The presence died instantly. Mana was something only nobles or trained professionals could use properly, and to think any one of those would use the power to kill ordinary people.
Unthinkable. To wield mana for slaughtering the innocent. What vile scum.
Another bandit swung at him with a sword, aiming at his neck. Behind him was a carriage, and there was too little space to dodge. Anger seized Simon. There was no need to hold back toward these 'humans'.
Heat rolled off his body as a faint golden glow shimmered around him. He raised his hand, mana flaring, and grabbed the sword by the blade, squeezing, shattering it. Punching the bandit to the ground, he lunged toward his longsword, which was hanging from the saddle of a guard.
The familiar weight of his blade brought back memories. Mercy. That was what the chaplain of his battalion would always preach. But these ones did not deserve his mercy. The bandits backed off around him, the glow of his mana making them rethink their choices. Dropping their weapons, some turned and ran toward the cover of the trees.
Channeling his mana into his blade, he swung it in a wide arc, a crescent of compressed golden mana tore through the distance instantly, cleaving the bandits' heads clean off. As their lifeless bodies dropped to the ground, more ran, desperate to get away now that the tide had turned.
As much as he wanted to chase them and end their worthless lives, Simon knew that it wasn't worth it. The wounded guards and merchants would die without proper care. He retrieved his scabbard, putting his longsword back at his hip, and began tending to the wounded. Four had died, two to arrows and two to sword.
"They were too young to die."
Simon glanced at the older guard, who was helping him bandage up a merchant.
"Those who pick up a sword will die by the sword. They chose this profession knowing the risks," he replied, his voice monotone.
The older guard frowned, but didn't argue. He'd heard words like that before—usually from men who had survived long enough to stop counting names.
Simon finished tightening the bandage and stood, wiping the blood from his hands onto the grass.
They laid the dead to the side of the road, lining them beneath the trees. No prayers were spoken. A younger guard crouched by one of the corpses, crying. Simon just stood over them, waiting. He'd learned long ago that ceremonies were for the living, not the dead.
A merchant knelt briefly beside one of the bodies, lips trembling, before another pulled him away. The caravan master consoled the others. It was a true rarity to be attacked, as the empire had long begun hunting bandits. But these merchants were careless and paid the price in blood.
Simon mounted his horse without looking back.
Four dead. The number settled in his mind and went no further. He had marched past worse fields than this—rows upon rows of rotting bodies that had no time to be buried, some of them boys who still thought war had meaning. This was no different. Smaller. Quieter.
The road to the village stretched ahead, winding between low hills. Smoke rose faintly in the distance—chimneys, not fires. Life continuing, as it always did.
Separating at the entrance of the village, Simon headed toward the tavern. A meal and a place to stay for the night would be welcome on his way to the port.
The tavern was near the center of the village, a wooden building with three stories. Inside, there stood a stone fireplace, by which there were a few singers, along with a musician playing a flute.
Ordering some stew, he sat down into one of the chairs, listening to the singers finish their song. The hubbub of the tavern quieted down as the singers were replaced by a storyteller.
"Far from its original home, there once lived a dragon. Since the day it was born, it never once saw its kin, and it lived in seclusion upon the mountains."
The story was familiar to him. It was the origin of the empire, and every child knew it by heart. Yet something about it still felt fresh every time he heard it, and he never tired of listening to the old legend.
The singing and stories carried on for hours that seemed to pass in a flash. By the time they were done, the sun had set and the streetlamps were lit. Getting up from his place Simon headed over to the musician.
"It's been some time, John. How have you been?"
"Quite well. I've learned to play the guitar and the violin as well as polishing my flute, so I'd say time well spent. And where have you been for you to be shedding blood? Didn't the marshal tell you to stop doing that?"
Simon let out a chuckle as he sat down at a close table. The younger man joined him. He was slightly taller than Simon, and had long, braided hair down to his mid-back. But despite being well built, he only carried a dagger.
"Cleaning up some trash around the forest. It wasn't planned, but the circumstances forced my hand."
"I see. So, where to now? Are you going to return to the duchy?"
"No," replied Simon, taking a long draw from his beer pitcher before continuing.
"I plan to head to the Murim."
John waited a while before answering his statement.
"The Murim? Why there?"
"To seek fulfillment. I have already lived my life here, and there is nothing new that I can experience in the empire."
"You could live a good and easy rest of your life here. Your merits can give you land and riches. Spending the rest of your life living in luxury is fulfilling enough, isn't it?"
"The irony of you saying that. You had the option as well. Yet you chose to travel around as a bard."
John let out a laugh, leaning back and stretching his arms behind his back.
"Life gets too boring if you do that. Let me tell you, this is the right choice. Wouldn't mind a friend to come along with you, will you?"
Simon smiled before finishing the last of his beer.
"It would be an honor."
END OF CHAPTER 3