The mercenaries on night watch all recognized Lancelot at first glance, allowing him to pass through the now quietening camp unhindered and return to his squad's tent.
Standing guard at the door were the young Tiflin, Glory, and the blonde-haired Dwarf, Flint Ruge. Compared to when they first met, both had undergone clear changes—Glory's aggressive youthful temperament had vanished, and he seemed much steadier, as if he had adapted to this world; whereas Flint no longer resembled a desperate runaway slave, his eyes now bore a confidence that came from muscle, shield, and cross pickaxe, the kind that belongs only to true warriors.
Battle could change a person so quickly, Lancelot had seen it many times before.
"Sir, you're back," Flint greeted him proactively, "It's been quiet for a while now, who won in the end?"
"Visuvius, that guy is two sizes bigger than everyone else," Lancelot shrugged, "Did everyone rest up?"
