The Drevlorn Dynasty’s southern boarders were a harsh land of rocky expanse and sparse forests.

But it was far from being uninhabitable; there was a network of old roads built for merchants, soldiers, and mercenaries alike.

In one such border town stood a weather-beaten tavern known as The Broken Pike.

Its wooden walls had survived countless winters, and its patrons had survived repetitive bloodshed. It was a place for men who sold steel for coin. Mercenaries, adventurers, and such, who worked as hired weapons.

The evening was loud with laughter, gambling, and drunken arguments when the tavern door opened.

A cloaked messenger stepped inside, and the room quieted slightly.

Not because messengers were uncommon, but because this one wore the insignia of a military contractor.

He walked directly toward a corner table, where ten people were occupying it.

A small mercenary company, unknown to the common man. Yet among those familiar with border wars, their reputation carried weight.

The group called themselves The Iron Jackals.

A small ten-man band of mercenaries.

Yet they had survived battles that destroyed forces many times their size, and that very group had a military messenger place a sealed scroll upon the table.

The captain of the Iron Jackals sat at the head of the worn oak table. He was not a large man, nor did he possess a towering frame. He had a common face and build at first glance. Yet there was a weight to him that drew the eye and held it.

His name was Aratharn.

Four black lines ran across his face like warpaint.

They ran from brow to cheek in uneven paths, giving him the impression of experience and control.

His beard was trimmed and his hair was dark as raven feathers, though streaks of grey had begun to divide into the sides.

It ran down his shoulders, loose and unkempt.

A long sword rested beside his chair, plain in appearance, lacking jewels or ornamentation, hinting at his absolute practicality.

He extended his hand to the sealed letter, tore off the seal, and began to read the content.

The room returned to its usual noise as he did. No one but his group could see his expression gradually change from curiosity to excitement.

The mercenary folded the scroll. "We got a new commission, get ready," he announced.

The others immediately looked up. A bald axeman leaned forward. "Does it have good money?"

The captain tossed him the letter, and the big bald man scanned it, his eyes widened. "That’s a lot of money."

Another member grabbed it, and then another, until the letter traveled around the table. The reactions changed as they read the letter.

One thing became obvious: the offered payment was enormous, far beyond ordinary contracts.

Finally, the youngest female member asked the question everyone was thinking. "There is payment and there is a request for help, but they didn’t mention the job in the letter. So, what’s the job?"

The captain leaned back. "We have to support Krynova in a war against Tharun’kai."

The table became silent. The cheerful atmosphere immediately vanished.

Mercenary work varied greatly. Bandits, escorts, monster hunting, or caravan protection.

But war was different. War surely paid well, if they survived enough to enjoy the money.

The captain tapped the table. "The Kingdom of Krynova is preparing another campaign."

The members of the company nodded. That wasn’t surprising. Everyone knew tensions had been rising in this warring period.

Aratharn sighed and continued. "The target is Kufashr."

That gained attention. One member mumbled, "Kufashr City?"

The captain nodded. A map quickly unfolded across the table. Rough fingers pointed toward a region near the north-western territories. "There."

The mercenary traced the location named Kufashr. A medium-sized city belonging to the Khanate of Tharun’kai.

Not particularly wealthy or famous, but it had value. This city was located beside Weehri City, serving as the latter’s guardian.

Weehri City had a very high strategic importance. So they needed to conquer Kufashr first to aim at Weehri in the future.

Weehri City was a major city controlling several trade routes and river crossings.

Any kingdom that controlled Kufashr would gain tremendous influence over the region, and Krynova clearly wanted it.

The captain pointed toward the surrounding area. "Krynova has attempted to pressure the Khanate before but failed each time."

Several mercenaries studied the map as their facial expressions changed. "Tharun’kai won’t give it up easily," said one of them.

"No." Aratharn agreed. "They won’t."

He continued. "The Khanate of Tharun’kai has existed for centuries. Its warriors were feared across the north-western plains.

They are tribal barbarians who were unified by a Khan; even the Great Murak Empire treated them seriously.

Capturing one of their cities would not be simple. That is why Krynova needed to hire mercenaries.

Simply, they need more expendable lives to throw away while taking over the city. The kind of warriors hired for money to die far from home."

The youngest member narrowed her eyes. It was her first war. "So we’re joining the invasion?"

The captain nodded. "If we accept." The answer seemed obvious.

They exchanged glances. The payment alone could support the small company for years. They might even not need to work again if used sparingly.

The bald man suddenly frowned. "Hold on." He pointed toward the map. "How are we getting there?" he questioned the operation.

The captain grinned. "That’s the fun part."

The table collectively groaned. Whenever the captain described something as fun, it usually wasn’t.

His finger landed on the east. "We are currently here." His finger tapped Drevlorn territory.

Then it moved across another kingdom. A familiar kingdom, Bentram.

The mercenaries immediately understood. "Aah, fuck, we have to cross Bentram?"

The captain nodded. The route was tough. To reach Krynova efficiently, they would need to travel through Bentram Kingdom first.

Thousands of kilometers, numerous cities, cold mountain roads, and checkpoints. It would take weeks of travel.

Another member sighed. "At least Bentram’s roads are decent." He looked like a bard.

Another laughed. "Oh, it has much more than just roads."

The bald axeman leaned over the map. "When do we leave?" he questioned.

The captain checked the letter again, and after giving it some thought, he said, "Tomorrow."

His word fell like lightning on their heads. Everyone cried at the same time.

"What?"

"Tomorrow?!"

"We haven’t even packed!"

The captain shook his head. "Sorry, fellas. The contract wants experienced fighters immediately."

He chugged down his drink. "War again. I hate wars."

They all hated to fight in the war, yet nobody truly objected. That was the life they had chosen.

A life that revolved around steel, coin, and battlefields, with the possibility of dying somewhere that nobody would remember.

The captain folded the map and raised his mug. "To a great payment."

The others pursed their lips, but still raised theirs. "To a great payment."

Their mugs collided, the sound echoing through the tavern.

Outside, the wind howled across the frontier roads. Far away, kings prepared armies, the generals braced their soldiers, while cities solidified defenses.

Meanwhile, in the heart of Bentram Kingdom, thousands of young aspirants worried about academy examinations.

Unaware that beyond the safe walls of the field, the real war brewing rapidly was now beginning to take shape.