The massive, iron-reinforced stone walls of the northern gate loomed ahead as the heavy, creaking caravan finally broke through the dense perimeter forest. The hundred surviving mercenaries were entirely drenched in a mixture of sweat, mud, and dried spider ichor, their muscles trembling violently after dragging the six colossal, treasure-laden cargo sledges up the steep mountain trails.
As the armored city guards standing atop the watchtowers came into view, a desperate, fleeting thought of rebellion flashed through the minds of several captive cultivators. "If we yell for help, if we cause a massive riot right at the gates... the authorities will have to step in," a scarred sub-leader thought, his eyes darting toward the heavy iron spears of the garrison.
But that desperate hope died in their throats before a single shout could form.
