Lord: Starting from the Pit-Dwelling Courtyard

Chapter 12: The Hunt

The next morning, at the edge of the depression.

Mad and two other criminals, who were originally hunters, had already circled around to the back of the scree slope opposite the depression.

Their task was to start a fire, not to burn the cattle, but to burn the grass.

The smoke will startle the cattle and make them run in the direction where there is no smoke.

Three gentle slopes, two of which were carved into steep cliffs. The only way out was a scree slope.

Ron stood on the earthen wall atop the gravel slope, with old Hall beside him, while Fanta, along with his guards and militia, lay in ambush on either side of the ditch.

The spearhead gleamed coldly in the morning light, its triangular flint tip honed to a sharp point.

"ignition."

Ron's voice wasn't loud.

Moments later, the weeds on the opposite side of the depression caught fire.

Thick, grayish-white smoke billowed into the depression on the morning breeze.

The cattle began to stir.

A cow was the first to raise its head, its nostrils flaring. Then came the second, and the third.

The enormous bull walked to the front of the herd, its head lowered, its horns pointed in the direction from which the smoke was coming, and a deep roar came from its throat.

The smoke grew thicker and thicker.

The first cow started running; it wasn't a bull, but a half-grown calf.

It charged down the gentle western slope, reached the bottom, pawed at the almost vertical earthen wall twice with its front hooves, and slid down.

It turned and rushed to the east, with the same result.

The cattle began to move toward the scree slope.

At first there were just a few, then a dozen or so. Finally, it was all of them.

The ground shook, and more than thirty bison ran in the depression, their hooves thundering like muffled thunder.

The slope of the scree slope is gentler than the other two sides, so they can run up it.

Ron gripped the edge of the earthen wall tightly.

The first cow charged to the top of the hill.

It saw the ditch ahead and tried to slow down, but the herd of cattle behind it pushed up.

It fell in.

Then came the second head, the third head, and the fifth head.

The tenth head.

The bison surged up the scree slope like a torrent, then plunged into the ravine like a waterfall.

The sound of sharp stones piercing flesh mingled with the hooves and the bellows of cattle, muffled and dense.

The cow that fell in first was crushed underneath the one that fell in later, its struggling hooves kicking wildly in the air.

The bull was the last to charge.

It was a size bigger than the other cows. It saw the ditch, but instead of slowing down, it jumped up.

Its enormous body soared into the air, clearing most of the ditch.

Its front hooves landed on the edge of the earthen wall on the other side of the ditch.

Fanta drew his sword.

But Ron was faster than him.

During civil engineering work, the sand at the edge of the earthen wall suddenly collapsed, effectively extending it outward by half a meter.

The bull slipped on its forelegs, let out a deafening roar, and its entire body arched backward, crashing heavily into the bottom of the ditch, landing on top of the other two bulls.

The smoke slowly dissipated.

The ditch was filled with bison; some were already motionless, while others were still struggling, their hooves kicking weakly in mid-air.

Blood soaked the gravel at the bottom of the ditch, gleaming a dark red in the morning light.

Mad ran over from the other side, stood on the edge of the ditch and looked down. His lips were moving, but no sound came out.

Sanlir's hand holding the spear trembled. Not from fear, but from excitement.

"My lord," Sanlir's voice trembled, "how many...how many have we captured?"

Ron didn't count; he looked at the cattle in the ditch, their hooves still struggling, their bellies no longer rising and falling.

"all."

It took more than an hour to tally up the results.

Of the thirty-four bison, twelve died in the fall, fifteen were seriously injured and unable to move, and seven were slightly injured but unable to climb out.

The huge bull was still alive, its hind leg broken. It lay at the bottom of the ditch, breathing heavily from its nostrils, and its horns were stained with blood, whether its own or that of another bull was unknown.

Ron instructed Fanta to treat the badly wounded cow first. The guards used spears to pierce the cow's neck, drawing blood and minimizing damage to the meat.

The militiamen were responsible for dragging the treated cattle out of the ditch.

Sanlir and three other militiamen carried a half-grown cow back home.

Cow blood trickled down Shanlier's neck, staining his collar a dark red, but he laughed heartily.

Mad squatted down next to the bull and watched it for a long time.

"My lord, this cow."

Ron walked over.

"What's wrong?"

Mad pointed to the bull's horn. On the left horn, at the base, there was a deep, old mark, not from a stone, but from a knife.

"This cow has been hacked," Mad said. "Not a wild animal from the wilderness, but a person, hacked with a knife."

Ron crouched down.

Knife marks.

It doesn't look like it was recently left; it's been there for at least a few months.

This indicates that the cow was hunted several months ago, but the attempt failed.

Old Hall also came over, examined the knife mark, and his expression changed slightly.

"Young master! Judging from the curve and depth, it's not a hunting knife. It's a standard double-edged sword used by cavalry."

Ron looked up.

There are few cavalry forces in the wasteland, and Harland is one of them.

It could be another lord, or an unknown force, but it's definitely not a foreign race.

This bull, bearing an old knife scar, led a herd of bison and survived on the wasteland until today, but unfortunately, they all fell into his trap.

"Saw off the horns," Ron said. "Keep them."

That evening, a bonfire was lit in the territory.

It wasn't burned with thorny bushes; it was a dead tree that Mad found on the edge of the depression. It had been dead for who knows how many years, and the trunk was completely dry.

The split firewood crackled and popped as it burned in the campfire.

The beef was roasting over a fire, without spices, only salt—coarse salt that Old Hall had extracted from the wasteland using his transformation magic.

When grease drips into the fire, it ignites into bursts of flame.

Ron sat by the campfire, holding a wooden skewer of beef in his hand.

The meat was roasted until it was half-charred, black on the outside and still bloody inside.

He took a bite; it was hot, hard, and salty.

This was the best thing he had eaten since he transmigrated here.

Shanlier squatted in the corner with a wooden bowl in his hand, tearing the roasted beef into thin strips and feeding it to his younger siblings little by little.

The younger brother's face was covered in oil from eating, while the younger sister couldn't chew the meat strips, so he chewed them until they were soft before stuffing them into her mouth.

Mad sat at the very edge of the campfire, holding a skewer of beef in his hand.

He didn't eat; he was still looking at the sawn-off cow horn.

Old Hall walked over and sat down next to Ron.

"Young master, the knife marks on that bull."

"I know!"

"If it's one of Haaland's men."

"Not necessarily." Ron tore off a piece of beef. "Harland isn't the only one with cavalry in the wasteland. It could be another lord, a passing mercenary, or even a goblin picking up a sword from a corpse."

Old Hall remained silent for a while.

Which one do you believe?

Ron finished chewing the meat in his mouth and swallowed it.

"I believe the knife marks are real. As for who did it, we'll find out sooner or later."

Ron understood Old Hall's concerns perfectly well; he was simply afraid that other lords would use this as an excuse to cause trouble for them.

With this batch of bison, Ron was confident he could build another batch of new weapons, which was exactly what he wanted – troublemakers were coming to his door.

The campfire crackled, and sparks rose, merging into the night sky over the wasteland.

Ron finished the last piece of meat on the skewer and stood up.

"Old Hall, starting tomorrow, tan the leather. Make as much leather armor, shields, and leggings as you can."

"Yes."

"Also, have Mad keep an eye on the north. Not on the goblins."

Old Hall looked up.

"Keep an eye on the herd," Ron said. "That bison migrated from somewhere else. They came from a direction with pastures, water, and maybe other lords."

He glanced at the people around the campfire.

Some people were dividing the meat, some were warming themselves by the fire, and Shanlier's sister was already asleep, with a trace of oil still hanging from the corner of her mouth.

"Stealing a cow is enough for one meal. If you find the source of the herd, you can keep eating."

Old Hall looked at Ron, the campfire light reflecting off the young master's face, flickering uncertainly.

He didn't speak, he just nodded.