The clash did not end with Pim's retreat. The field still churned with steel and shouts, though the tide had begun to turn.
The first mad surge of bandits had lost its teeth. Their roars were thinner now, their rhythm breaking. The once-relentless press had become scattered skirmishes across Elloria's streets.
Villagers stumbled toward the glowing wards Arven had set along the square, their frightened cries blending with the ring of weapons. The shimmering barrier thrummed each time a stray arrow or blade scraped against it, guiding the weak and the wounded into its safety. Mothers pulled children close. Old men leaned on each other, breath ragged but determined. The wards bent beneath the pressure, but they held, glowing stubbornly against the night.
Elloria's knights had found their footing too. Their lines no longer wavered, their shields steady as they pushed back. The clang of steel rang steady and sure, not panicked. Where fear had threatened to splinter them, now discipline kept them standing. And behind them, ordinary townsfolk—blacksmiths, bakers, apprentices—pressed in with improvised weapons. The spirit of Elloria had not broken. It burned hotter than ever.
Smoke spread where Pim had vanished, his smokescreen rolling low across the cobbles. Arven tracked it with narrowed eyes but did not chase. That fox would resurface in time. For now, the square roared with another figure's laughter.
"Today all repairs and maintenance are free!"
Master Kellan's voice cut through the battle like a hammer strike. The hulking blacksmith swung his cart with one arm, knocking raiders sprawling across the cobblestones, and crushed another with his hammer in the other. His laughter rolled out, booming and terrible. Each strike landed with the weight of a furnace behind it, each blow carrying the scent of hot iron and smoke.
The bandits recoiled, unsettled by his sheer ferocity. And yet Kellan only laughed louder, his shoulders shaking as if he found amusement in every swing. The sight was almost more frightening than the blows themselves.
Then, as though he had all the time in the world, Kellan hefted a long bundle wrapped in cloth and hurled it across the square. The weight of it thudded against the chest of the armored knight commander, who caught it cleanly.
"Hey, Darius!" Kellan roared. "The sword you commissioned!"
The package arced through smoke and rain, caught easily by a tall man standing at the front line. The cloth fell away in one motion, revealing the gleam of steel.
Darius lowered his stance, both hands firm on the hilt. His muscles coiled, shoulders sinking. Then he swung.
The blade cut the air in a wide arc. A shockwave burst outward, ripping across the square with the sound of cracking thunder. Dust and blood scattered. A dozen bandits were flung from their feet, lifeless before they hit the ground.
For one breathless instant, the battlefield froze. Silence pressed heavy, broken only by the hiss of torches in the damp air. Then, like a dam breaking, the noise returned—cheers from Elloria's men, cries of fear from the raiders.
Arven's gaze locked on the commander. So that's him…
— Darius. The guild leader of Elloria's Knight. Once called TheStorm of Elloria.
The title wasn't just bluster. Darius, leader of Elloria's Knight guild, a man whose name still lingered in the game's lore—whispered to be Morgan's equal. The Bandit King and the Storm—two forces colliding, their clash already half-legend.
Their duel had shaken the game's community. Players who witnessed it spoke of thunder splitting the battlefield, of steel striking like lightning. Many were so awed that they abandoned their old paths entirely, rushing to reset their class to Knight. All because they wanted, for a moment, to chase the storm.
* * *
Skele padded close, bones rattling as he moved. A small satchel swung from his neck, the leather dark with rain. Inside rattled the wolf bones they had gathered over the last four days. The runes shimmered faintly as Arven pulled the skill list into view.
[Sharp Claw] - Common (70%)
[Sharp Fang] - Common (28%)
Both familiar. Both useful. But then, at the bottom—
[Blood Fang] - Uncommon (2%)
Two percent chance.
Arven's lips curved.
— So the Mimic ability really rolls dice. Uncommon skills sink to the bottom, weighted low. But they're there. If I stack enough bones…
He let the thought hang, eyes flicking back to the melee.
"Go on, Skele."
The hound lurched forward, claws scraping wet earth. Bandits screamed as the skeleton tore through them, ribs snapping under its charge. A bandit's dagger skidded harmlessly across Skele's spine, sparks dancing off the pale bone before the skeleton's frame clicked back into place.
Arven pinched his fingers into a rune sigil, tracing the rune midair. "Algiz."
A pale light flared, coating Skele's frame in a faint geometric shield. The next strike—a heavy axe swing—clashed against it with a hollow crack, sparks flying. The barrier shimmered but held, giving Skele the opening to leap upward, jaw snapping shut on the man's throat.
[Sharp Fang]
Blood sprayed into the rain.
Arven exhaled, steady. The hound's movements were brutal but precise. Even with bones instead of flesh, it fought like a beast alive. Already, among the bandits, the sight of it alone was enough to hollow their eyes with fear.
Skele had become a terror moving on four legs, a nightmare that shrugged off steel.
"Keep his flank clear!" Lila's voice cut through the storm. She darted between bandits, red ponytail snapping wet in the rain. Her blade flickered like quicksilver, slipping past clumsy parries to carve tendon and vein.
One man raised a cudgel behind her—
A flutter of wings.
Happy burst from Arven's shadow, eyes gleaming pale. Its cry cut the air, and the bandit faltered mid-swing. Lila twisted, her dagger already driving up beneath his ribs. His scream vanished into the rain.
"Cute save," Arven muttered, lips quirking despite the clash.
Joy wheeled above, wings cutting a sharp pattern through the drizzle. The harpy dipped once, then veered west, circling tight. Arven caught the signal instantly—prey marked.
"Lila, west!" he shouted, following Joy's line.
She didn't hesitate. With a twist, she ducked under another strike, boot slamming into her opponent's knee before she sprinted toward the ridge. Skele followed, shield-light shivering with each impact as he plowed a path open.
Arven's fingers carved two runes into the air, strokes sharp despite the rain.
ᛟ ᛇ (Othala • Eihwaz)—the lines bled together, mist drawing tight around the battlefield.
"Ancestral Bind."
The fog thickened, heavy as stone. Bandits staggered, their weapons dragging low as unseen hands pressed on their shoulders. A weight older than them crushed down, as though the land itself demanded their surrender.
Joy wheeled overhead, wings flaring once as its cry cut through the haze, marking the trapped ridge.
Arven's lips curved. "Stay down."
* * *
The square belonged to Elloria now. Not because of walls or wards—but because Darius stood at its heart. His movements were ruthless, precise, no wasted motion. Every swing was a storm breaking.
Lore whispered at the back of Arven's mind. In the game, Darius had stood equal to Morgan, steel meeting steel without falter. The bandit king's shadow had only swelled because of one thing—Pim's arrow. That single shot had broken Darius's guard, left his chest open, and spilled his life before the true fight even began.
That was why the players had always faced Morgan alone—without the Storm raging at their side.
Yet unease gnawed at Arven. Pim was still nowhere. Happy should've caught even the faintest trace of him by now, but the rogue's presence lingered like smoke—there and gone.
Arven clenched his fists. Not this time. With rune-woven wards, with summons, with every trick he had, he would keep Darius alive. He would unleash the Storm at full strength.
That thought barely settled when the sky cracked.
A sliver of light split the clouds, silver tearing against the weight of gray. For an instant, it lit the square in a flash too sharp for the rain-soaked world.
* * *
Thud.
The sound rang out—deep, resonant—like a hammer striking bedrock.
Arven's head snapped toward it. His breath caught.
Darius staggered. His armor groaned under the weight as he swayed, one gauntlet clawing at his chest. Blood seeped through the plates in dark rivulets, dripping onto the stones in heavy drops that spread red-black in the wet.
Far off, barely visible through the curtain of rain, Pim stood. His knees buckled, bowstring slack as the weapon slipped from his trembling hands. The twang was pitiful, almost lost beneath the storm. His lips curved into a grin—crooked, broken, triumphant all the same. Then his eyes dimmed, the light gone as his body folded into the mud.
The square froze. Not a shout, not a clash of steel—only the hiss of rain striking stone. Droplets slid down helms and cheekplates, gathered on sword edges, streaked the blood already staining the ground.
Darius dropped to one knee. His blade plunged into the cobbles, scraping sparks. His shoulders heaved, every breath ragged, steam curling faint from his mouth in the cold.
Then came the footsteps.
Heavy. Certain. Each one a drumbeat, rolling across the square like thunder announcing the storm's arrival.
Above, a crow dipped lower. Its black wings carved arcs through the rain, each beat sharp as a knife. It cawed once. Harsh, grating... Before spiraling down.
Every gaze followed it.
It landed, claws gripping the iron clasp of a pauldron. The bird shook once, scattering droplets, before folding its wings in solemn silence.
The man beneath stepped forward.
Scar—deep and jagged—ran across his left cheek, a lightning bolt carved into flesh. His single eye gleamed beneath the storm's light, unblinking, pitiless. The rain did not seem to touch him.
Morgan had arrived.