The road to Kareth stretched before them, winding like a scar across the land. Dry winds carried dust and the faint stench of ash, as though the very earth had grown weary of bearing the weight of fear. Toru rode at the head of the small procession—no gilded carriage, no entourage of pompous guards—only a modest escort of loyal retainers. He chose to appear not as the prince people mocked, but as the man he intended to become.
The horse beneath him shifted restlessly, but Toru's grip on the reins was steady. His body, trained and hardened once more by the regimen he imposed on himself, no longer trembled as it once did. He was leaner, stronger. And though doubt still lingered in the minds of others, his own heart had begun to steady into conviction.
Behind him, Cedric struggled to adjust to the saddle, muttering curses under his breath. Kael kept to the shadows, even under the sun, his cloak making him seem part of the road itself. And Liora, ever composed, guided a mule carrying supplies, her sharp eyes scanning the horizon.
Toru broke the silence. "From here on, I don't want you to think of me as the 'sheltered prince.' If danger comes, we fight together. No excuses."
Cedric groaned. "Easier for you to say, Your Highness. Some of us are more suited for ink and parchment than steel and blood."
Liora gave him a sideways glance, almost amused. "Then perhaps tonight, you'll learn a new skill."
Even Kael allowed himself a ghost of a smile. "Better to bleed in the village square than on the battlefield. Consider this… training."
Toru's lips curved. These small exchanges, though brief, reminded him of his squadmates in the old world—soldiers who had once mocked and challenged him until camaraderie forged bonds stronger than steel.
---
By the time they reached Kareth, the sun hung low, spilling crimson light across the rooftops. The village seemed worn down, its wooden fences brittle, homes patched with uneven boards, and the people's faces marked by both hunger and despair. Children peeked from behind skirts, their eyes wide but hollow. Men clutched pitchforks like lifelines, and women carried water in silence, every sound too loud in their tension.
Toru dismounted first. His boots pressed into the cracked earth as the murmurs began.
"It's him… the prince."
"The weak one?"
"What's he doing here?"
Their voices were not filled with admiration but with disbelief, even derision. Years of ridicule had carved that reaction deep into their hearts.
Toru didn't flinch. He let their words wash over him like water on stone. They expect weakness. Let them. Tonight, they will see something else.
An elder approached—his back bent, his beard gray as winter frost. He bowed slightly, though his tone lacked warmth. "Your Highness. We are… surprised. Did the King send you?"
Toru met his gaze directly. "No. I chose to come. You've lived too long in fear. That ends now."
Murmurs rippled again, tinged with both hope and doubt. Words alone wouldn't convince them. Action would.
---
That night, Kael vanished into the forests surrounding the village. When he returned, his cloak was heavy with the scent of damp leaves and blood. His expression, however, remained sharp and calm.
"They are not common thieves," Kael reported, kneeling slightly before Toru. "They number at least thirty. Their weapons are mismatched, but their attacks are coordinated. Someone commands them, someone who understands war."
Liora frowned. "If they are organized, then they're more dangerous than mere raiders. Why target this village?"
Cedric flipped through his notes, ink smudging across parchment. "Kareth lies on the border of fertile lands and the main trade road. Whoever controls it controls food and coin. If the bandits gain a foothold here, they bleed both peasants and nobility alike."
Toru listened carefully. His instincts screamed this was no coincidence. "It's not only about robbery. It's about sending a message. Weak villages mean weak kingdoms. Someone wants Dravoryen to bleed from the edges inward."
Liora's eyes narrowed. "Are you suggesting these bandits are pawns of another kingdom?"
"Perhaps," Toru replied. "Or perhaps they're the tools of nobles who fear what I might become."
The words hung heavy in the air. No one dared confirm them, but no one denied them either.
---
The bandits struck just as Kael predicted—swift, brutal, and without mercy. Torches lit the night like falling stars as masked men stormed through the outer fences. Screams rose from every corner, steel clashing with the desperate cries of villagers.
But this time, the prince did not hide.
Toru stood in the village square, sword unsheathed, cloak whipping in the wind. The weight of the blade felt natural in his grip—like a handshake from an old friend. His breath slowed, his heartbeat steadying into rhythm.
Remember, Toru. Control your breathing. The first strike belongs to the one who dares to take it.
The voice of his old instructor echoed in his mind, from a world long lost. And so, when the first bandit lunged at him with a crude axe, Toru's blade moved in a clean arc. Steel split air, then flesh. The man fell, silence ringing for a heartbeat before chaos erupted anew.
---
They came at him in twos and threes, but Toru flowed through them like water. His body remembered the countless hours of drills—the repetitions that had broken him down and built him stronger. Parry, pivot, strike. Step, breathe, counter.
One bandit swung low. Toru shifted his stance, steel meeting steel. He slid the blade upward, caught his opponent's guard open, and drove the pommel into the man's jaw. Another rushed him, but Toru sidestepped, blade slicing across exposed ribs.
He did not fight like a noble duelist. He fought like a soldier. Efficient. Ruthless. Each movement aimed not at spectacle but survival.
Nearby, Cedric swung wildly, his blade clumsy but determined. Liora shielded a group of children, kicking one bandit squarely in the chest with surprising strength. And Kael? Kael moved like a phantom—daggers flashing, enemies collapsing without even knowing death had come.
But all eyes, both villager and bandit, were drawn to the prince.
---
Three men attacked together, surrounding him in a triangle of steel. For a moment, it seemed the prince would be overwhelmed. Gasps rose from the villagers, doubt flashing once more.
But Toru exhaled slowly, centering himself.
One breath. One strike. Flow through them like water.
The memory guided him. He pivoted sharply, his sword a streak of silver. He parried the first, twisted into the second, and with a single flowing motion, cut through the third. By the time his breath left his lips, all three lay broken on the dirt.
A hush swept across the square. Even the bandits hesitated, their courage faltering.
And in that pause, Toru raised his sword high, voice ringing louder than the clash of steel.
"You prey on the weak because you think them defenseless. But no more! As long as I stand, Dravoryen will not bow to cowards like you!"
His roar ignited something in the villagers. For the first time in years, they felt not fear—but pride.
---
From the shadows, a figure emerged. Tall, scarred, armored in scraps but carrying himself with a soldier's poise. His gaze locked onto Toru with predatory intensity.
"So," the leader sneered. "The weak prince grows claws. Impressive. But claws alone do not win wars."
Their swords clashed, sparks flying into the night. This was no mere thug—his strikes were calculated, his footwork sharp. Each blow carried the weight of experience.
Toru matched him, blow for blow, though his arms trembled under the force. His past training screamed in his ears: If you falter once, you die.
He parried, countered, endured. Memories surged—his sergeant's voice, his comrades' laughter, the sweat-soaked drills of endless repetition. And in that crucible of memory, his resolve hardened.
The leader struck downward, aiming to crush. Toru sidestepped, twisted, and drove his blade deep into the man's chest.
The bandit leader staggered, eyes wide in disbelief, before collapsing in the dirt.
---
The surviving bandits fled, their courage shattered with their leader's fall. The village square was silent except for the heavy breaths of the living. Slowly, villagers emerged from hiding—eyes wide, voices trembling.
"He… he fought for us."
"The prince… saved us."
"The weak prince… no more."
Their awe washed over Toru like a tide. For the first time outside the palace walls, he was not mocked, not pitied, but seen. Truly seen.
Kael approached, his daggers still wet. He bowed slightly. "You've won more than a battle tonight, Your Highness. You've won their faith. And that is harder to earn than victory."
Toru looked at the villagers—men, women, children—all gazing at him with hope where once there had been despair. His chest swelled, not with pride, but with a sense of duty heavier than any armor.
"This is only the beginning," he whispered.
---
As the fires of battle died down, the villagers celebrated their survival, clinging to Toru as their shield. But in the forests beyond, unseen eyes watched. Messengers slipped away into the night, carrying word to distant ears.
"The weak prince of Dravoryen has changed," the whispers would say.
And across kingdoms and courts, that single truth would spark ripples of fear—and ambition.
For with change came danger. And danger would always find its way to those who dared to rise.