Chapter 17: Battle

Garrick let out a slow, almost imperceptible sigh, but anyone nearby could feel the air around him thicken.

“You speak like someone who believes what they say,” the veteran replied, his voice deep and controlled. “But I’ve heard that song before… and it usually ends with blood on the ground.”

The leader’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes narrowed.

“It’s up to you,” he said, stepping aside, making room for the men at the rear to advance further. “There are many paths… and only one without pain.”

Caelan took a half step forward, the metal of his sword slicing through the air with a dry sound.

“Strange…” he murmured. “Normally, those who speak of painless paths aren’t surrounding roads with arrows and blades.”

Some of the enemy chuckled softly, that muffled chuckle of someone trying to intimidate. The leader shouted, and silence quickly returned.

“I didn’t come here to waste time,” he said, his tone now harder. “Drop everything… or you’ll learn what it’s like to die slowly.”

Damon felt a shiver run down his spine. A throw seemed heavier, as if it were draining the strength from his arm. He looked at Garrick, waiting for some signal.

He merely shook his veteran head, a gesture almost imperceptible—but one Caelan understood immediately. The younger knight’s fingers grasped the hilt of his sword, and his feet adjusted their stance, ready for the move.

“Last chance…” the leader said, his tone cold now, without a trace of false cordiality.

The wind blew across the road, lifting leaves and spreading a damp scent of wood and earth. Damon felt his own heart pounding in his neck.

Garrick took a step forward.

“So…” he said, raising his sword slowly, as if in no hurry, “…I don’t think we’ll reach an agreement.”

The sound of metal was like a full stop.

Behind the trees, someone let out a sharp whistle.

And the forest exploded into movement.

The whistle repeated—three quick notes—and the shadows fell from the trees.

The first pioneers emerged like human arrows, leaping over roots and rocks, curved blades ready to slice through flesh.

The sound of the forest changed.

It was as if all the air had been sucked into an invisible funnel, only to explode into screams, the clash of metal, and the thunder of footsteps running across the earth.

Garrick lunged at the first enemy before he could complete his leap, his sword slashing so fast that the man didn’t even reach it—he just fell, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Caelan spun to the side, blocking two simultaneous attacks, and responded with a precise counterattack, cutting one down with a diagonal slash that split open armor and ribs.

Damon stood back a few steps, trying to process the chaos. His heart pounded like a hammer, the sound mixing with the metallic clash of swords ahead. He instinctively moved to the side of the wagon, remembering what Garrick had said: “Don’t fall.”

But then one of the enemies saw him.

It was a thin man, his face painted with black stripes, running low like a hunting animal. The curved blade flashed for a moment before lunging. Damon hurriedly retreated, raising his rusty spear almost clumsily, and the sound of metal striking metal echoed, vibrating all the way to his elbow.

The attacker pressed forward, advancing with quick blows, trying to break the makeshift defense. Damon backed away, stumbling over rocks and roots, each step taking a shallow breath. Until he felt something behind him—the rim of the wagon wheel. He was trapped.

The man smiled beneath the painting and raised the blade for a downward thrust. Damon, on a pure instinct, raised the spear and stepped forward, using his enemy’s own advance against him.

The impact was unlike anything he had ever felt.

First came the resistance—the flesh yielding with difficulty—and then the absence of it as the tip pierced through. The man’s eyes widened, a strange sound escaping his mouth, half sigh, half gargle. Damon only realized he was gasping when his hands began to tremble.

He pulled the spear back, and his body fell to the side, weightless, like a sack of grain. Blood was already beginning to drip onto the earth, mingling with the smell of iron that now filled the air.

For a second, Damon heard nothing else.

The sound of battle faded, replaced by a muffled buzzing inside his head. His vision narrowed, as if the world around him had become a tunnel, and the corpse in front of him occupied everything.

His stomach churned. His hand gripped the spear’s shaft so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He felt the crushing weight of it—not an enemy, not a “target”… but a person, breathing for mere seconds.

“DAMON!” Garrick’s voice cut through him like a blade, pulling him back.

He blinked, and the world came rushing back: screams, clashing weapons, running footsteps. Another attacker was already coming toward him, blade ready.

But something was different.

A metallic sound, coming not from outside, but from within, echoed in his mind:

[Trait gained: Battle Focus: Your focus sharpens beneath the chaos. Noises fade away, and your perception fixates on the enemy’s movement.]

The buzzing sound faded.

Damon’s body relaxed, and at the same time, every muscle seemed ready to react. He noticed absurd details: the way the enemy’s foot shifted before striking, the tension in his shoulder that heralded the blade’s movement, even the man’s rapid breathing.

The blow came, and Damon moved before the attack could even begin. A sidestep, the spear spinning in his hand, the tip rising in a swift cut that struck the enemy’s armed arm. The man screamed and recoiled, but Damon gave him no respite. He lunged forward with a sharp thrust, striking the chest.

The second body fell.

This time, there was no hesitation.

The sensation was strange—as if an invisible thread pulled him forward, guiding every step. The confusion of the battle no longer overwhelmed him; instead, it became clear, ordered. He saw where Garrick and Caelan were, where the enemy grouped, and where there was room to move.

A third opponent came from the flank. Damon swung the spear with both hands and struck in a horizontal arc, hitting the man’s legs and knocking him down. Without thinking, he finished with a downward thrust.

He could feel his heart still pounding, but it wasn’t fear now. It was something colder, almost calculated.

“That’s it! Keep it up!” Caelan shouted, cutting down another.

Two archers tried to position themselves in the background, but Damon ran toward them, using the wagon for cover. He leaped aside, the spearhead thrusting forward before the first archer could even draw the string. The second managed to free his arrow, but Damon twisted, feeling the projectile graze his shoulder, and responded with a swift thrust to the man’s stomach.

The battlefield was shifting.

The bandits’ initial siege was breaking—every time Garrick felled one, two others retreated. Caelan advanced like a moving wall, blocking attacks and responding with deadly precision. Damon, now completely immersed, moved between them, slashing and stabbing wherever there were openings.

But then the leader appeared again.

He crossed the distance with steady strides, ignoring the chaos around him. His eyes were fixed on Damon, and there was a spark of surprise—perhaps even respect—to see the boy still standing.

“Interesting…” he said, twirling the blade. “Let’s see how much of that courage is real.”

He advanced quickly. Damon barely had time to raise his spear before the blow came down, so hard it knocked him back two steps. The impact reverberated down his arm.

The leader didn’t stop. He pressed in with a series of rapid strikes, each more precise than the last. Damon backed away, using everything his strange focus gave him to predict the next move.

When the man attempted a diagonal strike, Damon dove to the side and responded with a low thrust, aiming for the thigh. The leader narrowly dodged and counterattacked, the cut missing Damon’s face by inches.

“Good reflexes… but not enough!” he growled.

Before the final blow could land, Garrick appeared from the side, his sword coming down hard. The leader blocked, but the impact knocked him back. Caelan was already closing in on the other side, forcing him back.

The leader took two steps back, twirling the blade slowly, as if savoring the fight. A narrow smile returned to his face.

“Teamwork… impressive,” he said, his voice low, almost like a genuine compliment. “But… not enough.”

The expression changed.

The smile faded, his eyes becoming black slits. He committed himself deeply, and when he exhaled, something invisible, yet heavy as stone, lingered across the field.

The change was immediate.

The sound of battle seemed to vanish. The air, once humid and cool, became thick, as if the forest had decided to crush everyone there. Damon felt his lungs refuse to draw air.

Garrick took a false step, his knee buckling involuntarily. Caelan tried to raise his sword, but his arm trembled as if weighted by an anvil.

Then the feeling came.

It wasn’t just fear.

It was a brutal, almost instinctive certainty that any movement would result in immediate death. The body recognized it even before the mind processed it: the ultimate predator stood before them.

“Do you feel that?” the leader said, his voice deepening, as if coming from inside their heads. “That’s how you separate hunters from prey.”

Damon fell to his knees, the spear slipping from his hand. His heart was beating so fast it felt like it was about to rip through his chest, yet at the same time each beat was muffled, distant. His vision began to blur at the edges.

Garrick was on one knee, his teeth clenched, as if he could resist by sheer force of will. But even he was trembling. His normally impassive face now showed visible strain.

Caelan coughed, the sound harsh, gasping for air. “What the… hell… is this…”

The leader didn’t answer. He just took a step forward.

And, as if each step were an invisible hammer, the weight on them increased.

The ground heaved as Damon’s hands seemed to tremble. He struggled to move, but it was as if invisible chains held him down, suffocating every muscle. His thoughts were being crushed along with his body. Battle Focus was still there, trying to organize the chaos, but it was like trying to maintain calm at the bottom of the ocean, with no air, tons of water above.

The leader tilted his head, pointing directly at Damon.

“You… have eyes that have seen death,” he said, almost curiously. “Let’s see if it stays that way when it’s yours.”

His hand began to move the blade upward, slowly, and every inch the sword rose seemed to draw more of Damon’s strength away.

The air was thin.

Oh, the sound, distant.

And for an instant, Damon was absolutely certain: I’m going to die here.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep