Chapter 3: Bandit Skirmish
John Stark crouched low on the plains, the dawn's cold blue light sharpening the edges of frozen grass blades against his knees, the chill seeping through his jeans like icy fingers. The wind carried a biting edge, laced with the earthy scent of soil and the faint, acrid whiff of horse dung, a reminder of the camp ahead. His heart thudded a nervous rhythm, a dull drumbeat in his chest, and the system's hum thrummed in his skull, a warning he couldn't silence. Okay, Stealth Mastery: Lv. 1. Time to see if this is better than my old gamer reflexes, he thought, tracking faint boot scuffs toward a cluster of tents, the marks uneven and hurried, etched into the frost-kissed ground.
He moved with deliberate care, the grass whispering under his sneakers, the sound a soft rustle against the predawn silence broken only by the distant hoot of an owl. The camp's outline grew clearer—smoke curling from dying embers, the flicker of firelight casting long, jagged shadows—its presence a stain on the pristine plains. His breath fogged in the air, a visible testament to his tension, and he focused on the signs—deep gouges of horses, scuff marks of boots, the pungent odor growing stronger with each step. This better work, or I'm respawning again, he mused, his scarred hand tightening on the worn sword at his side, the leather grip creaking faintly.
He worked his way through a thicket, the branches snagging at his hoodie, the smell of dying embers and stale food growing stronger, a rancid mix that turned his stomach. He could hear the low, guttural murmur of voices, the words indistinct but menacing, and focused on placing each foot silently, his body rigid with an unfamiliar grace. A short, dry twig—a piece of dead wood no thicker than his little finger—lay across his path, and his foot landed on it with a sudden, disproportionate CRACK.
"Stealth fail, like my old Assassin's Creed runs," he whispered, cursing inwardly, his heart leaping into his throat.
[SYSTEM: Stealth Mastery: Lv. 1. Clumsy much? The enemy has detected you. Enjoy the respawn timer.]
The voices stopped instantly, the silence heavy and oppressive. A harsh, unintelligible shout sliced through the air, and a man—large, bearded, and carrying a rusty axe—burst from the tents, his boots pounding the earth.
"There!"
"The outsider!"
John didn't wait, drawing his worn sword, the steel cold in his grip, and scrambled back, putting the brush between them. The man's eyes were wild, his beard matted with grime, and the axe gleamed dully in the dim light, a threat he couldn't ignore. I've screwed this up royally, he thought, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts as he braced for the fight.
The clash was immediate and deafening, the axe-man swinging with wild, desperate power, the blade whistling past John's ear with a sound like tearing wind. He dodged, the rush of adrenaline momentarily overriding his fear, his body moving on instinct honed by the system's grind. He saw an opening, a flicker of red rage in his mind, and drove his sword forward, the steel meeting cloth and flesh with a horrible, wet squelch. The bandit staggered, hands clutching his chest, a look of shocked incomprehension on his face, blood seeping between his fingers.
I killed him. I actually killed a guy. No, wait, two guys, now! he thought, the realization hitting like a punch to the gut, his stomach roiling. Three more figures materialized, their movements faster, more disciplined, their blades sparking against his steel with a harsh clang. He blocked a downward blow, twisting to avoid a second, his Stamina fueling a reckless energy, but a thin, long spear appeared from his blind side, a cruel line of iron cutting through the air.
The spear punched through his ribs with a sound like tearing leather, the force lifting him clean off his feet, the pain astronomical—an overwhelming, all-consuming fire that made the wolf bite seem like a scratch. He blacked out, the world fading to a tunnel of gray, but the system's message registered on his mind's fading edge, cold and sarcastic.
[SYSTEM: Death: +2 Strength. Sword Mastery: Lv. 2. Soul Wear: 20%. Try harder, rookie. Bandit pincushion? That's you.]
He respawned instantly, silently, in the long, damp grass twenty feet from where he'd fallen, the agonizing spear wound gone, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache of Soul Wear—a deep, numbing chill that made his spirit feel thin, stretched tight over a skeleton. What the hell is this Soul Wear doing to me? he thought, pressing his hand to his throbbing temples to hide the shudder running through him. He was alive, but the cost was a piece of his humanity, a shadow he concealed as he rejoined quietly.
He heard the remaining bandits shouting in confusion, their formation broken, their voices hoarse with panic. John, stronger now, his Sword Mastery marginally higher, slipped into the fight, his breathing ragged. He finished the rest, the kills cleaner, the movements more efficient, the steel singing as it met flesh, fueled by the cold logic of the system. Blood stained the grass, the metallic scent mingling with the smoke, and he stood amidst the carnage, chest heaving, the weight of his actions settling like a stone.
The bandit camp was quiet now, save for the crackle of smoldering tents and the slow, final drips of blood onto the earth, the air heavy with the stench of death. John stood amidst the mess, his chest heaving, his body aching with fatigue that had nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with the respawn. He knelt, forcing himself to go through the pockets and gear, the leather pouches stiff with dirt, the coins clinking softly in his palm.
[SYSTEM: Item: Worn Sword - Durability 80/100. Inventory: 2/5. Note: This sword has more rust than my old car.]
He ignored the second part, gripping the hilt, the steel cold and surprisingly balanced, a marked improvement over his previous blade. The scrawled markings on the sword's hilt were rough and strange, not the clean work of Rohan, but crude, aggressive lines that spoke of the Dunlendings, a clue to their origin. This isn't just loot—it's a story, he thought, his arms aching with exhaustion, a physical mask for the system's inventory warning as he rose to his feet.
He forced himself to stand, the sheer exhaustion making his head spin, the plains tilting slightly under his gaze. The sun was fully up now, painting the grass gold, and he began the weary trek back toward the village, the new sword slung at his hip, its weight a constant reminder of his victory. The memory of Éowyn's weary sigh flashed in his mind, fueling his resolve, though the cold shadow of Soul Wear lingered, a silent threat he couldn't ignore.
He paused on the path, running a thumb over the sword's edge, the metal cool against his skin, the faint nick in the blade a testament to its recent use. A distant birdcall broke the silence, a trilling note that echoed across the plains, and he let the moment ground him, the weight of his actions settling softly. A memory surfaced—the hum of a city bus, the chatter of strangers, the taste of cheap coffee—fading as quickly as it came, replaced by the vastness of Middle-earth. He adjusted the sword's strap, the leather creaking, and resumed his walk, the village lights a beacon in the distance.
When he reached the village, Éowyn was waiting, her gaze sharp and assessing, her pale gold braid catching the morning sun. She noticed the new sword, the way he held his left arm—a subtle favor he didn't realize he was doing, hiding the Soul Wear as simple pain. Her lip curved in a flicker of grim approval.
"You are returned."
"And you are armed better than before."
"What did you find?"
John simply nodded, letting the weariness of the "long night" sell his story, his breath still uneven from the trek. Time to turn this loot into XP through training, he thought, meeting her gaze with a tired smile, the hum of the system a quiet companion in his mind.
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