Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

In the central square of Troski village.

Peter and his five riders stood proudly, their horses snorting, and the tall red griffin banner fluttered in the wind.

Now is the time to reap the rewards.

After being released, the executor Therush ran home and found his son hiding in the basement and his weeping daughter. He took out a large handful of silver coins from the iron-inlaid wooden box and carefully counted them, putting them into a linen money bag.

"Father, perhaps we should wait a few more days...in the castle..." the young Swatia couldn't help but say. That's five hundred Groshins, enough to buy two warhorses.

"Shut up!"

Therush whirled around, his voice low and menacing, "What do you know? Hiding in the basement the whole time, you have no idea what's going on upstairs!"

Swatia shrank back, but a glimmer of hope remained in his eyes. Therush inwardly groaned—this fool had no idea just how formidable this "Red Griffin" was. He could defeat the castle guards, he could save a village from Baron Gules—such a man was destined for greatness. And now, to appease his hostility with five hundred Groshens was such a bargain!

Serush jogged back to the central square of the village and respectfully presented the money bag.

"Five, five hundred Groshens, sir." Therosh's voice carried a hint of obsequiousness as he presented the money pouch with both hands. "In addition... here are fifty Groshens, a small token of my personal... respect for you."

Peter sat astride his warhorse, his tall figure casting a long shadow across the square. He looked down at Thelushe, his eyes scrutinizing. The executor's forced smile was more like a grimace, his gaze shifting, seemingly only wanting to end this awkward standoff as quickly as possible.

Peter glanced at the money bag in Thelushe's hand, a slight smile playing on his lips. He took the heavy bag, weighed it in his hand, and then—did something that surprised everyone.

He took out the extra fifty Grossens and threw the so-called "respect" from Therush back.

The silver coin arced through the air before Thelushe caught it in a flustered frenzy, his face filled with astonishment.

“The Griffin family motto,” Peter’s voice was clear and powerful, echoing in the silent square, “is to fear neither the powerful nor the weak. Gratitude must be repaid, debts must be settled. I said you owed five hundred Grossens in ransom, so I will only take five hundred.”

Suppressed gasps rose from the crowd. In this chaotic world, which lord or knight wouldn't try to squeeze as much money as possible out of others? Therush stood there dumbfounded. He had seen too many so-called "nobles" who talked about honor but never missed an opportunity to amass wealth.

This red griffin seems truly different.

"Your Excellency is so righteous!"

Urban, the head manager of the chamber of commerce, quickly stepped forward and took out a small money pouch from his pocket. "This is one hundred Groshins, a small token of my appreciation for you, sir..."

Peter took the money pouch, but instead of putting it in his pocket, he looked at Urban and said, "This isn't a token of my appreciation; it's payment for the goods. You can send someone to the Crossroads camp to collect a hundred Groshen's worth of medicine from John the Big Mouth—hemostatic ointment and fever reducer, all top-quality."

Urban's eyes lit up, and he thanked him repeatedly. The village apothecary, standing at the edge of the crowd, however, looked grim. He knew that the Red Griffin's potions were cheaper and more effective, and his business was likely in trouble.

Taking advantage of the situation, Clement, the second-in-command of the Chamber of Commerce, stepped forward, rubbing his hands together, and cautiously asked the question that all the villagers were most concerned about: "Sir...how much ransom will be needed to bring back those captured guards?"

He also longed to bring back his nephew, Captain Klaus, to oust Urban, the head of the merchant guild.

The moment the question was raised, the air in the square seemed to freeze. Most of the guards were fathers and brothers of the village's young men, and their fates were intertwined with the fates of every family.

Peter was silent for a moment, a brief pause that made many people's hearts leap into their throats.

"They don't need a ransom."

The crowd erupted in uproar.

"but"

Peter raised his voice, "Each person needs to cut down five hundred trees to atone for their sins of attacking my territory. After that, they can return home safely."

Five hundred trees! This number left the villagers looking at each other, both relieved and uneasy—in such chaotic times, this condition was practically "merciful." Usually, in such cases, the consequences would be either a huge ransom, years of hard labor, or even being sold into slavery.

"Sir, are you serious?"

An old woman asked tremblingly, her son among the captured guards.

"I swear on the honor of the Griffin family."

Peter answered solemnly.

In the crowd, Shevak and Hamil stood beside Barbara and whispered to her, "See that? That's Lord Peter. I told you, once you've seen him, you'll understand why we're willing to follow him."

Barbara, the tavern waitress who had once been skeptical of Peter, now had a complex look in her eyes. She nodded silently, her gaze following the tall figure on horseback.

Peter's gaze swept across the crowd, briefly meeting that of Shevak and Hamil. He shook his head slightly, signaling them not to reveal their relationship. The two understood, immediately lowered their heads, and blended into the crowd.

Old monk Martin stood at the church entrance, his gaze fixed on an elderly woman in the crowd. Margaret—decades had passed, and he almost didn't recognize her, but those eyes, those once bright eyes...

Margaret saw Martin too. Her body trembled slightly, she made the sign of the cross, and murmured, "God...it's him...it really is him...please forgive my sins..."

Her confession went unheard, yet it stirred up a storm within her. Memories from years ago flooded back, memories she thought she had long forgotten now clear and painfully vivid.

Peter did not linger. He proclaimed his immigration policy once more, much like in the village of Zheleyov, before turning his horse around and leading his knights away slowly. The sound of hooves echoed along the village road, gradually fading into the distance.

Shortly after Peter and his party disappeared at the end of the road, the gates of Trotsky Castle burst open.

A troop of men charged out of the castle, led by the young lord of the Von Polgao family—a young man in his early twenties, his face filled with arrogance and anger. He wore magnificent half-plate armor and rode an expensive Andalusian warhorse. He was accompanied by five or six cavalrymen, followed by more than thirty heavy infantry and a dozen or so archers.

This team, which should have been imposing, now looked rather embarrassed – they were too late.

"Where is he? Where is that damn redhead Peter?"

"Young Master von Polgao!" roared, his face contorted with rage. When he heard that Red-Haired Peter had appeared in the village of Zheleyov, he was overjoyed, believing it to be God's reward for his offering of gold. So he hastily dispatched Cavalry Captain Thomas to lead a cavalry to kill that damned bastard, only to receive news of a crushing defeat. Enraged, he mobilized the elite infantry from the castle, but saw not a single enemy soldier.

"Young...Young Master, they've already left..."

The executive officer, Therush, answered cautiously.

"They're gone?!"

The young master abruptly drew his sword, pointing the tip at Therush: "You bunch of useless trash! You just let him swagger away like that? Did my father put you in charge of this village so you could give money to that red-haired bandit?!"

"My lord, this wasn't done by Red-haired Peter, it was..." Therosh couldn't help but try to explain.

"Shut up!"

The young master lashed out with his whip, leaving a bloody welt. "How dare you contradict and question me!"

He surveyed the villagers with their heads bowed in the square, his voice filled with contempt: "And you lowly people, everything within this territory is my property, and you just watch outsiders steal it away without doing anything? Fine, very well!"

The young master sheathed his sword and coldly announced, "From today onwards, a bandit-suppression tax will be levied on Troski Village, with each household paying an extra five Groshins per month! Until we capture that self-proclaimed 'Knight'!"

Suppressed gasps rose from the crowd. For many families, five Grossens were almost their entire year's food budget.

"Furthermore," the young master continued, "all men between the ages of sixteen and fifty must participate in militia training. We must organize a siege and completely eradicate this scourge!"

His gaze swept across the crowd, seeing only bowed heads. He mistook it for submission, unaware that beneath that silence lay brewing anger.

The villagers unconsciously began to compare—the red griffin who had just left was kind, kept his promises, and even treated the guards who attacked his territory leniently. But the "legitimate" heir to the lord before them was arrogant and vulgar, treating them like dirt and demanding heavy taxes.

A silent resistance spread among the crowd.

Meanwhile, Peter and his group were making a quick trip along the forest path. The village of Takhov was just ahead.

This wasn't Peter's first time here; he was very familiar with the place.

Jerry's expression suddenly became somewhat unnatural. He tightened his grip on the reins, and a complex emotion flashed in his eyes.

"Jerry?" Peter keenly noticed the young hunter's unusual behavior. "What's wrong?"

Jerry hesitated for a moment, then whispered, "Sir... Takhoff Village...that's my and Tom's hometown."

Peter slowed the horse's pace: "Go on."

"Our father was a hunter in the village. Kasper—the guy now known as 'Pasper the Bandit'—was his hunter apprentice."

Jerry's voice, tinged with suppressed emotion, revealed one of his little secrets.

"Jerry, you're my comrade, I won't doubt you because of this."

Peter offered words of comfort.

"Thank you for your trust, sir."

Jerry bowed and thanked him, then began to tell his story with a hint of resentment in his voice: "My father was a renowned hunter in the area, an upright man with superb archery skills. He treated Casper like he treated Tom and me, teaching him tracking, setting traps, archery... he taught him everything. The three of us grew up together and learned together."

“But a village can only have one hunter,” Jerry said bitterly. “When Father gets old, only one person can inherit his position. The three of us... should have been competing fairly.”

His fists clenched: "But Kasper didn't think so. He framed us, reporting to the castle steward Ulrich that we had poached deer in the lord's hunting grounds. It was a complete lie! But Ulrich believed him because we were just hunters' sons, and Kasper... he's a smooth talker."

"We were forced to flee. My father didn't believe we would poach, and he tried to defend us... Then, shortly after we left, my father 'accidentally' died in the forest."

Jerry's eyes reddened: "We later learned that Father's death wasn't an accident at all. Casper's plot was even discovered by the village sheriff—Father's friend—but by then it was too late. Casper fled into the northern forest and became a notorious bandit. And Tom and I... are still wanted criminals, accused of poaching the lord's property. There are even rumors that Casper is still secretly working for Ulrich, which is how he avoids the castle guards' pursuit."

Peter listened in silence, then said in a deep voice, "I promise you that one day you will be restored to your honor. And Kasper and Ulrich will pay for their crimes. I assure you that you will have the opportunity to settle this score with your own hands."

Jerry looked up, his eyes glistening with tears and unwavering determination: "Sir... thank you."

"Ding! Jerry's loyalty +2"

........

The village of Takhov gradually came into view. As Peter and his party of five riders appeared outside the village, the alarm bells immediately rang.

The villagers gathered together, watching the fully armed group with bated breath. The old sheriff glanced around for a while, then saw the red griffin flag and Jerry accompanying them. He frowned and instructed the village guards not to make any rash moves.

"Residents of Takhov!" Peter's voice boomed, "I am Peter of the Griffin family, lord of Crossroads Camp! I have come not for war, but to declare—"

He briefly explained the territory's immigration policy: those willing to settle at Crossroads Camp would receive land, a tax holiday, and protection.

The villagers were talking about it.

"Is that the Red Griffin? I think I recognize him; he's been to our village a few times."

Is what he said about the immigration policy true?

"Crossroads Camp... I heard it's safe there, and you don't have to pay taxes..."

"But that's outside the Borgo family's territory, it's too dangerous..."

Inside the blacksmith's shop, the blacksmith who had once traded lumber axes with Peter was secretly astonished. This young man, who had once appeared as a wandering knight, had repeatedly placed orders with him. How long had it been? He had become a prominent figure capable of defeating Baron Gules and forcing the village of Trossky to pay a ransom! The blacksmith wiped the coal dust from his hands, gazing at the procession on horseback, his emotions a complex mix.

He didn't notice that a blacksmith apprentice beside him had a glint in his eye, seemingly pondering some idea.

After Peter finished explaining his immigration policy, he didn't linger. He quickly turned his horse around and led his team away, as they needed to get back to camp before dark.

This armed parade, which asserted his authority and promoted immigration policies, has come to an end.

Only the legend of the red griffin remained, fermenting more and more fiercely in every corner of the Trossky territory.