Tom's pulse hammered in his ears as the bandits closed their circle around him. Five riders, their camels stamping the sand with a steady rhythm, weapons glinting faint blue in the dark.
His arm burned where the plasma bolt had seared him, the pain eating into his thoughts, but he forced himself not to collapse fully.
The leader leaned forward in his saddle, a wide grin beneath his scarf. His voice was rough, almost amused.
"We'll take him back," he said to the others. "He'll make a fine example for the mines. Three hundred servants already waiting… broken backs, hollow eyes. Let him crawl with them until the sun eats him alive."
Laughter broke out among the bandits, harsh and cutting. Another voice followed.
"Yeah. Strip him first. Bet he's carrying shiny scraps. They all are. Fresh meat always is."
Tom's fingers dug into the sand, his breath ragged. His vision blurred, but he dragged his body forward, refusing to stay still. Every inch forward was agony, but stopping meant death or something worse.
"Look at him crawl," one of the bandits jeered, lowering his rifle lazily. "Like a worm. Where you going, little worm? There's no hole deep enough to hide from us."
Another burst out laughing. "Maybe we should let him crawl all the way to the mines. Might save us the trouble of tying him."
Their mocking voices mixed with the steady hum of their weapons, each sound a reminder of how helpless he was against their technology.
But in Tom's chest, one thought pulsed stubbornly. Not like this, not crawling to my grave....
The bandits' laughter was cut short. The sand to their left stirred, shifting unnaturally, as if the desert itself was waking. From the swirl emerged a horse, dark-coated and steady, its hooves crunching quietly against the dunes.
Upon it sat a man in a straw hat tilted low, chewing on what looked like a half-eaten potato.
The rider's posture was almost lazy, but there was something sharp beneath it like a blade hidden in cloth. His gaze swept the bandits without hurry, his voice calm, dry.
"Five of you against one half-dead man. Real brave."
The bandits stiffened, hands gripping their rifles. One sneered.
"Stay out of this, stranger. Unless you want your bones in the mines too."
The rider sighed, sliding the potato into his pocket. "Guess I'm already in it." He reached into his item slot. What appeared in his hands was a weapon unlike anything Tom had seen before. Suddenly, a trident of polished blue steel, its edges inlaid with jade veins that glowed faintly in the dark.
The leader barked, "Shoot him!"
Energy hummed, plasma bolts firing. But the rider moved with precision, not speed. His horse sidestepping in perfect rhythm as the trident spun in arcs, deflecting shots with sparks that burst like lightning against the desert night.
One bandit charged, plasma blade drawn. The rider shifted his grip, twirling the trident once, then thrusting forward with deceptive ease. The jade-lit prong caught the blade, twisted it aside, and with a flick of the wrist slammed into the man's chest. The bandit flew back off his camel, landing lifeless in the sand.
The others cursed, circling tighter. Two fired in tandem, bolts streaking toward the rider's chest. He leaned low, horse veering, the trident sweeping upward. The weapon hummed, absorbing the energy before releasing it back in a crackling pulse that sent one camel rearing, throwing its rider down.
Tom, still crawling, stared wide-eyed. He's not just fighting. He's reading them.
The rider pressed no attack recklessly. Each move was measured: a parry, a block, a precise strike. When two bandits rushed from opposite sides, he pivoted his horse at just the right moment, trident spinning to knock one weapon aside while the shaft slammed across the other's jaw.
Within minutes, three of the five lay broken in the sand. The last two hesitated, eyes darting between their fallen comrades and the calm figure still sitting tall, straw hat shadowing his face.
The rider lifted his trident slightly, his voice still flat, almost bored.
"Your move."
The leader cursed under his breath, then kicked his camel. Both surviving bandits retreated into the dark, weapons shaking in their hands.
Silence fell. The only sound was the horse's steady breathing and Tom's ragged gasp. The rider exhaled, almost disappointed, then slid the trident back into his item slot.
He looked at Tom for the first time, tilting his hat back just enough to reveal tired, sharp eyes.
"You're still alive. That's something."
The desert quieted after the clash. The rider slid off his horse, boots sinking slightly into the sand.
For the first time, he reached up and tipped off the straw hat. Underneath, short blue hair glimmered faintly under the fractured moonlight, and his eyes—deep, cutting blue—met Tom's.
Tom froze, hand gripping his wounded limb, still in disbelief at what had just happened.
"You," the rider said, voice steadier now, "you're competing in the ongoing Event in the Durkan Legion, aren't you?"
Tom hesitated, then gave a faint nod. "Yes… I am."
The rider smirked faintly, pulling a small bundle from his pouch. It was a pale-green herb, glowing faintly along the edges like veins of light. He crouched beside Tom and pressed it into his hand.
"Chew it. Wrap the rest on your wound. It'll stop the burn and keep you walking."
Tom stared at him, unsure, but the calm certainty in the stranger's tone left no room for doubt. Slowly, he did as told. The sharp taste spread through his mouth, strange warmth seeping through his veins as the pain in his leg dulled.
The rider straightened, looking down at him with a strange mix of seriousness and ease.
"My name is Vera Astrid," he said. "Remember it."
Tom blinked. "Why… why help me?"
Vera's lips curved, not into a smile, but something sharper. "Because I want to see you at the edge of the race. Standing. Breathing. Competing. That's the only way it's worth it."
Tom's chest tightened at the weight of those words. Vera wasn't just helping him, he was challenging him.
"Don't die before then," Vera added, sliding his straw hat back over his blue hair. Without waiting for a reply, he mounted his horse in one fluid motion.
Tom managed to croak out, "Why me?"
Vera looked back once, his silhouette half-shadow, half-light. "Because the game needs rivals and you… feel like one."
Then, with a kick of his heel, he and his horse disappeared into the shifting sands, leaving only silence and Tom's pounding heart.
Tom dragged himself beneath the broken roof of a half-buried shack. The wood above groaned with each gust of desert wind, dust sifting down on his shoulders.
He unwrapped the bundle Vera had given him and chewed the bitter herb slowly. It was sharp, almost biting, but warmth spread through his body.
His injured limb began to mend, the burning pain fading into a dull throb.
He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. The silence pressed on him, heavy.
"I'm useless," he muttered to himself. "I couldn't even stand against those bandits to protect myself. If he hadn't shown up, I'd already be ash in the sand."
His thoughts churned. He remembered the crushed buildings, the broken people, the betrayal and violence he had already witnessed in this world. Yet, in that moment, another realization bloomed.
Maybe… dirt and trash, the bad things, the things people spit on those weren't what made the world ugly. Without them, there would be no contrast, no reason to fight, no reason to value the little sparks of light. The filth, the cracks, the mistakes, they kept balance.
"The world doesn't stay whole because of perfection," Tom whispered. "It stays whole because the ugly and the beautiful exist together. Bad isn't only ruin. It's weight, it's the shadow that lets us see light."
He exhaled deeply, his chest tight, then opened his eyes. His hands trembled, but his will hardened. Maybe he was weak now, maybe powerless but he was still breathing. He would not waste that.