"Neighhh!"
"Easy now, my boy, easy…" muttered the coachman, voice low as his hands clenched around the reins. The startled horse reared with a violent jolt, hooves kicking up dirt and loose stones.
The powerful beast let out a loud snort, its hooves clattering against the dirt road before it gradually settled down. Above, sunlight filtered through a thick canopy of leaves, casting fragmented beams of golden light along the winding forest trail. The air hung heavy with moisture, rich with the scent of wet earth and sap—lush, green, and deceptively peaceful.
Five merchant wagons crept along the path, wheels groaning under crates of refined ore, bundles of dried herbs, and rolls of silks from the southern isles. Around them moved a dozen guards in light armor, each armed with a mix of swords, sabers, and spears.
Their cultivation wasn't impressive—most sat at the early stage of the Body Forging Realm—but it was more than enough for common beasts and roadside bandits.
After all, while the Body Forging Realm barely registered within a major sect like the Wandering Sword Sect, to merchants and mortals, an escort like this was premium protection.
Or at least, it should have been.
Inside the second wagon, a young woman sat behind a curtain drawn half-closed. Her posture remained composed, but a flicker of tension sparked in her blue eyes as she peered through a narrow gap in the wooden paneling.
"We should've reached Crossvale by now…" she murmured, brushing a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "Why are we still in the forest?"
No one responded—but the deepening quiet outside said more than enough.
The wagon wheels creaked as they bumped across uneven terrain. Up ahead, one of the lead guards raised a hand, bringing the caravan to a cautious slowdown. The other guards exchanged wary glances, instinctively drawing closer together as their hands inched toward their weapons.
"Hold," someone muttered. "Something's wrong."
The coachman frowned as he scanned the underbrush, his throat suddenly dry. The forest had gone still. The birds had stopped chirping. Even the insects had fallen silent.
Then—movement.
It started as a flicker of motion. A shadow slipping between branches.
Then another.
And another.
Figures began to emerge from the forest one by one, silent and coordinated, spreading out across the undergrowth with lethal intent. They advanced from every direction, surrounding the caravan with the patience and precision of wolves circling cornered prey. No battle cries rang out. No loud threats. Just the steady crunch of boots against soil, and the occasional hiss of blades sliding free of their scabbards.
In less than a minute, the caravan was surrounded.
More than thirty figures stood among the trees, loosely spaced but covering every exit. Their armor was mismatched—some plates rusted, others crudely repainted—but it was functional. Bloodstains and rough symbols marked their gear, and yet, their posture betrayed neither desperation nor disarray.
They moved with intention.
With restraint.
With training.
A chill tightened the air as the reality of the situation settled in.
The guards reacted quickly, weapons drawn as they formed a defensive ring around the wagons. Their faces shifted—what started as suspicion now twisted into grim understanding.
"These aren't jurs random bandits," one muttered, scanning the treeline.
It wasn't just their numbers or their formation. Almost all of them exuded the presence of mid-stage Body Forging cultivators. And a few—just by the way they held themself—had clearly survived more than bar brawls an d street skirmishes.
Still, the attackers didn't move.
They just waited
Then, the forest stirred again.
A man stepped into view.
Broad-shouldered, calm, and terrifyingly sure of himself. A black chestplate clung to his torso over faded crimson robes, worn like he didn't care if it was clean or ceremonial. A ragged scar sliced across his jaw. A spiked mace rested lazily on one shoulder as if it weighed less than a sack of flour.
Late Body Forging Realm.
But not the cultivated kind honed over years of quiet training—this man's strength reeked of blood, of violence, of lives taken rather than challenges overcome. His aura was oppressive, born of countless skirmishes where survival had trumped technique.
He surveyed the caravan with slow calculation. His gaze stopped at the second carriage.
Then came a grin, wolfish and knowing.
"Quite the escort for a merchant caravan. It's almost like you're hiding someone valuable inside... maybe a young lady from the Vale Noble House?" His voice was rough, like gravel dragged through iron.
One of the older guards cursed under his breath. "Damn it... they know about the young lady."
Another tightened his grip on his spear, knuckles whitening as he glanced around the encirclement.
"They've boxed us in…" one whispered. "Shit. We're fully encircled."
Inside the second leading carriage, the young woman pushed aside the curtain with trembling fingers, just enough to peek through. Her blue eyes widened as they swept across the forest.
"So this wasn't a random ambush," she murmured, voice barely holding steady. "They were waiting for us."
She wanted to stay composed, but her hands were already shaking. The sight of dozens of bandits—and the knowledge of what fate often awaited a woman like her in their hands—sent a cold spike of fear down her spine.
'If they capture me… I'll be defiled by those beasts.'
Her entire body tensed as horror surged through her. Then, her eyes dropped to the dagger strapped to her hip.
Her hand reached for it, slow but steady, and a flicker of resolve flashed in her gaze.
Outside, the air was thick with tension. The guards did their best to hold a defensive formation around the wagons, but the bandits, with their overwhelming numbers and superior positioning, continued tightening the noose. The encirclement closed to the point where escape was no longer a realistic option.
Seeing this, the guards' expressions darkened even further. The weight of their situation had finally settled in—they were trapped, with little hope of reinforcement or retreat.
Both sides stood in uneasy silence, locked in a tense standoff that stretched for a few agonizing seconds.
Then, the bandit leader stepped forward. His voice broke the stillness like a war drum echoing through the forest.
"Caravan!" he called out, voice booming with confidence. "We don't want unnecessary bloodshed. You're outnumbered, outmatched, and already surrounded. Surrender now, and no one dies. Resist—" he let the word hang "—and we'll see how many limbs you can lose before you start begging."
His words spread through the clearing like ripples on a still pond. The guards knew the truth in them. Their stance was shaky, their formation rushed. And though loyalty to the Vale Noble House burned in some of them, even that flame flickered when faced with death.
'Loyalty sounds noble until you're staring down a blade.'
That was the unspoken thought haunting many of the guards—and it showed clearly in their eyes.
One of the older guards noticed it. His jaw clenched, and he suddenly stepped forward, voice rising above the uncertain murmurs.
"Don't let him deceive you!" he shouted. "If you surrender to these bastards, you'll be dead before the sun sets!"
He turned, meeting the eyes of every man and woman beside him.
"Do you really think these bandits will let you walk away once you're defenseless? Do you want to gamble your fate on their mercy—or will you fight to live?" he roared.
His speech sent a jolt through the ranks. For some, it stirred a fire in their chests, their grip tightening around their weapons as adrenaline kicked in. For others, it changed nothing. The cold logic of death still loomed, and the idea of resisting seemed no better than suicide.
The bandit leader, watching the guards waver, stepped forward once more. His tone shifted—less threatening now, more calculated.
"I give you my word," he said, voice steady, "if you surrender, you won't be harmed. Killing you earns me nothing. But if you resist, I will have you butchered. Don't mistake my offer as weakness—I simply prefer to preserve my men's lives."
His gaze swept across the guards, lingering just long enough on each face to make his threat feel personal.
"So make your choice—and make it fast."
Temptation crept into the guards' expressions. The bandit's logic was sound. If surrender meant survival, wasn't that worth the price? Who in their right mind would throw their life away over a lost cause?
But not all shared that mindset.
A young guard, barely older than twenty, stepped forward with burning eyes. He couldn't contain the fire in his chest.
"Are we seriously going to bow our heads to a pack of filthy bandits? The Vale House helped every one of us—we owe them more than this!" he shouted. "Even if we die, at least we'll—!"
Schlik!
The young man stopped mid-sentence—not by choice, but because a spear had just pierced through his throat.
Swish.
The weapon slid free in one swift motion. A gurgled mix of pain and fear escaped his lips as he clawed for air, but the wound made breathing impossible.
Thud.
The young man collapsed in a widening pool of blood. His body twitched once, then stilled. Standing behind him, holding the bloodied spear, was another guard.
He looked completely at ease.
There was no remorse in his eyes, no hesitation in his stance. His grip on the weapon was casual, as if what he'd just done hadn't been the cold-blooded murder of a comrade.
For a moment, the forest held its breath. The other guards were frozen in place, unable to process what they'd just witnessed. Then their rage exploded.
"Varos, you bastard! You killed Wei Feng!"
All eyes locked onto Varos, filled with fury. If there was one thing universally hated, it was a traitor.
"I'm gonna kill you! You killed my brother!" one of the younger guards roared, breaking into a sprint toward Varos, who had already backed away from the caravan and edged closer to the bandits.
Fortunately, another guards grabbed him before he could throw his life away.
"Let me kill this bastard!" he shouted, struggling, but it was no use. Multiple guards held him down, rendering his resistance meaningless.
Though they shared his anger, the others knew better than to charge in. Varos was now too close to the bandits. Making a move would only shatter their defensive formation and give the enemy a clean opening to massacre them.
As much as it pained them, letting Varos go was the rational choice.
Still, the fire of hatred burned inside them. They could only hope the bandits would show no mercy to the man who had just betrayed his comrades to save his own skin.
But to their shock, the bandits didn't even raise a weapon. As Varos approached, they allowed him to walk straight through their ranks without resistance.
He moved until he stood at the bandit leader's side.
"Good job as always, Varos." The leader's voice rumbled through the quiet forest. "Your infiltration was impeccable. Same with the information you gave us."
Varos smirked and rubbed his hands together. "No worries, boss. You know I love this part of the job—seeing those despair-filled expressions and that helpless rage when they realize they've been betrayed…"
His voice turned gleeful as he added with a perverse grin, "It's the best."
"What?!"
The guards stood in stunned disbelief. From their conversation, it was clear—Varos hadn't just betrayed them in desperation. He was the very reason the bandits had known where to strike.
He was the one who had led them into this ambush.
"VAROS! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS!? AFTER EVERYTHING THE NOBLE HOUSE OF VALE DID FOR YOU? THEY'RE THE REASON YOU EVEN REACHED THE MID STAGE OF THE BODY FORGING REALM!"
Varos chuckled. It wasn't a nervous laugh or one born of guilt—it was amused, mocking, twisted. Paired with the perverse grin stretched across his face, it made for a truly revolting sight.
"I know, I know. The noble House of Vale is so generous," he said with mock sincerity. "They gave me all those resources... just so I could betray them." He sighed and shook his head in exaggerated regret. "Truly kind souls."
His words poured gasoline over the guards' anger. As their fury boiled over, Varos's grin only widened, feeding off their outrage like it was the sweetest reward.
Author Note:
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