The mist hung heavy over the ruins, a sluggish thing that clung to the ground and muted every sound. It blurred the jagged stones and the skeletal remains of ancient towers, turning the crumbling battlefield into a graveyard of ghosts. The ruins stretched far, an old battlefield forgotten by time, where moss and rot had claimed the bones of war.
Perched atop a broken archway, Park adjusted the lorgnette that Fornos had handed him days ago. Below, the bandit camp sprawled in disorganized clusters—half-drunk fires, badly placed watchposts, and old-model golems that stood like abandoned statues. Their armor was cracked, their frames rusted. Smoke from their makeshift smithy curled weakly into the air.
Park let the lorgnette fall to his side, his expression masked but his opinion clear: pathetic.
A sharp whistle escaped his lips, nearly silent in the mist.
Behind him, his squad stirred to life.
Five combatants and two handlers moved into position like blades sliding from a sheath. No words needed. No hesitations. These were Ash Company's soldiers, trained to move without the waste of noise or thought.
Craterhoof, the heavy siege golem, crouched just beyond a fallen wall, its massive bulk half-concealed by rubble. Its twin cannon arms, each larger than a man's torso, shifted slightly, adjusting for distance, angle, and spread. Its glow-stone eyes narrowed, reading the wind, the weight, the trajectory.
Another faint signal from Park—a flick of two fingers—and Craterhoof unleashed hell.
The first shot struck a leaning watchtower. The impact was thunderous, a roaring blossom of dust, wood, and blood. The watchtower disintegrated like rotten driftwood, crushing the two unlucky sentries who barely had time to scream.
The second shot followed immediately, cleaner, sharper—a boulder that tore through the side of a poorly armored golem. The metal beast jerked once, twisted grotesquely, and then collapsed into the mud, its inner workings spilling out like the guts of a butchered animal.
Shouts rang out.
Confusion spread through the camp like a fire across dry leaves.
"Attack! We're under attack!"
"To arms! Form up!"
Park remained utterly still atop his perch. The scene below unfolded exactly as he predicted.
The bandits scrambled to organize a defense. Shields were raised; worn-out blades drawn. Golem handlers screamed at their half-functioning machines, desperately trying to rouse them to battle.
It was pointless.
Park lowered himself from the archway, landing silently amidst the broken stones. His squad descended the ridge behind him, moving with an elegance born of ruthless experience. They were neither fast nor slow. They were inevitable.
Handlers stayed back, managing the signal repeaters and support gear. The five combatants flanked out, forming a wide noose around the bandit camp.
Another flick of Park's hand.
Craterhoof fired again.
This time the shot was aimed at the edge of the bandit smithy, where fuel stores and makeshift powder kegs were piled. The explosion rocked the camp, sending debris and screaming bodies into the fog. Fire bloomed in greedy tongues, throwing wild shadows across the ruins.
Park was already moving.
A bandit—a woman with wild hair and cracked armor—charged him, screaming curses, swinging a chipped sword with both hands. Sloppy. Desperate.
Park didn't even draw a weapon.
He sidestepped her, his movements clinical, and drove a sharp elbow into the back of her neck as she passed. She crumpled face-first into the dirt. Before she could groan, one of the handlers was already upon her, collaring her like a wild dog.
Another bandit tried to flee toward the rear, where a rusted golem struggled to stand.
Park whistled once, sharp and low.
One of his combatants, a wiry man armed with a hooked blade, intercepted. He hamstrung the fleeing man without a word, bringing him down in the mud, then neatly shackled him.
Park's squad moved through the camp like silent wolves, cutting down resistance without slaughter. Every blow was precise, disabling but not killing. Every captured bandit was collared, tagged, and shoved into the growing line of prisoners.
Above it all, Craterhoof loomed, stepping over the ruins with slow, thunderous steps. Its cannons retracted into its arms now, steam hissing from its joints. The heavy siege golem was too valuable to waste on mop-up work.
The last pockets of resistance collapsed.
In less than fifteen minutes, the camp was broken.
Fires crackled. Smoke curled through the shattered bones of the old battlefield. A few wounded bandits moaned weakly, clutching their battered limbs, but none dared to resist further.
Park stood in the center of it all, untouched, his mask unreadable.
Across the smoking field, Mira—the sharp-eyed scout—approached, dragging a young man by the scruff of his collar. She shoved the captive forward with a grunt, offering a crisp nod.
Park glanced down at the trembling man.
Another survivor. Another body for Ash Company's ranks.
Park turned his gaze skyward for a moment, studying the broken stone arch he had once perched upon. For a breath, he lingered there, his mind flickering back to Fornos's words.
"Another day, another set."
Mission complete.
Another echo of resistance silenced beneath Ash Company's iron tread.
Without a word, Park gave a final hand signal. The squad reformed around the prisoners, escorting them with grim efficiency. Handlers moved through the camp, salvaging usable equipment, recovering damaged golem parts, and tagging captured cores for later integration.
Craterhoof rumbled in satisfaction, following at the rear like a warhound sated after a hunt.
The mist swallowed them as they marched back toward the main camp.
Only ruins and ash remained behind.