After Clive's cold statement, "The choice is yours," the entire forest seemed to hold its breath. The dozen bandits fixed their gaze on the young man standing calmly atop the carriage.
Their leader, a large man with a terrible scar slicing through his brow, burst into raucous laughter. His voice was hoarse and gritty, like stones being crushed underfoot.
"Ha! Hear that, boys? This brat's got guts!" he jeered, pointing at Clive with his rusted sword. "Looks like you've got a lot of nerve, kid. But nerve alone won't stop a blade. Are you ready to die so young? Done enjoying this world already?"
Clive didn't respond. He simply stared at the leader with sharp, icy eyes—like a lion calculating the distance to its prey. His silence was far more terrifying than any threat.
The bandit leader, growing annoyed with Clive's stillness, snarled. "I don't have time for this. Drop everything you're carrying and get lost while I'm still kind enough to spare your lives!"
"Don't even dream of it, you bastard!" Barto shouted, his voice trembling not from fear, but fury. He drew a small dagger from his belt. "You'll have to step over my dead body if you want our goods!"
A cruel smile curled on the leader's lips. "So it's the old man who barks the loudest. Fine then." He jerked his chin toward three of his men. "Teach him a lesson. Break an arm—show him what happens when you mouth off."
The three bandits grinned and leapt from their horses, swords drawn, approaching Barto's carriage.
"No!" Barto yelled.
As the first sword swung toward Barto, time seemed to slow for Clive.
The wind howled.
In the blink of an eye—not a metaphor, but quite literally—Clive vanished from the top of the carriage. He reappeared between Barto and the attackers, his body low, like a crouching leopard ready to pounce.
The first bandit, his sword slicing only air, blinked in confusion. Before he could react, Clive's palm struck his jaw with lightning speed. A quiet crack followed—not from bone, but from chattering teeth. The bandit's eyes rolled back and he crumpled, unconscious.
The second bandit thrust his sword. Clive twisted his body, letting the blade pass inches from his ribs. With a graceful spin, he deflected the arm with the back of his hand, then jabbed two fingers into the nerves in the bandit's shoulder. The man screamed as his arm went numb, his weapon clattering to the ground.
The third, the largest of them, roared and slashed horizontally. Clive ducked beneath the swing, sweeping the bandit's ankle with precise force. The man toppled backwards. As he fell, Clive lightly tapped his back to keep his head from striking a rock. Three down in three seconds. Not a single fatal blow.
The remaining bandits—along with their leader—stood frozen in terror. Barto and his two aides stared with jaws slack, unable to believe what they had just witnessed.
"What is he…?" one bandit whispered.
The scar-faced leader finally snapped out of it. His face flushed with rage and humiliation. "What are you waiting for?! He's just one man! All of you—attack! Kill him!"
The remaining nine charged in, driven by both anger and fear. This was no longer a fight—it was a storm of blades from every direction.
Clive sneered. "Come."
What followed was a deadly dance—horrifying, yet beautiful. Clive flowed among them like a ghost. A sword slashed from the right—he let it pass and drove his elbow into the attacker's gut. An axe came down from above—he sidestepped, seized the handle, and used the attacker's momentum to hurl him into two others, knocking them over like pins.
He didn't block with brute force; he redirected, used their own wrists as pivots, made them collide with each other. His strikes were never meant to kill, only to disable—elbows, knees, pressure points in the neck. Every movement efficient, not an ounce of energy wasted. The sounds of clashing swords, pained groans, and collapsing bodies filled the air.
In under a minute, silence returned to the forest. Nine men lay groaning on the ground—injured, but alive.
Only one remained standing—the scar-faced leader. His sword dropped from trembling hands. His legs gave way and he collapsed to the ground, crawling backward, eyes wide in primal fear as Clive calmly walked toward him.
Clive's once-serene expression turned to one as cold as a mountaintop. His eyes radiated bloodlust—a mask he deliberately wore.
"Mister Bandit," Clive said quietly, his voice slicing through the silence like a blade. He crouched before the bandit leader, whose face had gone pale. "Is this all your strength? This level of skill couldn't even frighten a lamb."
"F-forgive me, sir... please spare us…" the man whimpered, all his bravado gone.
Clive smiled—a sweet smile, yet his eyes remained lethal. The leader saw it for what it was: the smile of a cold-blooded killer.
"Be grateful to Mister Barto," Clive whispered. "I'm in a good mood today because he gave me a free ride. Otherwise..." He made a slicing motion across his throat. "...your head would be lying in the mud."
"I swear, sir! We'll never do this again! Just let us live!"
Clive stood, his face once again an emotionless mask. "I never want to see your faces again. Take your worthless men and vanish. But listen carefully…"
He stared into the bandit's eyes, piercing them. "Your faces are now etched in my memory. If I ever hear of you harming another soul along this road… I will hunt each of you down and tear your souls from your bodies. Understood?"
"Y-yes, sir!"
"Then go!"
As if struck by lightning, the leader jumped up, rousing his men. Those who could stand helped the injured onto their horses. They fled into the darkness as if pursued by demons.
Once they vanished, Barto and his aides could finally breathe. They approached Clive, awe and deep respect in their eyes.
"Son... thank you," Barto said, voice still trembling. "That's... twice in one day you've saved my life."
"Master... Zenith," one of Barto's men added, bowing deeply. "Thank you for saving us all."
Clive turned to them, the deadly mask melting back into a calm, quiet youth. "Fate brought me here, and fate chose our meeting. Thank the Gods for that. I'm merely a passing vessel," he said humbly. "But in the future, please take care of yourselves."
The three men nodded, too stunned to speak further. They continued their journey—but now, the air inside the carriage felt entirely different. A profound sense of safety lingered, mixed with reverent fear of the silent young man beside Barto… the one who had just proven that within him dwelled the power to summon a storm.