The first arrow flew like a whisper—silent, precise, glowing faintly with coiled enchantments. It cut through the stillness like a curse aimed straight for the royal carriage.
But Alarik was faster.
He raised his fist to the sky.
"Bastion of Earth!"
The ground answered.
A thunderous groan rippled beneath the moss-covered trail. Earth cracked. Obsidian-dark stone surged upward in a wide crescent around the royal chariot—smooth, seamless, impenetrable. A half-dome of protection, carved from the land itself.
The arrow struck with a sharp thunk. Then—
Boom.
A fireburst erupted from the point of impact. The explosion blew a jagged hole clean through the wall. Smoke belched out. Flames licked the wheels of the chariot. The horses reared in panic, whinnying. One broke free. Two guards were hurled from their saddles, crashing hard into the mud and leaves.
And then came the storm.
Arrows rained down—fast, silent, deadly. Dozens. Then dozens more. They fell like silver hail through the canopy, hissing as they came. Shields rose too late. The first line of guards crumpled beneath the assault, pierced and ragged.
A soldier dropped to his knees, staring dumbly at the arrow buried deep in his chest. Another stumbled forward, both hands pressed to his throat, blood pouring between his fingers.
Reivo hit the ground running.
Boots slammed into moss, and his sword rasped free in a single practiced draw. Smoke rolled around him—then parted—and he saw the forest move.
Bandits poured from the trees. Not sloppy or desperate—disciplined. Swift. Their blades caught the light. Red scarves masked their faces. Their footwork was clean. Their formations coordinated.
These weren't highwaymen.
They were soldiers wearing masks.
Reivo's eyes scanned the battlefield. The bandits fanned out like trained predators, forming wedges, moving in layers.
To his right, a royal guard battled a twin-blade wielder. The bandit carved a glowing "X" in the air—thin arcs of compressed mana that shimmered before exploding forward. The guard's armor split open, his chest laid bare in two crimson lines. He fell screaming.
Ahead, two more guards fought a larger foe. The brute raised a curved axe, deflecting one spear, then muttered under his breath: "Vinebind."
Sickly green light flared across his arm. From his palm, vines exploded outward, snaring the second soldier mid-strike. The man froze, eyes wide—then the axe came down and crushed his skull.
Reivo's stomach turned.
These weren't thugs.
This was a military formation. Tiered by strength.
He saw the pattern now. The strongest of them—level 15s, maybe higher—were pushing toward the royal carriage, carving through elite knights. Their movements were sharp, decisive, full of mana manipulation and spell-combat. High-level.
Alarik's words came back to him.
"Training matters, but it has limits. A level 1 can train their whole life. They still won't beat a level 10 who's awakened more skills. Strength multiplies. Speed stacks. Only power answers power."
It was happening now.
The guards—maybe level 10 at best—were being torn apart.
Mid-levels—level 8s to 12s—were circling. They hunted isolated targets, flanked defenders, finished the wounded. And behind them, the lowest-ranked ones moved like shadows. Silent, efficient. Slitting throats. Driving knives under breastplates. No wasted movement.
A machine. Not a mob.
The whispers surged again. Hot, breathy, hateful.
"They die like the others." "Haha. Let's paint the leaves red." "He's waking. He's waiting." "Let us out, Reivo. Let us burn." "Your skin can't hold much longer…"
He winced. Staggered. Clenched his jaw against the gnawing pressure building inside him.
Not now.
A body dropped in front of him—one of the younger guards, barely older than Reivo himself. His eyes were wide with disbelief. Blood seeped into the moss around him.
Two bandits stood over the corpse.
One held twin daggers, dancing them between calloused fingers. The other gripped a spiked club, resting it against his shoulder. They looked up and locked eyes with Reivo.
They smiled.
Young. Alone. Not even armored properly.
They thought he'd be easy prey.
They were almost right.
Reivo was only level 3.
They were probably level 5 or more.
And still, he didn't step back.
He shifted his feet, blade low, knees bent. His breath slowed. Centered. If they underestimated him… maybe that was the edge he needed.
The dagger-wielder struck first—quick, probing strikes aimed to test his guard.
Reivo deflected the first. Pivoted back, then lunged—feint high, twist low.
The bandit dodged left— Reivo anticipated it and intercepted him with an elbow to the temple.
A crack. The man stumbled, dazed.
The club-wielder charged, roaring.
Reivo caught the stunned dagger-fighter, yanked him forward—used him as a human shield.
The club crashed into his partner's skull.
Reivo turned with the motion, blade reversed, and drove it into the exposed side of the first bandit. Hot blood ran up the hilt. The man gasped—then crumpled.
The second bandit snarled, ripped his club free, and charged again—saying, "Arms Boost". With that his arm bulged with muscles, his strike becoming more wild.
Reivo turned to parry—but the blow was too fast.
Crack.
The club smashed into his shoulder. Pain lanced down his spine. He stumbled, nearly dropped the sword—but held on. Just barely.
The bandit raised the club for the killing blow—
Silver flashed.
The bandit stopped. Choked.
A rapier blade pushed through the front of his throat.
Reivo blinked.
Norma stood behind him, face smeared with soot, blonde hair braided tight and slicked back. Her expression was calm. Focused. Her rapier was already sliding back as the bandit fell.
She met Reivo's eyes. "Hold the line."
Then she was gone—vanishing into the melee, her blade a streak of silver between enemies.
Reivo staggered to his feet. Wiped blood from his brow. All around him, soldiers died screaming. Bandits pressed forward like a tide.
Then—a flicker.
He turned.
Something small and bright zipped through the air.
A throwing knife.
Reivo twisted. Sword snapped up. Clang—steel sparked.
The knife fell to the ground.
He looked up.
From the trees, a figure stepped forward.
Calm. Fluid. Unhurried.
Bald. Tanned. A scar traced down from his brow to his cheek. His left shoulder was reinforced with hardened leather, the rest of his gear was lightweight—tight-fitting black cloth, a sash of red. At his hip, a scimitar. Wide-bladed. Heavy. Blood already drying along its edge.
The man moved like a hunter. Quiet, efficient. No wasted steps.
He studied Reivo. Smiled under the red scarf.
"Good reflexes, kid," he said. His voice was smooth, dry, like wind scraping over old bones. "Most don't even see that one coming."
Reivo didn't answer. He stepped forward slowly, blade raised, breath steady.
The man chuckled. Rolled his neck. Crack.
"Oho. Cold. I like that."
He drew the scimitar and spun it once in his hand.
"Guess this might be fun after all."