The Rise Of The Clydon Family-Chapter 18: Bandits and Scum

Boom, boom, boom—

The heavy pounding of hooves echoed through Eagle Town as a gang of mounted bandits thundered in, tearing up the once-paved road and sending clouds of dust and shards of gravel flying.

Yorick, one of the town's commonfolk, had heard the commotion long before. He'd dragged his only wooden bed to the door to barricade it, pressing his bony back against it, heart pounding in his chest.

"Daddy, I'm scared..." whispered his six-year-old daughter Yula, her tiny hands clutching the dirty, threadbare hem of her clothes. She stood trembling before him.

"Don't be scared... don't be scared..." Yorick murmured, pulling her into his arms. As he listened nervously to the sounds outside, his heart raged with silent curses.

Damn those bandits!

Ever since Baron Donald had disbanded his private army five years ago, year after year—every year!—these demons in human skin had come to Eagle Town to burn homes, steal food, rape women, and butcher the townspeople.

Yorick's eldest son and his wife had both perished beneath the bandits' iron hooves.

He'd grown numb over time. His frail body could hardly support him anymore, and he could barely feed his daughter. Death, in some ways, might've been a release.

But everything had started to change when Rus inherited the town. Eagle Town was slowly getting better.

This year, Yorick, now thirty-three, even took part in the militia recruitment. He wasn't selected, but he still received five kilograms of coarse wheat flour as a reward!

And just recently, he'd heard from Simon, one of the soldiers, that Lord Rus was considering allocating farmland to the townsfolk—three acres per man, two per woman. Instead of receiving rations, they would only need to pay a fixed grain tax, and keep the rest for themselves!

By that plan, his family could get five acres. If he worked hard, he could manage it. Even if each acre yielded only seventy percent of a full harvest, he could still keep around 350 kilograms of wheat—about 300 kilograms of coarse flour.

And after harvesting the wheat, he could plant turnips, cassava, lettuce—crops they wouldn't have to hand over and could keep for themselves!

Life would finally be easier. Little Yula wouldn't have to cry from hunger during the lean seasons anymore. They might even be able to trade extra vegetables for some meat in Glittergold Town!

But just as life was beginning to show a sliver of hope, these damned horse-bandits returned!

O Lord of Light, are You not merciful? Why will You not allow us poor wretches even a little peace?!

The thunder of hooves grew louder. Yorick's heart leapt into his throat. One arm held his daughter tight, the other gripped a pitchfork beside the door—if anyone tried to force their way in, he'd fight to the death!

Gradually, the sound of hooves began to fade into the distance. Cold sweat poured from Yorick's forehead as he slumped to the ground in relief.

It seemed—just maybe—they'd been spared this time.

But something didn't feel right.

The town was far too quiet.

No screams. No collapsing houses. No cruel, haunting laughter that tore people from their sleep.

When had these bandits ever passed through without causing destruction?

Heart pounding, Yorick dared to crawl to the window. He cracked it open and peeked out—sure enough, the bandits were moving away.

But their direction... they were headed for Eagle Fortress.

Their target was Lord Rus?

"Great Lord of Light, please protect the good-hearted," Yorick muttered, roughly tracing a misshapen holy emblem over his chest. "Protect Lord Rus—may he come through this unharmed!"

He wasn't alone. Many of the townsfolk were doing the same, praying fervently.

As they prayed, the bandit horde arrived before Eagle Fortress. At the head of the group rode six jet-black stallions, each standing two meters tall at the shoulder and clad in thick chainmail barding. Under the flickering torchlight, their armor gleamed a blood-red hue.

These were Blood-Eyed Warhorses, a type of Tier-1 magical beast native to the Bloody Highlands. In strength, speed, explosive power, and endurance, they far surpassed any ordinary warhorse—one of the reasons the bandits of the Highlands moved like the wind.

Leading the charge atop one of those beasts was a burly man clad in full plate armor. A curved saber hung from his right hip, and a blood-crusted spiked warhammer from his left. His skin was dark, his face square and rugged, with a twisted scar running from his left cheek down to his right jaw—like a centipede crawling across his face.

This was Scarface Anderson, the leader of this bandit troop. A Tier-1 Dark Warrior, and a rising star in the eastern Bloody Highlands.

When the outline of Eagle Fortress came into view, a fire called ambition lit up in Anderson's eyes.

According to the Slater family, if he could drive the current baron from the Eagle domain, not only would he earn a reward of 1,000 gold coins, but also gain the Slaters' backing.

The Slaters were no mere nobles—they were counts, the true overlords of the Nord Province.

The Bloody Highlands may be lawless, but they were full of opportunity and wealth. Native resources like Shadow Crystals, Golden Sand Essence, and exotic herbs like Dreamfruit and Dragonscale Grass weren't considered valuable locally—but once smuggled into the Cain or Insa Empires, they fetched a fortune.

The most powerful forces in the Highlands—names like Sandstorm Infic, Blood-Eye Moengar, and Spider Queen Aivellia—all had ties to the great empires or even the Church of Light itself.

So why not Anderson?

"Chief, something's off," a voice said.

It was Bailey, Anderson's second-in-command, nicknamed "Oily Mustache" for the slick, curled facial hair he maintained despite his outlaw lifestyle. His eyes darted about, glistening with suspicion and greed.

Anderson snapped out of his thoughts and raised a hand. Behind him, the bandit column screeched to a halt in a cacophony of neighing horses and shouting men.

Anderson narrowed his eyes at the scene before him.

The drawbridge of Eagle Fortress had been lowered. The grand hall's doors stood wide open. Crates of silk were scattered at the entrance. A few rooms were lit inside, but otherwise... it looked utterly unguarded.

The bandits took in the sight and began whispering among themselves.

"Looks like that Rus guy ran before we even showed up, huh?"

"No way. He's a baron, right? And this place is massive—plus there's a moat. Not exactly easy to take over."

"I dunno... I heard that baron was just some 'Sand Rat' before—his nickname was 'Little Bee' or something. Doesn't sound like someone with a spine."

That last comment triggered a round of mocking laughter.

"Sand Rat" was local slang—an insult used for lowlifes who didn't even dare raid caravans, choosing instead to cheat and swindle people in the safety of towns.

Even criminals had their own hierarchy. And these hardened killers, who lived by the sword, naturally looked down on cowards.

"What do we do, Chief?" Bailey asked, his voice thick with greed.

He was already convinced that Rus had fled. Why else would the fortress be left wide open?

This was a real noble's castle, with a long history. From the time they passed through Eaglebeak Mountain, Eagle Town, and reached the fortress—it hadn't even taken them half an hour. Rus wouldn't have had time to move his wealth.

That meant most of his fortune was still inside.

At this moment, Eagle Fortress was like a stripped-bare beauty—an irresistible temptation.

And that temptation had taken hold of nearly every bandit in the troop.

But Anderson, the seasoned leader, only shook his head slowly.

"If Rus could force even Hyde Slater into retreat, he's not the kind of man who'd abandon his castle so easily."

"Boss, you're giving them too much credit," Bailey sneered. "One's just a sand rat, the other's a delicate greenhouse flower. What kind of scheming could they possibly be capable of?"

His words made Anderson waver slightly, but something still didn't sit right with him. Rus's response had been too fast—suspiciously fast. How could he have fled before they even arrived?

Anderson scanned the drawbridge area, searching for any sign of a trap. That's when a glint of light in the grass caught his eye.

"Rottooth, go grab that for me," he ordered.

Rottooth, one of the bandits, dismounted and followed Anderson's gaze. A moment later, he held something golden in the air and passed it to his leader.

"Boss, your eyes are sharp as ever!" Bailey's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Can we go in now?"

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Anderson gave him a cold sideways glance but said nothing. He casually tossed the object to the ground and waved his hand. "Into the castle!"

The item tumbled to the dirt, then was trampled under hoof by the incoming riders, eventually rolling back into the roadside grass.

It was a crest badge, engraved with the image of an eagle locked in battle with a dragon.

The emblem of House Claydon.

For Rus to have left even that behind—it was clear he'd fled in a desperate rush.

Anderson rode through the gates, and everything he saw confirmed it.

The training yard on either side of the courtyard was in shambles—cheap spears lay toppled along with the racks, many of them bearing muddy footprints. Leather helmets and gloves were scattered in the corners.

Copper and silver coins glinted here and there along the path, some already ground into the dirt. A few crates lay overturned at the entrance; silk had spilled out, now soaked in red wine from a broken case nearby.

Inside the hall, tables and chairs had been overturned, the carpet bunched and filthy, muddy footprints leading further in.

"Ha! I knew it. That little bee must've been scared witless!" Bailey laughed, grabbing an unbroken bottle of wine off the floor. He smashed the neck off with his knife and gulped it down. "Damn, this stuff's amazing!"

The bandits swarmed into the hall. Many of them stared at the wine bottle in Bailey's hand, their eyes filled with longing. But without Anderson's say-so, none dared make a move.

Their leader, meanwhile, remained wary. The castle was too quiet. Far too quiet. Something about it just didn't feel right.

Then, from the corner of the room—crash!

Anderson's gaze snapped toward the sound. "Who's there?!"

From the shadows stumbled none other than Weston, Rus's stepbrother.

This was supposed to be his nap time. But Rus—damned Rus—had deliberately targeted him tonight. The chef was "injured," so dinner had only included plain white bread and broth. No smoked meat whatsoever!

He was the noble young master Weston! How could he possibly go without meat? It would stunt his growth!

He'd been about to complain, but one glare from Rus had shut him up on the spot.

He tried to let it go, but in the heat and hunger, he couldn't sleep. In the end, he decided to sneak to the kitchen, even if it meant risking Rus's wrath.

Normally, the kitchen and storerooms were guarded by at least two private soldiers, even at night. But tonight? Not a soul.

At first, Weston felt lucky. He marched in and helped himself to a still-warm leg of smoked lamb, devouring half of it with the leftover soup.

But on his way back through the great hall, he saw something that nearly stopped his heart: a group of armored, murderous bandits had filled the room.

He'd never seen them before—but he'd heard enough.

Each man was at least 1.75 meters tall, clad in heavy chainmail, and their weapons were still slick with fresh blood.

That's when Weston finally realized why the castle had been so eerily quiet tonight.

That bastard Rus! He must've known the bandits were coming—and escaped with his soldiers without telling anyone else!

Panicked, Weston tried to sneak away—but in his hurry, he tripped and smashed a decorative vase in the corner.

Crash! The sound rang through the hall.

Adrenaline surged through him, and for the first time in his life, Weston moved with near-horselike speed.

But he only made it two steps before something clamped around his throat. The world spun, and suddenly, the ceiling was in his face.

Then appeared a sneering face—Bailey's, with his oily mustache gleaming in the torchlight.

Weston could hardly believe how strong he was. He was being dragged across the floor like a rabbit by the scruff of his neck.

"Aaaah—" Shards of porcelain tore through his clothes and gouged into his flesh, leaving burning cuts. It hurt worse than when Rus shaved off a patch of his scalp!

"Shut up," Bailey growled. "Or I'll kill you right now."

Weston immediately slapped both hands over his mouth, whimpering silently, eyes rolling back from the pain.

Anderson approached, looking down with disgust. "You're Rus?"

"N-no! I'm Weston!" he yelped. "My lord, if you have a grudge with Rus, then we're on the same side!"

"Rus's a bastard, a scumbag, a pervert!"

He didn't wait for questions—he spilled everything he knew. Or thought he knew. That Rus had abandoned the castle with his private troops, left everyone behind, fled like a coward.

"Hah. Just a useless little bee after all." Anderson finally relaxed, his face twisting in contempt. "To let a barony fall into this state—and then not even have the guts to defend his own castle? What trash."

His men were looking at him, eyes burning with anticipation.

Anderson raised his voice. "Search everything! You know the rules—women are fair game. All wealth comes to me. Whoever finds something gets thirty percent, the rest gets shared!"

The bandits' eyes lit up. "Yes, boss!"

This was how Anderson had risen so quickly. Despite being only Tier-1, he led seventeen murderous thugs—not just through sheer strength, but by making sure everyone under him got a good cut.

The looting began. Soon, the castle rang with screams, curses, and cries of pain.

Weston's face turned pale. He could hear familiar voices among the victims—one of them was old Eugene, the man who used to drive his carriage.

Anderson took a seat in the hall, waiting for his men to bring in the spoils. Bailey, oddly, hadn't joined the others. He was staring at Weston with a curious glint in his eye.

"Tsk, tsk. A pampered little noble. Such soft, tender skin... You'd make a fine snack with wine."

Weston froze. His brain stopped working. He swallowed hard. "W-what are you doing?"

"Obviously, I'm going to butcher you and eat you." Shing! Bailey drew his enchanted longsword, tracing the blade along Weston's body. "You know, people like you are the most delicious. Especially the thighs—fat and juicy. Better than pork or beef. Almost as good as prime lamb."

"Don't eat me, don't kill me!" Weston sobbed, tears and snot streaming down his face. "I—I'm young, I won't taste good! I have money, lots of money! I can give it to you!"

Bailey snorted. "The whole castle's ours now. You think we're desperate for your pocket change?" He slapped the flat of his blade against Weston's pudgy cheek. "Go on, cry some more. Makes the meat taste better."

Then he turned to Anderson. "This one's mine, yeah, boss?"

Anderson didn't even look up. "Do what you want with useless trash like him."

Those words sparked sudden clarity in Weston's mind. "Wait—I am useful! I know the Faidro Commercial Bank's passphrases! I know where my mother, Elaina, lives!"

"Your mother?" Bailey's eyes lit up. "She hot?"

"Gorgeous! The most beautiful woman you've ever seen!" Weston nodded frantically. "She hasn't been touched in over a decade—I'll give her to you! Just let me live!"

"Is that so?" Bailey licked his lips. "Where is she?"

Minutes later, he stood before Elaina's door.

Crash! One mighty kick smashed it open.

Bailey ducked to avoid a flying wine bottle and stepped inside as her terrified scream rang out.

Rrrrip—

"Tsk. Madam, you're wearing far too much."