware that death had already descended upon them. Tom gestured, and ten spears were raised simultaneously.
"For the silver stags!" Roy suddenly roared, charging forward. The drunken bandits hadn't even reached for their weapons before they were impaled by the spiraling spearheads.
The battle ended quicker than expected. As the last bandit was pinned down in a pool of blood by Carl, Tom's system interface suddenly flashed:
**[First Combat Victory]**
Reward: +2 Leadership Value
New Skill Unlocked: Battlefield Intuition
The captured bandit leader, a one-eyed giant, spat blood and sneered, "You've picked the wrong enemy... The Blood Dagger is just a finger... The real hand is—"
Mark's dagger suddenly plunged into the back of his neck, cutting him off mid-sentence. Tom frowned at the former poacher.
"My apologies, sir," Mark wiped his dagger. "My hand slipped."
On the return journey, the group escorted six prisoners and a cart laden with spoils. Tom noticed Mark always walking at the rear of the group, frequently reaching for a small pouch at his waist—where he kept something taken from the bandit leader.
A new system alert popped up:
**[Abnormal Status of Subordinate: Mark (Loyalty Decreased by 10%)]**
Suggestion: Interrogate Immediately
That night at the camp, Tom "coincidentally" assigned Mark to take the first watch. After everyone else fell asleep, he quietly approached the sentry post.
"Hand it over," Tom pressed the tip of his sword against Mark's throat. "Don't make me say it twice."
A piece of parchment slid out of Mark's chest. Strange symbols were drawn on it, along with a route leading to the northern mountains. At the bottom was a seal Tom recognized—it matched the emblem on a document in his father's study.
"Do you know what this is?" Tom pocketed the parchment.
Mark's single eye gleamed eerily. "The less you know, the longer you live, sir."
The flash of a sword, and Mark's ear dropped onto the grass. Tom's voice was colder than the northern winds. "Next time, it'll be your tongue."
At dawn, the group returned to Graystone Town with the captured black flag. When Henry saw the dripping dagger pattern on the flag, his face turned pale.
"You've stirred a hornet's nest..." he muttered. "That's the mark of Lord Black Goat."
Tom quietly tucked the bloodstained parchment into his inner lining. The system interface flashed with a new mission:
**[Conspiracy Unveiled: Phase One]**
Reward: Unknown
Warning: Further investigation may lead to a family crisis
In the town square, the townsfolk cheered around the confiscated weapons and armor. Roy, face flushed, was drinking straight from a barrel of Firewine, while Carl boasted about the battle to a prostitute. Standing on the steps, Tom announced:
"Three silver stags for everyone! Rest for three days, then we've got a big job—escorting a caravan to the capital."
As cheers erupted, no one noticed the mayor quietly slipping away from the square. No one saw the cold glint in Tom's eyes—he had deliberately omitted one item from the list of spoils: a ring bearing the Bruce family eagle insignia found on the bandit leader.