Silence felt more threatening than any scream.
The wind had stopped. In the distance, flames from the destroyed carriage crackled softly—the only sound left on the road now surrounded by black-robed figures. They stood perfectly still, forming a precise circle, as though every step had been calculated from the very beginning.
Taron stood behind the guards' formation, his breathing steady yet alert. His gaze swept across the enemies one by one. There were far more of them than he had expected—and more disturbing still, not a single one looked nervous.
Both sides remained motionless, staring each other down. No one dared to move first. No one wanted to become the spark that would ignite the bloodshed.
The silence was suffocating. Even the air itself seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for one simple command to turn everything into hell.
Then, a voice broke through.
Calm. Deep. Far too familiar.
"How interesting," the voice said.
It didn't come from the ring of soldiers ahead.
It came from the side—slightly elevated, as if its owner had deliberately chosen his position.
Armand froze. The blood in his veins seemed to turn cold.
"…Impossible," he murmured.
From between the shadows of the trees, a man stepped forward. His black cloak was different—neater, cleaner. His hood was not fully drawn, revealing facial features Armand knew far too well.
Two black-robed figures then moved out from the formation. Their steps were calm, without hesitation. Slowly, both raised their hands and pulled back their hoods.
The faces that emerged from the shadows made Armand go rigid.
"Lucien!" Armand shouted, his voice breaking between fury and disbelief.
The man smiled faintly—a sly, controlled smile that was far too familiar.
"Hello, dear brother," he said casually. "I've been looking for you everywhere for almost a week now. Where have you been hiding?"
His tone was light, as if they were simply catching up, not standing in the middle of a deadly encirclement.
A wave of shock rippled through the soldiers. Whispers spread through the ranks. No one had expected the mastermind behind all this to be a noble of Halvaria himself.
Lyanna froze. Her eyes widened, her breath caught in her throat.
Uncle?
The realization struck harder than any spell.
The one who had planned her abduction… was her own blood.
Taron stepped half a pace forward, placing himself directly in front of Armand. He didn't fully understand what was happening—politics, betrayal, the tangled past of House Halvaria.
But one thing was perfectly clear.
The man before them was the enemy.
And whoever stood behind him was someone Taron had to protect.
"Enough with the theatrics, Lucien!" Armand snapped. "Tell me right now—what is this about? Or was it you who planned my daughter's kidnapping?"
"Do you know the difference between us, brother?" Lucien replied calmly. "You fight to protect."
He shrugged.
"I fight to decide who deserves to live longer."
His eyes narrowed.
"And honestly… I haven't decided when you'll die yet."
"What did you say?!" Armand roared. "Have you lost your mind, Lucien?!"
His fists clenched tightly.
"How dare you let such poison spill from your own mouth!"
"You're mistaken if you think this concerns only me, brother," Lucien said evenly. He turned to the figure beside him. "Many parties desire your daughter's blood. Pure blood like hers always attracts the cruelest of people."
Armand and the others fell silent. Lyanna never imagined such a threat would come from her own uncle.
The air grew heavy, as if time itself had slowed. The tension had not yet exploded. The overwhelming number of enemies forced Armand to restrain himself—not out of fear, but because a single mistake could prove fatal.
In the midst of that suffocating silence, Lucien's gaze shifted to Taron, who stood firmly in front of Armand.
"Hahaha… Brother, is your kingdom truly so lacking in talent that you had to rely on a child like this?" Lucien laughed, his voice cold with mockery as he pointed toward Taron.
Armand glanced at Taron, his expression calm, but his eyes sharp, tracking every movement of the boy.
"As always, Taron… you show remarkable composure," Armand thought, a faint smile touching his lips.
"I'm glad… and I know that with you here, Lyanna and I are safe."
Lyanna had finished healing the merchant and left him resting. She straightened up and walked toward her father with steady steps, ready to face whatever came next.
On the other side, a heavyset man—the enemy commander—raised his hand, signaling the attack.
From Armand's side, the guards tightened their grips on their swords, breaths held, bodies tense, ready to meet the first strike.
The silence tightened.
Every second felt like waiting for an explosion. Lyanna's eyes searched her father's face for direction, while Armand remained calm, his body coiled and ready to move. The battle seemed to await a single signal, and the tension was thick enough to taste.
The heavyset man lowered his hand, signaling his forces to advance.
As if they had been waiting for that command, their footsteps thundered against the ground—synchronized, threatening.
Armand's guards braced themselves, gripping their swords tightly, breathing steady but strained. No one stepped back.
The assault began.
The enemy charged wildly, trying to break through Armand's defensive line. Dust rose into the air, steel clashed against steel, and the scent of violence filled the road.
Taron tore off his long jacket and let it fall to the ground.
The gesture was simple—but the message was clear.
He was ready.
With his body unrestrained, every muscle tightened, prepared to block, strike, and endure with everything he had.
No matter how solid Armand's formation was, it eventually cracked. The black-robed fighters surged forward, targeting Taron and Armand.
Taron planted his stance—so did Armand.
Two enemies attacked Taron at once.
He slipped past several sword swings, moving sharply through the storm of blows.
Then he countered.
His fist slammed into one attacker's face, sending the man stumbling. Taron spun, lifted his leg, and drove a kick straight into the other opponent's jaw.
Both enemies were hurled away, kicking up dust and cries from their ranks.
Pain flared in Taron's left arm—one blade had nearly sliced him.
He realized it immediately.
This fight had only just begun.
Elsewhere, Armand and Lyanna faced five black-robed attackers rushing them. Armand's sword danced, deflecting strikes with precision, while Lyanna unleashed waves of magic to hold the enemy back. Their combined assault dropped all five one by one.
Still, the battlefield raged on.
Clashing blades, shouted commands, and magic filled the air. Slowly, both sides began to wear down. Casualties mounted on both ends, making it clear this battle spared no one.
Zerik moved closer to Armand, taking a quick breath as he stared at Lucien's seemingly endless troops.
"Sir, we're down to just a few men. What's the next move?"
Armand clenched his jaw.
"Damn it… what choice do we have?" he muttered, frustration slipping through.
Then an idea struck.
He turned sharply toward Taron, his eyes intense—but filled with trust.
"Taron… get ready. We're going to do something that might give us a chance."
He fixed Taron with a serious stare.
"Listen carefully. We're running out of soldiers. If we want any hope… you'll have to move fast."
Taron frowned.
"What do you mean, Uncle?"
Armand lowered his voice.
"I want you to break through and take out my brother—and that fat man. Understood?"
Taron hesitated.
"…Alright. But what about you and Lyanna?"
"Don't worry. Zerik's here," Armand replied shortly, his eyes never leaving the battlefield.
Taron gave a small nod.
Without wasting time, he pulled off his gi top and removed the weighted gear strapped to his body. His gloves and boots followed, dropping to the ground one by one.
"Alright, Uncle," he said, drawing in a deep breath.
"I'll try."
Taron launched forward at incredible speed.
Every step and every strike carried raw power, forcing even the strongest enemies to struggle keeping up.
His first targets were the soldiers overwhelming Armand's men. With swift movements, he tore through them, sending several flying across the battlefield.
"Uncle, I'll handle these! Please help the others!" Taron shouted toward Armand's guards.
One guard nodded firmly and slapped Taron's shoulder.
"Thank you, Taron. I'll back up the rest," he said before sprinting into the fray.
Taron refocused.
His hands and feet moved in perfect rhythm, clearing obstacles one by one as he surged closer to Lucien and the heavyset commander.
The distance between Taron and Lucien rapidly shrank.
With sharp focus, Taron crushed every enemy who tried to stop him. Punches and kicks flowed without pause, sending opponents tumbling aside or staggering backward while Taron pressed forward relentlessly.
Lucien noticed Taron's advance. His eyes narrowed, a faint smile touching his lips.
"So this is the boy they trust…" he murmured.
Yet Lucien and the heavyset man remained calm, as though they had been expecting this. Their posture suggested a plan already in motion—every movement measured, prepared for Taron's charge.
The last soldier blocking Taron finally fell.
Black-robed bodies littered the ground behind him, some still struggling to rise, gasping for breath.
Taron's breathing grew heavier.
His left arm still burned from the earlier slash. Warm blood slowly seeped from the shallow wound. Not deep… but enough to remind him this wasn't training.
This was real war.
He glanced back briefly.
Armand's forces were beginning to regain ground. Zerik still stood firm, his sword soaked in blood. Lyanna kept her distance, her magic supporting the wounded. Armand himself moved like a storm, cutting through enemies without hesitation.
Good. They're still alive.
Taron turned his focus forward again.
Lucien stood there.
Calm.
Untouched by dust.
Unhurried.
That faint smile still on his face, as if everything unfolding was nothing more than a small game.
"So this is the boy you've placed your faith in, brother?" Lucien murmured softly.
Then Lucien's gaze shifted.
To Taron.
Cold.
Evaluating.
Measuring.
Taron clenched his fists.
He took a step forward.
But before the distance could close—
BOOM!
The ground shook.
A massive figure landed directly in front of him.
Dust exploded into the air.
A towering man blocked his path. Broad shoulders. Arms as thick as tree trunks. In his hands was a massive war hammer, its iron head reflecting the firelight from the burning carriage in the distance.
The man grinned.
Not a smile.
More like the expression of someone who had been waiting a long time to destroy something.
"My name is Gomah," he said in a heavy voice.
He spun the hammer once.
The air split.
"I'll be the one to stop you here, kid."
Taron lowered his center of gravity.
He set his stance.
Drew in a deep breath.
His body was tired. His arm was wounded.
But his eyes remained sharp.
Behind him stood Armand.
Lyanna.
People who trusted him.
If he fell here—
everything would end.
Taron slowly raised both hands.
"Come on," he said calmly.
A warrior's resolve burned in his chest.
"Let's see who falls first."
Will Taron's courage and speed carry him through this battle—
or will blood and exhaustion claim victory before Lucien ever lifts a hand?