The blond leader's smile widened, genuine respect mixing with predatory interest in his eyes. The morning light caught the scar cutting through his eyebrow, making it seem to pulse with life. "It seems you're no ordinary sheriff either."
His voice carried across the clearing, smooth as silk yet sharp as steel, each word carefully chosen. "Unfortunate that I should encounter someone of your caliber. You destroyed two of my men in mere seconds—I watched your movements, precise and economical. That stance... you trained at Kensei, didn't you? Impressive to see one of you out here protecting these villages."
From his position against the wall, he called out clearly. "My name is Raven. If you wish, we can come to an arrangement. I'll take only ninety percent of what I intended to claim, and I'll leave your kyokami untouched. That blade of yours... even from here I can see it's no ordinary sword. Deal, Morro?"
Morro's expression remained cold, his eyes like chips of ice in the pale morning light. "Raven, leave the villagers in peace. Don't you think it's heartless to steal from the poorest?"
"The poorest?" Raven laughed, a harsh sound that held no humor, like stones grinding together. "In my view, if someone has food to put in their mouth and a roof over their head, they're not poor at all. They're merely inconvenienced. True poverty is having nothing—not even the hope of something."
"Don't test me, Morro." Raven's voice hardened, the amusement vanishing from his eyes like smoke in wind. "You've already done too much. Those were my men, loyal to the end, and you beat them unconscious without breaking a sweat. I should punish you for that right now, make an example of you."
"But I'm fair, so I'll give you a chance to walk away without a scratch. Just turn around, go back to your house, and pretend this never happened."
"Let's do this, Raven." Morro's voice cut through the tension, sharp and clear as a blade's edge. "If I defeat you in one-on-one combat, you'll withdraw from this village and never return."
"Oh, really?" Raven's eyebrows rose, genuine curiosity replacing the mockery. "A mere sheriff against me? Now that's interesting. Most swordsmen with Spiritual Pressure this powerful aren't sheriffs. What brings a man like you to protect a village this small?"
"You see what you've proposed—I have no choice." Raven's gaze swept over his remaining men, who watched with rapt attention. "I'm their leader, after all. What kind of leader would cower in such a moment, when his men's honor is at stake? So my answer is yes."
A small child began to cry somewhere in the crowd, the sound thin and reedy, cutting through the morning air like a knife. The mother's desperate attempts to shush them only made the sound more poignant.
He held up a single finger, the gesture sharp and decisive. "But my condition is this: if I kill you, I'll kill every villager. Every man, woman, and child. Their blood will be on your hands for refusing the simple deal I offered."
"Otherwise, you'll have to fight all of us at once." Raven gestured to his men, who began spreading out, creating a semi-circle around Morro. "What now, Morro? Will you risk their lives, swordsman?"
As the village defender, Morro couldn't risk the lives of all the villagers. "It seems I'll have to defeat you one by one."
The bandits erupted in laughter, a rough chorus of confidence and contempt.
"Kill him!" Raven commanded, his voice dropping to a low growl.
Four bandits began advancing, their weapons drawn, eyes gleaming with bloodlust and the promise of easy victory.
The tall bandit grabbed a nearby bottle filled with amber liquor, the liquid sloshing dangerously. With a grunt of effort, he hurled it at Morro. Though it flew with incredible speed, spinning through the air, Morro caught it effortlessly, his hand moving like a blur. Without hesitation, he threw it back at the muscular bandit.
The bottle shattered against the man's chest, and he began writhing in pain as alcohol and glass fragments tore into his skin, his screams echoing through the suddenly silent street.
The weaker bandit charged, his face contorted with rage and desperation, but Morro swung hard with his sword, the blade singing through the air with a deadly whistle. The weaker man's sword shattered into pieces, metal fragments flying like deadly shrapnel in all directions. Before the bandit could recover from the shock of his disarmed state, Morro grabbed him by the arm and threw him forward with brutal efficiency, the sound of bone dislocating echoing sickeningly across the square.
Only the tall scarred man and the tall old man remained, their earlier confidence now replaced with wary caution. They exchanged nervous glances, the unspoken question passing between them—was this fight worth their lives?
The old man tried to use his reach advantage, his lanky arms giving him superior distance as he kept Morro at bay with wide, sweeping strikes. But Morro moved inside his guard with impossible speed, his footwork like a dance of death, striking him with a precise lock to the nose. Cartilage crunched wetly, and the old man fell like a tree being felled, his eyes rolling back in his head as consciousness fled.
The tall scarred man launched a spinning kick followed by a flying knee, his movements fluid and athletic, born from years of brutal training. Morro blocked the first kick with his forearm, absorbing the impact with a grunt, then the second knee with his thigh, muscles straining against the force. Then he swung very hard through the air—a feint that left him momentarily exposed, exactly as the scarred man had planned.
But Morro used that calculated moment to get behind him, his footwork perfect as he flowed around the man's defense like water around stone. He struck him hard in the lower back, targeting the spine with devastating accuracy. The man's spine arched unnaturally, and he folded over like a giraffe, all his strength gone in an instant.
Then Morro hit him with an open fist to the back of the head, the impact precise and controlled, and he went unconscious, his body crumpling to the dirt with a soft thud that seemed louder than all the previous combat combined.
After that, Morro scanned the area, his sharp eyes missing nothing, making sure everyone was sleeping or otherwise incapacitated. The villagers watched from their hiding places, their faces pale with terror and awe. Children peeked from behind their mothers' skirts, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination.
His gaze returned to the leader, who hadn't moved a muscle throughout the entire confrontation.
Raven didn't look surprised or terrified. He remained in the same place as before, his posture unchanged, as if he'd expected nothing less from his opponent. There was something almost clinical about his observation, like a scholar studying a particularly interesting specimen.
"Alright then."
Raven, who had been observing from his position against the wall throughout the battle, finally removed his foot from the wall and turned fully toward Morro. They were of similar height, similar build—two warriors facing each other across a battlefield of their own making. The morning sun cast long shadows across the square, painting the scene in dramatic contrasts of light and dark.
"You see what I did to your partners?" Morro spoke, his voice calm, almost conversational, as if discussing the weather rather than the brutal combat he'd just completed. "Are you sure you want to fight me?"
After a moment of silence, the air thick with unspoken threats and promises, Raven responded. The wind picked up slightly, carrying the scent of blood and spilled liquor, mingling with the morning chill. Somewhere in the distance, a bird began to sing, oblivious to the tension that hung heavy in the air.
"I will definitely fight you now."