The bandits' hideout was indeed close, just a few miles away on the border between the Veneto and the Austrian March. But reaching it meant leading pack animals and wagons over hills and along a trail darkened by night—impossible for men suffering from near-universal night blindness. That was the real reason the bandits had not returned directly to base.

Lothar had briefly entertained the theory that the outlaws had fierce wives waiting at home and didn't dare show up openly with a train of kidnapped women. He set the thought aside.

The status of women in this era was abysmally low. The fact that a handful of noblewomen rose to the rank of duchess, empress, or sought-after countess, plus the fearsome witches who pulled strings behind the lords, changed none of it. Women could rarely fulfill the military obligations of a vassal to a liege, barring the vast majority from rising through war the way men could. And religion branded them as wicked temptresses, bearers of original sin, denied education, forced to depend on men for everything.

The bandits wouldn't risk a night march. Lothar had no intention of doing so either. He ordered Laine and Modell to make camp with the new followers in an open patch of the hillside. Soon the campfires were blazing again. Lothar distributed the food the bandits had never gotten to eat among his new people, then broke out the supplies from the packhorses and heated them over the flames.

"Modell, Laine, don't just stand there. Go check on the new people. See what they need. From today on, you two are in charge of them."

"Huh?"

"Don't gape. You two are my sergeants now. We don't have many hands yet, but these people are the seeds. Train them well."

They caught his meaning, and their faces lit. They revered Lothar, believed he was destined for great things. And that made his trust in them burn all the brighter. The two men set off, and in each man's chest a forbidden hope took root. If the master truly becomes a lord one day… could he really knight us?

The fire crackled. Lothar sipped his meat broth, perfectly composed. Not long ago, he had been a raw novice. Now he had fought his battles, killed his share of men, and could drink his soup unruffled amid the aftermath. He was changing fast.

It sometimes made him wonder if he'd been born twisted: a killer who just happened to enjoy it.

"What's that? You want to pour me a cup of water?" He cocked his head like he was listening, then nodded. "Thank you, Prajna. That's very kind."

Prajna: "…"

Expressionless, she produced a wooden cup, filled it with hot water, and handed it over. Lothar took it, blew across the steam, and sipped.

Prajna's lips parted. She sounded almost weary. "If you want something, just say it. Do not dance around. I am your subordinate. I will follow orders."

Lothar raised an eyebrow and studied her face in the firelight, warm orange on her pale skin. He grinned. "All right, then. I'd like to rest my head on your lap for a while."

The air went brittle. Lothar felt a wave of cold roll off her. He met her icy gaze over the rim of his cup without a flinch, though the warm water in his throat did not quite chase away the chill.

Finally, Prajna said, "Forgive me. That is not among the duties a subordinate owes her lord."

When the tension had eased, Lothar put on a sheepish grin. "I was only joking."

"My lord, I can!" Hans slapped his own thigh, his honest face split in a wide grin. "If you're tired, I would gladly serve as your pillow. A good lord deserves good rest."

Poor boy. Probably because his rarity was so low, a single star, his Affinity bar moved like a runaway cart. Lothar checked the System. Ha. It had jumped straight from "Friendly" to "Worship."

"I'll pass." Lothar shook his head quickly. "I was only teasing Prajna. I'm not that delicate."

Hans thought to himself, The master is truly the master: he even dares to tease General Prajna. The honest lad had missed the flirtation entirely. In his mind, he had never regarded Prajna as a woman at all. Strictly speaking, he didn't even regard her as human. She was the Gatekeeper of Hell.

The next morning, they broke camp before sunrise and pushed on. Lothar, Hans, Prajna, and Modell traveled light, picking their way along the rough hillside. This time it was Laine's turn to stay behind, guarding the pack animals and wagons with the new followers. A few hours' acquaintance wasn't enough for Lothar to fully trust these people.

Before leaving, he'd quietly told Laine to stay sharp: watch for any sign they were conspiring behind his back. Guard against men's hearts. Even a slim chance had to be accounted for.

Laine was alert, armored, crossbow in hand. If the new followers really were greedy enough to try something, they'd find it hard to succeed.

As for why he didn't bring these new followers to assault the bandit hideout: any one of the able-bodied men, handed a bandit's weapon, would make a passable levy soldier. But he had no intention of spending their lives like kindling. He planned to have Modell and Hans train them into proper soldiers. Even if he didn't have the funds to turn them all into men-at-arms, he would never drag untrained, rag-clad farmers onto a battlefield.

Besides, most of the people living around the Holy Land were Orthodox Christians or even fire-worshippers: foreign in faith and blood. These dozen-odd people were at least fellow Germans, speaking his tongue, sharing his roots. They would become a core he could trust.

Guard against them, and place his hopes in them. The two impulses did not contradict.

Halfway there, Hans spoke up. "My lord. What do we do if we find women and children?"

Lothar considered. "If they're a threat, kill them. If not… leave them to their fate. In all things, your own life comes first."

He knew the logic well enough. The old, the women, the young, they all ate food bought with the bandits' blood money. None were truly innocent. But to call for the rooting-out of every last root and branch, he couldn't bring himself to go that far.

Hans nodded. "Understood." He was still green, but raised in the shadow of the Teutonic Knights, who made a habit of burning and pillaging among the Slavs, he was no sentimental fool.

They crested a low rise. The hideout came into view.

"This is a bandit hideout?" Hans stared, frowning hard. "This is a village!"

Someone had even cleared a small field. Beyond, an orchard spread in pale yellow blossom, the fragrance drifting like a dream. It looked like a hidden paradise. Lothar was equally puzzled. "Did that bandit send us to the wrong place?"

"I'll scout ahead." Modell moved first, making his way down. He returned quickly, face grim. "No mistake. The traps are exactly where he said. The layout matches. He didn't dare lie to us."

Lothar breathed out. A settlement of runaway serfs. A place to escape the lords and their crushing taxes, and occasionally, a base to raid from. Maybe they had been pitiable once. But the moment they picked up the butcher's knife, they stopped being pitiable.

"Hans, Modell, flank from the sides. Prajna and I will take the front. Remember my order: your own lives come first."

His resources were stretched thin. The reliable people under his command could be counted on one hand. Before he secured a fief and truly activated the System, the Milestones were his only source of new Retainers. And each draw was precious.