Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

Just as Peter was busy settling the influx of new members, a messenger arrived from the nomadic camp: they had decided to migrate north, leaving this place of trouble that was about to become a battlefield.

As evening fell, the setting sun painted the sky a magnificent orange-red, the distant mountains appearing like dark eyebrows, and the nearby grass like gold. Peter, along with Marika and the tomcat Carter, arrived at the nomadic camp's temporary encampment to see them off. The campfire was already lit, and the air was filled with the aroma of baked flatbread and the scent of parting.

The old commander of the nomadic camp grasped Peter's hand, his eyes filled with gratitude and regret: "Peter, it's a pleasure to meet you here. But our Gypsy tradition forbids involvement in conflicts between lords. Otherwise, it will cause trouble not only for ourselves but also for other wandering nomadic groups. So we have no choice but to leave. May God bless you and your griffin banner."

Peter understood.

Marika chose to stay, bidding a reluctant farewell to her parents, brothers, and the sisters she had met at the nomad camp. They embraced each other, whispered their blessings, and had tears in their eyes.

Although the time spent together was short, it left a warm mark on each other's hearts.

Master Cat also bid a reluctant farewell to Whitebeard and others he had met at the camp.

Just as most of the nomadic camp members were packing their belongings and preparing to depart at dawn the next day, the commander's second son, Tipo, a young man with chestnut hair and agile movements, led nine other companions who were also skilled at riding horses, and walked up to Peter with their own horses.

"Lord Peter," Tibo's eyes shone brightly, filled with the youthful vigor and yearning for heroism, "we don't want to wander and flee like our fathers. We want to stay and fight alongside you! We may lack experience, but we know horses well and dare to charge!"

Meanwhile, five experienced craftsmen at the nomadic camp, responsible for maintaining and building the caravans, stepped forward, expressing their willingness to stay. "We're old and can't run as fast as we used to," they said, "but we haven't lost our skills. We can help you build more and sturdier wagons, useful for transporting supplies or serving as mobile barriers."

The old commander looked at his son and the craftsmen, finally sighed, and nodded. He understood the young man's desire for glory and a foothold, and he also respected the craftsmen's choice to exchange their skills for a stable life.

The commander's eldest son, Gesa, was also eager to participate, but remembering that he was the eldest son in the family and had responsibilities to bear, he could only suppress his excitement.

Peter looked at the fifteen faces, some young and some weathered, and a surge of warmth welled up inside him. It was trust, entrustment, and a convergence of strength.

"The Griffin Camp welcomes everyone! Our camp doors are open to all who yearn for stability!"

He made a solemn promise.

That night, Peter led the group back to camp, temporarily assigning Tipo and ten others to the combat team, where they were trained as cavalry seeds under the guidance of experienced squad leaders; the five cart makers were incorporated into the carpentry team, coordinated by the construction foreman, Matthew Yokobeam, and immediately began to work on producing more transport vehicles and possible war chariots.

As night fell, the stars began to twinkle in the sky. Peter stood atop the camp's watchtower, overlooking the ever-expanding camp dotted with lights. The artisan workshops remained brightly lit, bustling with activity, the clanging of blacksmiths' hammers filling the air. The carpentry sheds wafted with the fresh scent of wood, and the newly built barracks echoed with the weary yet satisfied banter of the new recruits.

"The hearts and minds of the people are the ultimate force determining the outcome of a war." Peter recalled the words of an ancient philosopher: "Those who act justly gain abundant support, while those who act unjustly find themselves isolated—this saying is indeed true." The Porgo family relied on feudal power and military coercion, while he advocated for protection, fairness, and a shared future. It was precisely this difference in ideology that caused the hearts and minds of the people—this seemingly invisible yet incredibly powerful force—to gradually and irreversibly tilt towards the Griffin flag.

However, he also knew clearly that a test was about to begin.

Time flies, and soon it was June 9th.

After much negotiation and the transfer of funds from elsewhere, the ransom for young von Borgo finally arrived. The final price was 45,000 Grossens, nine times the territory's income, filling nine chests and a whole cartload. The silver coins, delivered with eloquence, had also gained von Borgo's initial trust.

The Earl of Borgo's men never dared to leave the castle, and still entrusted the clever Richard to lead the guards to escort the ransom to the Griffin Camp.

"God is our witness, we have completed the transaction. Please escort us safely away!"

With Old Martin's Bible as witness, the two parties completed the transaction, and the quick-witted Richard pulled the impatient young master Borgo behind him.

"Of course. You are all welcome to visit again in the future."

Peter ordered them to leave and extended a warm invitation.

"No, no..."

Young Master Borgo waved his hands repeatedly, hoping to completely forget this shameful nightmare.

Young Master Hans Capon, on the other hand, had seen many new things and met many enthusiastic people at the Griffin Camp these past few days. Everyone respected him, which made him somewhat reluctant to leave.

Henry also left the blacksmith's shop. During this time, Peter had temporarily given him a position to participate in the camp's construction, which gave him a sense of belonging. However, he was still, after all, Hans's young master's bodyguard, and he had to fulfill his duties until the alliance mission was completed.

Peter didn't try to stop him. Hans, the young master, was destined to return home to inherit the family business. As a nobleman, he was difficult to recruit, and at most, they could form an alliance in the future. But Henry was different. Henry was just Raddy's illegitimate son. Raddy was only middle-aged now, and if he remarried and had a legitimate heir, Henry would almost certainly not be able to inherit the family business and would have to rely on his own efforts. Wasn't this the opportunity?

Because Peter did not show too much closeness to Hans and Henry in front of the young master of Borgo, he simply nodded and asked someone to see them off.

The group rode for two hours and returned to Trossky Castle.

"Finally...finally back!"

After entering the city, young Master Borgo murmured softly, his voice trembling with the shock of surviving a disaster.

Upon entering the inner fortress of the castle, the steward, Ulrich, was already waiting with several attendants. This steward, nearing fifty, wore a deep purple velvet robe, and a silver brooch was engraved with the flying fish emblem of the Borgo family. He wore a professionally humble smile and bowed slightly.

"Welcome back, young master. You've suffered these past few days..."

Before he could finish speaking, the young master of Borgo's face contorted instantly. He ripped off his dusty coat—the coarse cloth garment Peter had "gifted" him back at the Griffin Camp—and threw it hard at Ulrich's face.

"Suffering? You say I'm suffering?" Polgar's voice suddenly rose, sharp and piercing. "You incompetent piece of trash! If you hadn't suggested I send that idiot Istvan to infiltrate the griffin camp, would I have underestimated them and acted rashly? Would I have been captured by that damned red griffin? Would I have suffered so much unspeakable humiliation?"

Caught off guard by the sudden attack, Ulrich staggered back two steps, nearly falling into the mud, looking utterly comical. He hurriedly explained, "Young Master, who would have thought..."

"Who would have thought? Who would have thought?!" Young Master Polgar, like a maddened beast, kicked Ulrich in the stomach. The steward cried out in pain and curled up on the ground.

The surrounding servants all lowered their heads, unable to bear the sight of this embarrassing scene.

Hans couldn't help but mutter to Henry, "He lost the war himself and then took it out on others. Quite something else. Although I also hope that wretched Ulrich gets beaten up..."

Young Master Borgo clearly heard the taunt, and his face darkened even further. He grabbed Ulrich by the collar and rained down punches.

"I taught you to underestimate us! I taught you to come up with such terrible ideas!"

"Do you know what kind of life I lived in that shabby camp? Sleeping in haystacks and eating black bread!"

"Those lowly people, those peasants, how dare they look at me with pity!"

"It's all your fault! It's all your fault!"

Ulrich curled up, clutching his head, groaning in pain. He dared not resist and could only silently endure this undeserved calamity.

That's enough.

A deep, steady voice came from the second-floor corridor. Count Borgo stood behind the carved railing, looking down at the farce unfolding in the hall. The old count wore a dark red brocade robe, a black sable cloak draped over his shoulders, and his gray hair was meticulously combed. Time had etched deep wrinkles on his face, but it had not diminished his sharp eyes.

"Come up with me!"

"Yes, Father."

The young master Borgo, who had just been furious like a lion, immediately answered obediently like a lamb.