Six miles southwest of Brambleford City, a snow-covered mountain range stretched for hundreds of miles. Among these peaks, two towering summits, each standing four to five hundred meters high, faced each other like twin tower slides.

This was the well-known Twin Mountain among the people of Brambleford.

Days of heavy snowfall had blanketed the mountains in thick layers of white, leaving no trace of greenery.

In a secluded part of the mountain forest, a group of ragged individuals huddled around a campfire, seeking warmth.

Their faces were gaunt, their bodies frail, clear signs of prolonged hunger and exposure.

"Father, there’s nothing left to eat in the mountains. If this continues, we’re all going to starve." A young man, around sixteen or seventeen, grumbled while clutching a bow and arrow.

"Shut up!" Barked an older man seated to the east of the fire. He had a long, scruffy beard and a deep scar running across his forehead. "If you hadn’t attacked those government people, would we be hiding up here, too afraid to go down the mountain?"

The young man lowered his head, aggrieved. "I didn’t do it on purpose. The snow was so thick, how was I supposed to know they were officials?"

"You ungrateful brat! Still talking back?" The older man grabbed a wooden staff and raised it, ready to strike. "I never should’ve let you handle a bow! I’ll beat you to death today!"

The young man sprawled onto the ground. "Go ahead, beat me! Either way, we’re all going to starve to death!"

Harlan’s grip tightened around the staff, ready to bring it down, but a few clansmen quickly intervened.

One of them said. "Sir, Adel only made a mistake because he was desperate. We haven’t eaten in days. We’re all starving."

Harlan sighed deeply, lowering the staff in defeat. "It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t rashly led you all into banditry, we wouldn’t be suffering like this."

Another man chimed in. "That’s true. We were shipbuilders, not bandits. We don’t rob commoners, and we don’t dare attack the well-guarded merchant convoys of the noble families. We’re the most pathetic bandits ever. We might as well leave Brambleford and seek a new life elsewhere."

Harlan scowled. "You think I’m a fool? It’s not the Chandlier family I fear, it’s the prince. Ever since the Chandlier family aligned with him, they’ve become even more arrogant. No matter where we go, we’ll still be under royal authority."

"That’s true, but I snuck down the mountain a couple of days ago and heard something interesting." Another clansman spoke up. "The prince has ordered bread to be distributed at city gates and has decreed land reclamation and farming rights for the people. Even more surprising, this year Commander Lancelot has not launched a winter bandit-suppression campaign. Instead, he has issued a decree: any bandit who surrenders will be pardoned and given food. Those who refuse will be executed."

Harlan’s face darkened as he picked up the staff again, glaring at his son. "You damned brat! You attacked officials! Now, how are we supposed to surrender and get food? You’ve doomed us all!"

Adel scrambled to his feet, realising his father was truly furious this time.

Before the argument could continue, a lookout came running down the mountain, panting. "Sir, we’ve got cargo!"

That was their secret signal; a target for looting had appeared.

Immediately, the hungry bandits grabbed whatever weapons they had: wooden clubs, sickles, and rusty blades. Adel slung his bow over his shoulder. "Who are they?"

"A grain merchant caravan. Only four or five guards with them."

"Father, let’s do it! If we don’t, we’ll starve to death!" Adel urged.

Harlan hesitated. There was no other way. "Alright, move out!"

The thirty-odd bandits hurried down the mountain, heading for their usual ambush spot. The thick foliage provided ample cover, preventing their presence from being detected.

As they reached their positions, they spotted the approaching caravan: four wagons, each manned by a driver and guarded by four armed escorts.

On each wagon, large bamboo baskets were stacked high, just like the ones grain merchants used for transportation.

Seeing the amount of food, Harlan’s eyes turned bloodshot. If they seized this haul, they could last for months!

As the caravan rolled into their trap, he roared. "Attack!"

The bandits charged out of the trees, weapons raised.

The drivers and guards immediately drew their weapons, forming a defensive line around the wagons.

Something felt off to Harlan. The guards didn’t look panicked at all.

But before he could second-guess himself...

BAM!

The lids of the bamboo baskets suddenly burst open.

From inside, fully armoured soldiers leapt out, weapons gleaming in the daylight.

Leading them was Lancelot, who emerged from one of the baskets with a wild grin. "Bandit scum! Surrender now, or my blade will show no mercy!"

In an instant, the ’small caravan’ transformed into a force of thirty elite soldiers.

The bandits froze in shock.

They had walked right into a trap.

Lancelot laughed heartily at the stunned expressions. This brilliant plan had been devised by the prince himself, and it had worked perfectly! Inwardly, Lancelot’s respect for Simon grew. He would never have thought of such an effortless way to capture these bandits.

Surrounded and outnumbered, Harlan collapsed to his knees before Lancelot. "Captain, I take full responsibility! Please spare my men!"

Adel’s face turned red with rage. "Father, don’t say that! I was the one who shot the official!"

Lancelot narrowed his eyes. "So, you’re Harlan? Enough talking, you’re coming with us to see His Highness!"

---

Brambleford City – Governor’s Office

Lancelot personally escorted Harlan and his men back to the city. A scout was sent ahead to inform the prince.

This entire plan had been orchestrated by Simon. Rather than rushing to retaliate immediately after Roland was injured, he waited three days before setting the trap.

As expected, hunger had clouded the bandits’ judgment, and they fell right into his hands.

At the governor’s office, Simon was already waiting.

Roland, though still weak, had recovered enough to walk and insisted on attending.

Lancelot saluted. "My Lord, Harlan and his son Adel have been captured. Awaiting your judgment."

Simon swept his gaze over the bandits.

"These are bandits?" He thought, unimpressed. "They look worse off than beggars."

"You are Harlan?" Simon’s voice turned sharp. "Do you realise that banditry and attacking government officials are capital offences?"

Harlan knelt, defeated. "My Lord, I alone am responsible. Kill me if you must, but please spare my men."

"You have guts," Simon remarked coldly. "However, I am not one to slaughter indiscriminately. That said, while you may be spared death, you will not be spared punishment. According to the laws of the Eldorian Empire, the lightest sentence for your crimes is enslavement."