The mountain flood finally found an outlet, breaking the dam.
The wasted time of two days and nights tortured not only the bandits but also these soldiers.
Solomon's soldiers, like black fish in a dark mountain flood, poured in through the gap of the opened wooden door atop Offshore Cliff.
The shouting and killing sounds of the black fish instantly swallowed the bandits' last screams. The battle turned into a massacre.
Those bandits who were just fighting among themselves, facing these hounds who had endured day and night under the cliff rushing into the camp, were as fragile as rotten wood.
Large swathes of figures knelt down, foreheads knocking on the muddy ground mixed with blood, crying and begging for mercy.
However, the blood-soaked soldiers had already killed until their eyes were red. Their swords constantly hacked down on the people kneeling and begging for mercy.
Here, there were no humans, only animals. No sympathy. All human empathy ceased to exist.
Weapons were thrown on the ground, making messy noises. The crowd cried and wailed, running to find places to hide, but were found and dragged out by soldiers, beaten and tortured, then excitedly had their throats slit.
Like cats playing with mice.
Surrounded by guards in the middle, Solomon watched silently without making a sound. The soldiers needed to vent. He could give orders, and they would execute them.
But they wouldn't like someone stopping them from venting at this moment. The stopping shouldn't be done by him, but by his officers.
Lauchlan stood in the killing field, eyes wide open, watching these cruel scenes, his sword-holding hands trembling slightly.
"Enough!!!" Lauchlan roared. His voice was like a block of ice thrown into boiling oil, trying to cool it down. "Enough!!!"
"Stop it all of you!!!"
"Everyone stop!!" Lauchlan clutched the wound on his arm, punching down a soldier who, as if not hearing the order after it was given, excitedly killed a bandit who had long dropped his weapon and was lying on the ground begging for mercy in despair. "We have controlled the camp!!! Everyone stop!!!"
Blood mist filled the camp, giving even breathing a sticky, moist feeling.
The inertia of slaughter was finally forcibly stopped. Soldiers trembled, panting heavily, chests heaving violently, looking annoyedly at Lauchlan who ordered the interruption of the killing. The soaring adrenaline gradually subsided, the blood color in their eyes slowly faded, and they began to execute orders.
In a place full of human remains, kneeling figures, and flowing pools of blood, there was only one exception.
In the corner of the camp, two stone houses formed a narrow passage.
Bolin and his nine brothers stood straight with their backs against the stone wall, sheltering behind them the dozen bandits whose families were crying down the mountain and who had intended to go down to surrender.
They were covered in blood, unable to tell if it was their own or others', bodies covered with wounds of varying depths.
But they still held their weapons. There was no fear in their eyes, only the exhaustion left after burning everything, a resolve that it was finally going to end. Their temperament was completely different from those bandits wailing and begging for mercy.
Twenty soldiers surrounded them tightly. The sharp glint of blades flashed in the firelight. No one stepped forward; they had received orders beforehand to just corner them, no need to fight them.
Bolin the Blacksmith watched as the crowd automatically parted to the sides, making a path. A not-so-tall young man walked slowly over.
Solomon felt like he was walking in mud melted by blood water; every step sank into the ground. His boots stepped in the blood pool, making soft sounds.
He didn't look at the kneeling captives. His gaze passed over everyone, landing straight on Bolin.
Solomon stopped in front of the encirclement, looking at the man driven to desperation and his nine brothers, as well as the dozen fearful, trembling bandits sheltered behind them.
Firelight danced in Solomon's eyes, reflecting that blood-soaked figure. He pulled off two leather gloves, handed them to a soldier waiting respectfully beside him, and took the first Lion Sword forged in the Lion's Den from Lauchlan's hand.
"Blacksmith Bolin." The camp was already silent. Solomon's voice was calm, easily reaching every corner of the camp. "Lay down your weapons, kneel to me, and I forgive your resistance."
Bolin was silent for a long time. He was somewhat shocked, not expecting Solomon actually wanted to recruit him. It was so long that the soldiers around Solomon began to tremble before the slaughter, and his brothers beside him began to shift their supporting steps uneasily.
Then, he made a hoarse sound: "I will no longer be a kneeling man."
Bolin raised his head, looking directly at Solomon. Those eyes were full of unresolvable weariness, reiterating: "Nor will I kneel to any noble again."
Solomon didn't get angry, just listened quietly. Finally, he paused, a trace of regret in his voice: "Even if."
"You remain loyal to me, serve me."
"And I promise to help you complete your unfinished vengeance?"
Firelight shone on Bolin's face covered in blood and sweat. Hearing vengeance, the flames in his eyes jumped fiercely, then dimmed again. A noble avenging a lowly commoner against another noble? He shook his head with a bitter smile. That was an undisguised distrust.
How could there be such a thing in this world?
Bolin thrust his greatsword into the ground, the tip piercing deep into the soil. His tall body leaned on his longsword, as if supporting his exhausted frame: "I once knelt to my Lord, was conscripted by him nine times to go to the battlefield, even blocked enemy swords for him."
"I fulfilled my obligations! Fulfilled my oath! What did I get in return! He reneged on his promise to protect my family! He took everything from me with his own hands!"
"Everything is fucked! The Seven! The Old Gods! Everything!"
Solomon interrupted Bolin's endless profanities which had already escalated to cursing the King and the High Septon, speaking slowly: "Then what about your brothers?"
Bolin glanced at the scarred brothers beside him. For the first time, there was a hint of pleading in his voice: "I heard people praising you. If you really think yourself merciful, instead of a hypocritical disguise, then spare these nine brothers of mine. They are all good warriors, no worse than me. They can fight for you."
"And these people behind. They intended to go down the mountain, just were... stopped by me. The responsibility is mine. Let them reunite with their families. They can farm land for you."
The nine partners looked at Bolin with red eyes, slowly lowering their heads. No one spoke again. The sheltered bandits behind them were also silent, bowing their heads deeply.
Solomon fell silent: "Can do. What about you?"
"I only beg for death." Bolin looked up at Solomon, revealing a sad smile as he spoke. "Please let me reunite with my family."
Then, he let out a hoarse bitter laugh that seemed squeezed from the depths of his chest. His voice sounded like two rusty pieces of iron rubbing together: "I should have died long ago."
"On the day my wife and children died, I should have died."
"My soul died at that moment."
"What lives in the world now is just a walking corpse."
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