Chapter 67: Chapter 67: Black Fang Bandits, Blood Fang Bandits (part 3)

But… they’re not as strong as Vayne.

Vayne was superior. Faster. More refined in combat.

Roderic and the scarred bandit exchanged a heavy blow that forced both of them to slide back several steps. The ground beneath them cracked slightly from the pressure.

They’re strong… but not monsters.

Still, Aiden’s expression didn’t relax.

If he were to send his four Bronze-grade undead against the six Body Tempering practitioners of the Dustwind Clan.

It would be disastrous.

Vayne could hold his ground.

But the other three?

They would be torn apart within a minute.

And reviving destroyed Bronze-grade undead wasn’t cheap.

His mana reserves would drain rapidly. In a prolonged fight against six practitioners and over a hundred warriors, he would exhaust himself before finishing them.

That would be suicide.

Below, one Dustwind practitioner misjudged a step.

A Black Fang fighter seized the opening and slashed across his shoulder. Blood sprayed. The man staggered, barely managing to block the follow-up strike.

Aiden’s eyes sharpened slightly.

There it is.

Openings.

Fatigue.

Even evenly matched fights eventually tilt.

Roderic roared and drove his opponent back with a powerful downward strike. The scarred bandit barely raised his blade in time. The impact forced him to one knee.

But before Roderic could press further, another Blood Fang practitioner rushed in, forcing him to retreat a step to avoid being flanked.

The battlefield grew more chaotic by the second. Dust thickened. The cries of wounded men became more frequent.

Aiden remained perfectly still in the tree.

If one Body Tempering practitioner falls…

Just one.

That would shift everything.

His fingers tightened slightly against the bark as he watched the twelve figures at the center of the storm.

The battle at the front gate dragged on.

Steel clashed. Men shouted. The ground was already stained red in patches where bodies had fallen. Neither side was backing down.

But what the Dustwind Clan didn’t know.

This attack was never just about the front gate.

On the far eastern side of town, near the outer wall where the grain and dried meat were stored, a quieter operation was unfolding.

The food storage buildings were large, low structures made of thick wood and reinforced stone. Guards stood watch outside, tense but focused on the sounds of battle coming from the western gate.

They didn’t expect trouble here.

A faint scraping sound came from the outer wall behind the storage yard.

A brick shifted.

Then another.

Carefully, deliberately, a section of the wall was loosened enough to create a narrow opening, just wide enough for a man to slip through.

One by one, dark figures crawled into the yard.

Blood Fang and Black Fang bandits.

Their movements were swift and disciplined.

“This is the place,” one of them whispered.

“Move fast.”

Two guards noticed the movement too late.

“Hey—who’s there?!” one shouted, raising his spear.

A shadow stepped forward.

Not dressed like the others.

He wore plain traveling clothes, no banner, no symbol. A long blade rested in his hand. His presence alone felt heavier than the rest.

The guards stiffened.

This guy was a Body Tempering.

He moved without hesitation. One step, and one swing.

The first guard’s spear split in half along with his chest armor. The second barely had time to cry out before a fist struck his throat, crushing it with a sickening crack.

The lone practitioner wiped a drop of blood from his cheek.

“Hurry,” he said coldly. “We don’t have much time.”

He wasn’t part of Blood Fang or Black Fang. He had been hired.

Coin had no loyalty.

The bandits immediately began hauling sacks of grain and dried meat toward the hole in the wall. Others broke open crates, tossing smaller goods into waiting hands outside.

Within minutes, a significant portion of the supplies had vanished through the breach.

Then the hired practitioner looked toward the stacked barrels of oil stored near the corner.

“Burn it.”

One bandit hesitated. “Won’t that draw attention?”

“That’s the point.”

Torches were lit.

Oil was smashed across the wooden beams.

Flames caught quickly.

Too quickly.

The dry wood and stored grain fed the fire hungrily. Thick smoke began to rise into the sky.

By the time the nearest patrol noticed the smoke and started shouting, the raiding group had already slipped back through the hole.

The lone practitioner was the last to leave.

He glanced once at the growing flames, expression unreadable.

Then he disappeared through the breach as well.

—-

Back at the front gate, the fight had reached its peak.

Roderic locked blades once more with the scarred Blood Fang leader. Both men were breathing heavily now, sweat and blood mixing across their faces.

“You’re slowing down,” the bandit mocked through gritted teeth.

Roderic shoved him back. “You talk too much.”

Before they could clash again, a Dustwind guard sprinted across the battlefield, dodging between fighters.

“My lord!” he shouted desperately.

Roderic blocked another strike and kicked his opponent away just long enough to glance at the guard.

“What is it?!”

“The storage—!” The guard was gasping for breath. “The food supplies—they’ve been breached! There’s fire! We can’t contain it!”

For a split second.

Roderic’s expression changed.

“What?”

“They broke through the wall! Supplies are being stolen—half the building is already burning!”

The scarred bandit let out a loud laugh.

“Did you really think we came just to smash our heads against your gates?”

Roderic’s grip tightened around his blade.

“You—”

Another explosion of flame rose in the distance, visible even from the battlefield. A column of black smoke climbed into the sky behind the town walls.

Too late.

Even if he sent men now, the damage was done.

The bandits had never intended to win this fight outright.

They had intended to distract him.

Roderic’s jaw clenched so tightly a vein bulged along his temple.

“Retreat!” the Black Fang leader suddenly shouted from the side. “We’ve got what we came for!”

The bandits began pulling back in a coordinated withdrawal.

Not fleeing blindly.

Retreating with purpose.

Roderic took a step forward as if to chase, but another shout came from behind him.

“My lord! The fire is spreading!”

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