The trees parted in a wide arc as Genkil and Celeste broke into the clearing, boots thudding against packed soil as they pushed themselves through the last stretch. Behind them, Padrin was closing in. But just before he could reach them, they passed the final row of trees—and stepped into a broad, open expanse.
Padrin stopped at the tree line.
His eyes narrowed.
The clearing was roughly fifty meters across, shaped like a natural bowl with steep earth rises on two sides and tall grass forming the edges. At the center was a small stone ruin—old, half-collapsed, probably once a watch post from a forgotten age. Leaned against the stone or crouched in the grass were at least fifteen people. Armed. Outlaws.
They weren't caught off guard. If anything, they had been waiting.
As Genkil and Celeste stumbled in, one of the men near the ruin pushed off from the wall and stepped forward. He was tall, lean, with darker skin and sharp eyes that missed nothing. A longsword rested at his hip, and a battered steel pauldron covered one shoulder.
"Genkil, Celeste," he barked, eyes darting behind them. "What happened? Why are you back so fast? Where are the others?"
Genkil slowed, hands on his knees, panting. "It was a trap. The whole thing. Adventurers disguised as merchants. The others… they're probably gone. We barely escaped."
Celeste didn't say anything. Her eyes flicked back to the tree line.
"He was chasing us," Genkil added, pointing. "That one. He beat Grol with just one kick."
The tall man's eyes shifted. He locked onto Padrin immediately. He studied the way he stood at the edge of the trees, unmoving, like a statue—relaxed posture, but that same deadly calm as a coiled viper.
"He came alone," Genkil added. "Must've broken off from his team. Tried to finish us first."
The leader didn't hesitate. "Then let's finish him before it gets messy."
He raised his hand.
Archers nocked arrows and fired without waiting for another command.
Thwip—thwip—thwip!
Padrin shifted to the side, smooth and economical. The arrows split the air where he had just been. He didn't roll. Didn't leap. Just a few precise steps.
The next moment, the melee fighters were rushing him. Six of them. Axes, swords, short spears. The ground thundered with their charge.
Padrin didn't move until they were nearly upon him. Then—
He stepped forward.
The first attacker, a man with a thick beard and a two-handed axe, swung in a wide horizontal arc. It would've cleaved through a slower man.
But Padrin didn't meet him with steel.
He closed the distance.
Before the axe could gather momentum, Padrin was already inside its arc. His body twisted, one hand grabbing the man's wrist, the other slamming his blade forward. It sank into the man's gut with a wet crunch, stealing his breath—and the axe's swing died mid-air.
Padrin yanked the man forward, dragging him into the next move.
But then a fireball erupted from somewhere deeper in the clearing.
Padrin didn't hesitate. He pivoted, lifting the dying axe-man's body by the collar and hurling him into the path of the incoming spell.
The fireball struck with a violent blast.
Flames engulfed the corpse, the concussive wave forcing Padrin to slide back a half-step. The heat washed over him, licking at his armor, but he didn't flinch.
Another set of fireballs came next—three this time, smaller but faster.
Padrin's eyes snapped to them. No time to dodge.
He threw the burning corpse toward them.
It crashed mid-air into the second fireball, absorbing the explosion. The rest struck the falling remains, scattering heat and smoke across the clearing.
And that's when the second wave of arrows came.
This time, it wasn't three—it was seven.
Padrin spun, parried two with the flat of his blade, ducked a third—but he wasn't invincible.
One arrow struck him in the thigh, the force enough to stagger him.
He gritted his teeth, catching himself on one knee.
The pain flashed white-hot, but he shoved it aside.
A swordsman came from behind, hoping to capitalize.
He charged, weapon raised high, ready to split Padrin in two.
But Padrin saw him.
He rose into a full-body twist, his blade arcing in a clean circle mid-turn.
The edge caught the attacker's side, slicing through cloth, armor, and bone.
The man gasped and collapsed mid-swing, his momentum gone before he hit the ground.
Padrin backed up three paces, regaining his stance, eyes locked ahead. Blood seeped from the arrow wound, but he showed no sign of weakness.
The tall outlaw leader narrowed his eyes.
"Tsk… He's better than I thought," he muttered, hand tightening on his sword. "But push. Only a little bit more, and we'll get him."
More footfalls.
More shapes moving through the clearing, circling him.
But Padrin didn't retreat.
He planted his foot, wiped the blood from his blade, and exhaled calmly.
The first came in from his left, his sword raised in a horizontal slash aimed at Padrin's ribs. The second came from the right, blade low and fast, ready to slice across Padrin's leg.
Padrin stepped back—just far enough for the first strike to miss by inches—then shifted his weight to meet the second attacker. His sword snapped up, parrying the low strike with an almost lazy flick of the wrist.
But the genius of it came in the follow-through. Padrin redirected the second man's strike just enough that, when the first attacker came in with his follow-up slash, the redirected blade tangled with it mid-air.
Both men faltered, confused.
In a blink, Padrin stepped in. His sword darted forward like a snake, piercing the second man in the chest just under the collarbone. The attacker gasped, the wind leaving him.
Padrin threw him.
With one hard push, he launched the dying man into his ally, knocking them both backward. The two crashed in a heap of limbs and clattering steel.
But Padrin's moment of dominance didn't last.
A sharp sting hit his right arm, and he turned his head just in time to see another arrow bury itself deep into the flesh above his elbow.
He grunted, gritting his teeth. His fingers trembled slightly, the shock of the hit running down to his wrist.
Before he could recover, a spearman charged from the side.
Padrin saw him coming and pivoted, using his sword to deflect the incoming thrust. The blade scraped against the spearhead, shifting it just enough. But the angle wasn't clean. The tip of the spear grazed across his side, slicing through cloth and skin.
Blood bloomed along his ribs.
Still, he stood. He moved to counter—but the ground beneath him shook.
He instinctively jumped, and just in time. Spikes of earth erupted from where he'd been standing, jagged and sharp, designed to impale.
His body twisted mid-air, his legs already preparing to land—
But he felt movement behind him. It was Celeste.
He turned, swinging the back of his blade without looking. He didn't want to kill her. He couldn't.
But she ducked under it.
She moved like wind over water—low, fast, precise. Her blade flashed and sank into his back just between the plates of armor. A shallow hit, but clean.
Padrin gasped, his legs shaking.
Pain pulsed, but it wasn't just the wound. It was his heart.
A strange beat thundered through his chest, far too loud. His knees buckled.
Celeste straightened behind him, the dagger still dripping. Her amber eyes were calm now, confident.
"It was poisoned," she said softly. "You won't be able to move. It's over for you."
Padrin hit the ground hard, one knee first, then the other. His hand pressed to the soil, blade limp at his side.
But he raised his head. His voice was low, ragged. "Celeste… I've been trying to find you."
Her face twisted. She stepped back, visibly shaken. "What…?" Her voice cracked. "How do you know me?"
Blood ran from his mouth now. His breath shallow. Still, he tried to rise.
"How can you move…?" she whispered. "No one can fight through that poison…"
But before Padrin could respond any further, another voice pierced the air.
"Celeste!" someone screamed. And a sheet of ice raced across the ground, forming under Padrin's knees and snaking around his limbs. It wrapped around his legs, then his arms—locking him down.
Padrin groaned, fighting it, but his muscles were failing him.
Then Genkil stepped forward, sword raised high.
He ran at the kneeling warrior, rage in his eyes. "Die!" he shouted.
But just before the blade came down, the air howled.
A streak of red light tore through the clearing.
It wasn't just flame—it was compressed heat, a whip of fire shaped like a blade, slicing through the air in a straight arc.
The firewave hit Genkil clean.
His scream echoed through the clearing as his arm was severed, the sword flying from his grip. The flames didn't stop there—they carved across his torso in a deep diagonal slash that sent him flying back into the dirt. Smoke rose from his charred cloak, and he didn't move.
"Genkil!!" Celeste screamed.
She ran a step toward him, then stopped, breathing hard, her blade shaking in her hand.
One of the other outlaws grabbed her by the shoulder. "Celeste! Don't!"
He yanked her back. "He was trying to buy time. He succeeded. Don't let your emotions control you."
Everyone turned to look toward the source of the flame.
Bral stood at the edge of the clearing, his sword held over his shoulder, the blade still steaming.
And behind Bral was Tireuz catching up his breath.