Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 362: Meeting again

The first group, composed of women, children, and the injured, departed swiftly, disappearing into the thickening mist of the early day. Amnon lingered only a moment, his arm steady beneath Atalia’s weight, his face marked with quiet turmoil. He turned, locking eyes with General Odin and the other commanders one last time.

"Don’t worry. We can handle it here," the general assured him, his voice low but firm. "Your family and the others, they need you more now."

A quiet nod was all Amnon gave in reply, but a visible shift passed through him, like a burden lifting. Without another word, he turned and guided Atalia and their daughter southwest, the weight of his duty now focused on the ones dearest to him.

They were making their way across the northern slope of Mount Hainai, a vast, sprawling mountain that stretched across several towns. It was not very tall, but its breadth made it formidable—a natural barrier and a reluctant guide on their journey.

Percival stayed close to the children, a watchful guardian.

Ahead, Alaric, Lara, and Aramis moved silently, clearing a safe path through underbrush and forest for the women and little ones who followed. Behind them, Jetrhu, Orion, and Redon worked methodically to obscure their trail, throwing off any pursuers who might be tracking them.

After several hours, hunger forced them to stop. The women and children gathered beneath a big tree to eat a meager lunch, mostly wild fruits and a few sweets Lara had packed. No one dared to cook or hunt; the scent of fire and flesh would draw the Northem soldiers who pursued them like wolves to blood.

Soon, Layka and ten-year-old Yohana, Zeeta’s daughter, quietly asked to be excused to relieve themselves. Agilus volunteered to escort them, his hand already on the hilt of his short blade. After scouting a safe spot and confirming the area was clear, he gave them privacy and stepped away a short distance to relieve himself as well.

The moment Layka and Yohana were done cleaning themselves and pulled up their undergarments, rough, calloused hands clamped over their mouths, yanking them back behind a bush.

Gaspar, a filthy, wild-eyed man with yellowed teeth and a jagged scar down his cheek, grinned as he pulled Yohana roughly. Rusto, his companion—shorter, broader, but no less dangerous—looked around nervously.

"Rusto," hissed a brutish voice. "We’re lucky today. These two are worth a fortune," Gaspar chuckled. "Pretty faces. They’ll fetch top price."

"I don’t know," Rusto muttered, eyes darting through the trees. "They’ve got company, I’m sure of it."

Creak.

A twig snapped.

Then a scream.

"AHHH!"

"You mean him?" Gaspar sneered, jerking his chin toward the captured man.

Still, Rusto hesitated.

Suddenly, "AHHH!" Gaspar howled and staggered. He shoved Yohana aside, his hand bleeding. "She bit me, the little bitch!"

Yohana fell on the ground on her butt. Fortunately, the fallen leaves had cushioned her fall.

Furious, Gaspar drew his blade and raised it, ready to strike her down.

Yohana scrambled back using her hands and feet.

But steel met steel. A sword intercepted his blow.

A tall man with shoulder-length ebony hair stepped between Gaspar and the child, his left hand shielding Yohana. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, illuminating his wheat-colored skin and glinting off his blade.

"Mind your own business, hunter. Don’t interfere with ours." Rusto, who was still holding Kayla captive, barked.

"Step aside, hunter," Gaspar growled. "This is no concern of yours."

"She’s just a child," the hunter replied calmly, though his eyes burned with fury.

"She bit me. She will not see tomorrow."

Gaspar’s muscles bulged as he swung again—brutal and fast. The hunter blocked, but the impact numbed his arm and knocked the sword from his grip. As he reached for it, Gaspar lunged—but Yohana’s scream gave him just enough warning. The hunter rolled, narrowly avoiding death, and kicked Gaspar backward. Still, the bandit only stumbled two steps—his strength was monstrous.

Elsewhere, Lara and Alaric froze when they heard the cry. Without a word, they bolted toward it.

Meanwhile, Agilus finally freed himself using the pocketknife Lara had once gifted him. The net split, and he fell two meters straight down.

THUD!

Because of his awkward position when he was caught in the net, he landed on his butt. Pain exploded through his tailbone. He cursed under his breath, but the moment he saw Layka with a blade at her throat and Yohana in danger, he surged forward.

However, before Agilus could make a move, two shadows streaked from the trees. They moved in sync and threw a knife each.

Thwip. Thwip.

The knives found their marks. Lara’s knife landed on Gaspar’s chest while Alaric’s landed on Rusto’s forehead right between his eyes.

Gaspar staggered back, a blade buried deep in his chest.

Rusto fell silently, Alaric’s dagger still lodged squarely between his eyes.

Both bodies hit the ground like felled timber.

Layka gasped as the knife fell from her captor’s hand. She was free.

Lara rushed to Yohana, kneeling beside her, hands trembling slightly. "Are you hurt?"

"I’m okay, Sister," Yohana said, her voice small but steady. "But... please, help him. He’s hurt. He saved me."

Lara turned and, for the first time, noticed the blood seeping down the hunter’s arm. Before she could respond, Yohana was already tearing the hem of her skirt, trying to bind the wound.

In ancient times, ten-year-old children were already considered mature and were expected to assist their families with household chores. They were not pampered. Unlike in modern times, where children were overly pampered and spoiled. She could not help but remember her younger sister, Aira, who was already ten but still acted like she was still a baby.

"Let me," Lara said gently. "The wound needs to be cleaned before it’s bandaged."

Yohana nodded, stepping aside.

Lara worked quickly and skillfully. She cleaned the wound, applied salve, and then, with practiced hands, pulled a needle and surgical thread from her kit. In the last two years, she had improved on her non-absorbable sutures made from silk, which she used for external wounds and the absorbable ones for internal wounds made from sheep and cow intestines.

In minutes, she stitched the wound shut with smooth, deft movements.

Only then did she notice the man’s gaze fixed on her, unblinking.

When she finished binding the last of the bandages, he finally spoke, his voice low and steady.

"...Lara Norse."

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