Mikael's casual pace brought him within two steps of the closest bandit—and then it happened.
Flash.
His black longsword blurred through the air. The nearest bandit froze for a heartbeat—expression still twisted with scorn—before his head was sent flying, a crimson arc trailing behind. Blood sprayed from his neck as his lifeless body crumpled to the ground.
He hadn't even registered what killed him.
The clearing fell silent. Shock gripped the others, none of them expecting a random guard to strike without warning, let alone so lethally.
Then the silence cracked.
"This bastard."
"Kill him!"
Chaos exploded. Shouts of rage echoed across the clearing as multiple bandits charged the guard in a frenzied wave, weapons flashing, eyes filled with murderous intent. Killing intent surged toward Mikael like a crashing tide.
More than half a dozen of them rushed at once—each one at least mid-stage Body Forging Realm or higher.
In situations like this, the result should be obvious. One man against many? Even a skilled fighter couldn't beat overwhelming numbers in a case where the two sides have similar strength.
Two hands can't fight four—much less twelve.
And yet… the expected outcome never came.
Instead, what followed was a display of cold, fluid precision. Mikael's body moved with uncanny grace, his footwork weaving through the chaos as if he already knew each attack before it came. With every shift in posture, he controlled the battlefield's tempo.
His longsword flashed, deflecting incoming blows with the minimum force needed. Some he avoided entirely, twisting his body just enough for strikes to pass harmlessly by. Others he redirected with the blade's flat, altering the trajectory of heavier weapons before they could land.
Clank.
One bandit—a burly man wielding a massive spiked mace—charged with a roar. Mikael met the strike head-on, his blade clashing with the mace. But instead of trying to block it, he subtly turned the blade, redirecting the force sideways.
The mace slid harmlessly past him. The bandit stumbled off-balance by the missed impact.
Mikael didn't hesitate.
Swish.
His sword slid through the exposed neck of his opponent with clean, effortless speed. The burly bandit collapsed moments later, gurgling in his own blood.
This marked the second death on the bandits side.
And signalled a shift in the bandits mentality. Earlier they treated this handsome guard as somebody who took advantage of the element of surprise to take down one of their own.
They thought that he would inevitably fall under the onslaught of six fighters of the same realm as him.
But it was clear that this guard wasn't ordinary, he was clearly a master fighter and a master swordsman.
"Fall back!" The leader's voice resounded, with the bandits that were attacking Mikael obeying and distancing themself from him, now treating the handsome guard as a dangerous adversary.
But would Mikael let peacefully escape unscathed after coming from his life?
The response was clear.
Taking advantage of a bandit's momentary distraction as he backed away from him warily. He used his wariness against the bandit to feint him before piercing his heart, killing him on the spot.
"Bastard!" the bandit leader spat upon witnessing the scene. "Alright, change of plans! I want twenty of you to take this fucker down. Don't treat him like a regular mid-stage Body Forging Realm punk—treat him like a peak-stage Body Forging Realm Demonic Beast, and handle him accordingly!"
"Yes, Boss!"
Shouts rang out as twenty of the thirty-six bandits broke formation, moving with practiced synchronization to surround Mikael. Their coordination was tight and deliberate, each step measured with military-like discipline. It became even clearer that this wasn't some loose group of desperate thugs—these men were trained, organized, and efficient.
The bandit leader gave a sharp nod at the sight. 'No matter how skilled he is with a sword, no matter how strong he might be… with this kind of formation, he's doomed. Even a demonic beast at the peak of the Body Forging Realm would fall to them eventually.'
His gaze drifted away from the brewing storm of blades and toward the caravan—specifically to the guards encircling Valerie Vale. Tension clung to their bodies, as if they were moments away from striking, ready to seize the chaos Mikael was causing.
'That won't do. If they move now, I'll lose more men than necessary.'
"Don't even think about it!" he roared, voice cutting through the clamor just as the guards seemed ready to charge. "If any of you lift a finger to help that bastard, I'll have you all slaughtered to the last!"
His words hit like a whip, but he sensed hesitation still lingered—uncertainty in their posture, flickers of defiance in their eyes. So he drove the threat in deeper.
"This fucker," he said, jabbing a finger toward Mikael, who was now engaged in combat with the encircling bandits, "threw himself to his own death. No need to follow him. Especially since I'm still willing to accept your surrender—so long as you don't interfere. But if you do…"
He let out a low, chilling laugh.
"I'll have you butchered. Every last one of you—except the girl. She'll be spared." His grin twisted into something venomous. "She'll have the honor of being passed around by every single one of my men."
He caught the moment Valerie's face froze, her skin turning ghostly pale. The guards tensed as well, fury restrained only by fear. The leader drank in their silence, satisfied.
"So make your choice wisely," he said, voice dipping with finality. Then he turned to the men who had yet to move. "As for the rest of you—keep your eyes on them. If they try anything stupid—whether it's attacking or running—you know what to do."
With that, his orders were clear. The remaining bandits turned their attention to the caravan, watching it with hard eyes and drawn weapons.
Meanwhile, the leader shifted his focus back to the real show—Mikael, now locked in a desperate battle for his life, standing alone against a sea of blades.
Mikael was surrounded by twenty bandits, clashing with them in a display of superhuman capabilities. But the bandits didn't fall short either—they showed physical prowess equal to, or even greater than, his own. The only reason Mikael was still standing was because his battle sense and swordsmanship were leagues above theirs.
But even that wasn't enough. The numerical advantage the bandits held was simply overwhelming. The only silver lining was the limited space around him, which prevented them from attacking all at once.
At most, three to five bandits could engage him directly, with the others unable to join due to lack of room. Still, that didn't mean anything above five was useless—far from it.
Swish.
Sangrelia moved like flowing water, slipping past a bandit's guard and just about to slash his throat—when another bandit struck at Mikael.
Forced to retreat, Mikael moved back—but not without leaving a parting gift.
"ARGHHH!!!"
A scream tore through the air as Mikael's blade carved a deep gash into the man's sword arm, slicing through ligaments and rendering it useless for now.
"Tsk."
Mikael clicked his tongue in annoyance as yet another target had been saved from a fatal wound. To make matters worse, the injured bandit was immediately replaced by a fresh one, while he moved to the back to recover.
Of course, with such an injury, the man wouldn't be returning to the fight anytime soon. But that wasn't always the case, and Mikael had to admit—the strategy they were using was extremely effective.
They always intervened the moment he went for a killing blow, and most of the injuries he inflicted ended up meaningless since the wounded were quickly swapped out for healthy fighters.
Which, obviously, wasn't something he could do.
As he fought, Mikael occasionally took damage himself—whether from a slashing sword, a piercing spear, a crushing mace, or a brutal hammer blow.
All of them had struck him at one point or another. He always managed to reduce the damage through masterful positioning and by deflecting attacks—but even so, the wounds added up. Slowly but surely, he was being worn down.
Meanwhile, as Mikael was 'battling for his life,' Valerie Vale tightened her grip around the knife held to her throat.
Strangely enough, the cold touch of the blade felt reassuring. It was a silent promise—a reminder that if things went too far, she had a way to 'escape' a fate far worse than death.
But at that moment, she didn't care about any of that. Her focus was fixed solely on Mikael. She wanted to help him—not just because he was a temporary guard—essentially a stranger—who was risking his life to protect them, but because this might be their one chance to take back control over their fate and not be at the mercy of the bandit leader's whim.
She parted her lips, ready to order her guards to charge in and assist him, consequences be damned. But no words came out.
Because deep down, she knew what would happen if she gave that order… and they failed
And that outcome—that fate—terrified her more than anything else. Even death seemed merciful by comparison.
'I'm a pathetic coward,' she thought bitterly, her silence gnawing at her. The self-loathing bubbled inside, feeding on her hesitation.
As her thoughts spiraled further into self-hatred, she suddenly flinched. A hand had landed on her shoulder—the older guard.
"Young Lady, are you alright?"
For a second, she didn't understand what prompted the question. Then she realized: in her torment, she had unknowingly pressed the knife harder against her throat, nearly slitting it by accident.
Quickly, she loosened her grip.
The older guard shifted position, now standing with his back to the fight raging between Mikael and the bandits.
He retrieved a small talisman from within his coat. The paper charm began to burn slowly, releasing a faint, ethereal glow.
"I just activated a sound-sealing talisman," he said. "It'll last five minutes. Any sound we make will stay confined to a small radius."
He shot her and the other guards a serious look. "Keep your lips out of the bandits' line of sight while talking. If they notice us speaking without hearing anything even with their enhanced senses, they'll know something's up."
Valerie gave a small nod as she adjusted her stance slightly. The guard's words continued with a low urgency. "With this, our voices won't reach the enemy. We can use it to plan our escape."
Her eyes widened. Escape?
She shifted slightly again, lowering her voice in disbelief. "Escape? And what about him? He's still out there, fighting all of them alone."
The older guard met her gaze and slowly shook his head. "It's regrettable… but he'll have to stay behind to hold them off."
Valerie looked ready to object, but the older guard continued before she could. "I know it's despicable to abandon a comrade, but this is the best option we have. With this plan, twenty of the bandits will be occupied. As for the remaining seventeen…"
He inhaled sharply, then spoke with unwavering resolve. "Some of us will have to hold them off at the cost of our lives, while a smaller contingent focuses on getting the young lady to safety."
"But…" she her voice trembled with hesitation, "if we go through with this, most of the guards will die. Mikael will die. And once the bandits realize we escaped, they'll slaughter everyone working in this caravan."
"I know," he replied grimly. "But it's the best we can do. Your life matters more than all of ours combined, young lady."
'My life is more important?' The words echoed in her mind as the older guard turned away, already organizing the others—assigning roles, preparing the desperate plan to maximize her chances of survival.
Scenes of what might unfold if she stayed played out in her mind like a cruel slideshow. 'My life is more important! I need to escape! Her hands trembled as she tried to steady herself.
Just as she opened her mouth to give the order, something caught her eye.
It was Mikael. Bloodied, but unyielding. His figure stood firm as he fearlessly fought against the approaching horde.
"No, I can't!"
The older guard's eyes flicked toward her without turning his body, careful not to alert the enemy. "What do you mean, young lady?"
Valerie shook her head, strands of her auburn hair whipping around her face. "I won't run. My life isn't more important than anyone else's."
Her eyes swept toward Mikael and then to the terrified workers huddled inside the wagons, watching helplessly from the shadows.
"It's all or nothing. We all survive, or no one does. I won't flee like a coward. I'll stay and fight!" Her voice rang with conviction. "I won't use my status to force you to follow me, you're free to leave if you wish—but I'm staying. I've made my decision."
Her voice rang clear, but the knife in her hand quivered slightly. She was terrified—yet resolute. That made her decision all the more courageous.
Author Note:
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