That simple, wicked answer made every soul in the caravan shudder.
"FUN?!" the leader snarled.
The mood shifted instantly. The guards gripped their weapons tighter, rage replacing fear. The caravan members shrank behind the carts, eyes wide in panic.
A chill crept over the clearing, settling over everyone like a fog. The forest around them seemed to hold its breath.
Trevor's hands clenched around the insignia. He finally understood. These men may wear the royal crest… but there was nothing noble about them.
They were vultures, wolves in armor—and now, they were hungry.
At that time the leader's expression changed.
The mercenary leader's face twisted, eyes darting back and forth as the armored riders tightened their formation.
"This is bad," he growled. "They don't plan to let us go."
He barely finished his words when—
BANG! BANG!
Two loud gunshots tore through the tense air, echoing through the forest like thunder.
The burly man on the lead horse jerked back as his soldiers reeled in panic. Two of the mounted riders had been cleanly shot—gaping holes punched through their chests, bodies slumping off the saddle with thuds. Blood splattered onto the leaves.
His eyes widened. "Rifles..."
But instead of fear, rage swelled in his veins.
"CHARGEEEE!"
His roar shook the ground as the bandits kicked their heels into their horses. The animals neighed and thrashed, hooves pounding against the dirt path, muscles straining as they surged forward. Their armor clanked with their maddened gallop.
The forest wasn't built for war.
Thick roots snagged hooves, narrow trails limited movement. Trees scratched at their armor and cut their line of sight. But these men rode like mad dogs—used to this terrain. Ducking, weaving, swerving between trunks, they rode low, bent like wolves, spears ready, blades drawn.
CLASH!
The first impact was brutal. One of the mercenaries swung his axe upward, catching a rider mid-charge. Blood sprayed as the man's torso split, his horse collapsing with him. But others were faster.
"AAARGHH!" a mercenary screamed, dragged from behind by a mounted soldier who rammed a short spear into his shoulder, lifting him from the ground.
Swords clanged, arrows flew, bodies tumbled. It was no organized skirmish—it was a bloodbath.
The mercenaries fought like cornered beasts. Some fought dirty, rolling in the mud, stabbing upward from beneath, kicking at horses' legs, shoving rocks into faces. One jammed his dagger beneath a bandit's helmet and twisted until the man gurgled.
"DIE, BASTARD!" roared a bearded merc as he tackled a rider from the saddle, smashing his face repeatedly into a tree root until his skull cracked open like a melon.
The forest screamed with chaos—branches snapped, blood soaked into leaves, the air filled with the metallic tang of iron and smoke.
Back near the carts, Trevor ducked low, sweat beading on his face.
"Shoot! Shoot, damn it!" he barked at his special guards.
But before they could raise their rifles, a searing blue beam sliced through the air.
KRRAAAASH!
The arc exploded just behind the caravan, sending carts flying, dirt and fire erupting. Two of Trevor's riflemen were blown apart before they could scream.
The mercenary leader's face paled.
"This is... trouble. He's almost B rank. Might even be C+..."
Fear crept into his voice.
The burly man was now dismounted, spear in hand. His steps were heavy, deliberate. Each time he struck, a man fell—cut in half, impaled, or sent flying with broken ribs.
He didn't dodge—he powered through.
"Outta my way!" he growled, stabbing through a man's gut and flinging him like rag.
One merc tried to block with a shield—only for the spear to punch through both wood and flesh like paper. His head lolled back with a scream.
Trevor stumbled backward, legs shaking.
The burly man was coming right for him.
That look—cold, focused, full of bloodlust.
"HELP—!" Trevor shrieked, asking his guards to act.
Hidden behind the shattered frame of a supply cart, Trevor wiped the sweat from his brow and turned to his closest guard, eyes wide with urgency.
"Now!" he hissed. "Take the bastard down!"
Two cloaked figures sprang from the shadows. They moved in unison, rifles leveled, eyes fixed on the bandit leader who had just impaled another mercenary with savage ease. The rifles were long and matte-black, reinforced with old engravings and cold metal chambers. With a sharp crack—
BANG! BANG!
The barrels flared, smoke curling as bullets tore through the air. The first shot clipped the bandit leader's shoulder, staggering him mid-charge. He snarled, dragging a fallen soldier by the collar to use as a shield. The second shot missed narrowly, striking a tree behind him. Still, it was enough to make the monster pause.
"NOW!" Trevor yelled, rallying his hidden forces. "Push them back! Don't let them regroup!"
From the thickets on either side of the caravan trail, more mercenaries burst forth. Daggers drawn, swords glinting, they dove into the chaos. The clash was immediate—steel against steel, screaming against snarling.
Trevor ducked again and raised a hand, signaling across the clearing.
A sharp whistle—thwik-thwik-thwik!
A volley of crossbows launched from concealed spots in the brush, bolts hissing through the air. The first wave slammed into the bandits' shields. Some cracked, some held—others shattered like rotted wood. One bolt punched straight through a rusted iron plate and buried into a rider's gut, forcing a howl of pain.
Another mercenary shrieked as a misfired arrow deflected off a tree and lodged into his neck, a cruel accident in the madness. Blood sprayed, soaking the forest floor.
The mercenary leader, panting, covered in grime and gore, turned and barked, "Arm Trevor! Give him something!"
Two fighters stumbled toward the nobleman, handing him a dagger and a short-bladed saber. Trevor clutched them shakily—he was no swordsman, but anything was better than nothing. Sёarch* The NovelZone.fun website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.
The battle raged around them like a storm made of blood. Arrows zipped overhead, clashing with trees, bouncing off armor, sometimes piercing flesh. The sound of bodies slamming into the dirt echoed through the clearing.
Near the cart, the riflemen kept up their assault. Their rifles roared once—
BANG!
Then—click—reload. They worked fast, loading new rounds with mechanical precision. Another crack—
BANG!
Click. Reload. Fire again.
Each shot hit hard. One tore through a bandit's thigh, spinning him mid-step. Another smashed into a rider's chestplate, knocking him from the saddle. Blood flew, screams followed. But still—they moved. Still breathing. Still charging.
Trevor stared in disbelief. "How are they still alive?!"
"Too many layers," one guard muttered, reloading. "And they're juiced. Some of 'em... ain't normal."
The ground shook as a nearby explosion ripped apart a tree trunk, sending bark and debris flying. Somewhere, a horse screamed and toppled.
From a ridge behind the enemy line, more arrows rained down. One struck a mercenary in the calf—he fell, howling, only to be dragged away by another comrade. All around, the forest was a symphony of terror: branches cracking, men yelling, steel crashing.
Then, in the middle of the dirt path, the blue light came.
FZZZAAAAAM!
A beam, thin and searing, cut across the battlefield like a divine whip. For a moment, everything halted. The sound of its passage was high and sharp, like a scream held in a vice.
It struck the ground just meters from Trevor's position, sending dust and fire roaring upward. A crater formed instantly, and two mercenaries were thrown back, their armor scorched, faces burned. One tried to crawl, only to collapse as his lungs failed him.
Trevor shielded his face, heart hammering. "That light again..."
In the haze of smoke and ash, the bandit leader emerged once more. Bloodied, furious, with that same monstrous energy burning in his eyes.
But Trevor's guards didn't waver.
BANG!
Click.
BANG!
Click.
BANG!
Again and again, each shot echoing like a war drum.
"We keep firing!" Trevor shouted, voice cracked but determined. "We don't stop until they fall!"
Crossbows sang their deadly tune. More bolts found their marks. Men collapsed on both sides, the forest painted red with death.
And through it all the bandit leader shot out his sword that slammed on the ground with tremendous force killing one of the riflemen while the other was shot back brutally.
"ARGHHH!"
"AHHH!"
Screams echoed as they fell down.
The leader drew closer and was to attack but a sudden roar stopped him.
Not a man's but a blade.
FWOOOOOSH!
A massive sword arc ripped through the air from the direction of the last cart.
The earth trembled. Trees swayed. The arc cut through the ground like a blade through water, carving a deep crevice. The burly man froze—but too late.
KAAAABOOM!
The arc struck a crack between tree roots and exploded, sending shockwaves like a hammer smashing the land. Horses cried, men flew, the forest itself shook as if groaning in agony.
Smoke. Silence.
Ash drifted in the air.
Where once stood attackers was now a blasted crater, debris scattered. A few writhing bodies lay at the edges, moaning in pain. Most were gone.
And then—from the broken, burning cart—a figure stepped down.
He wore a tattered cloak, face hidden under a shadowed hood. In his hand, a sheathed sword, still glowing faintly with arcs of power.
He spoke, voice calm but cold.
"Royal Guards, huh..."
He looked up slowly.
"Believe me when I say this—it's rare to see such a daring motherfucker in the land of nowhere."
The survivors stared, silent.
Even the burly man—singed, bloodied, but still standing—took a step back, eyes narrowing.
The forest whispered.
War had come. But now, something stronger had answered.