“Helgaaaa!” Hans bellowed, his bloodshot eyes blazing as he charged toward me.

If looks alone could determine the outcome of a fight, I’d have lost a hundred times over—his expression radiated pure, raw fury. Considering he was a survivor of the devastated pursuit squad, I’d expected him to bear a grudge, but clearly, his resentment against my mother was deeper than I’d imagined.

To be honest, though, his anger seemed misplaced. When someone takes up a blade against another, they should be prepared for the consequences, shouldn’t they? Especially when it’s one versus many. If anyone had the right to hold a grudge, it was my mother.

But still… his physique really is something else.

Hans was even bigger and more robust than the guild staff had described. He was possibly a bit shorter than me but seemed about the same size as my mother. His bare arm looked like a bulging mass of muscle, and his armored arm was even more impressive, like he’d transformed into a one-sided Hulk.

Is that… humanly possible?

His arms were mismatched, one freakishly enlarged by the armor. And the mace he wielded was absurdly thick—so heavy-looking that an ordinary person would struggle just to lift it. He swung it as if it weighed nothing.

Maybe “Hans the Mighty” isn’t just a tall tale after all, I thought as he pounded the ground with each step, charging toward me.

“Die, Helga!” he roared, swinging his massive mace toward my head.

I quickly wrapped my ax in a light veil of wind and swung up to meet his blow.

A loud boom reverberated as air exploded outward. The sound wasn’t of metal striking metal—it was the wind clashing against an impossible force.

“You!” Hans’s face twisted in shock.

My own expression must have been just as stunned. Unbelievable. He deflected my wind.

I’d only wrapped a thin layer of wind around my ax, a light touch, almost as natural as brushing my lips with water. It was barely enough to count as wind magic, but it had always been more than enough to cut through even dragons. No one had ever deflected it. Until now.

Still reeling from the shock, I was too slow to react as Hans moved, perhaps already prepared for this.

He dropped his mace and lunged forward, thrusting his armored arm at my throat. The fingers of the armor lacked finesse, but the sheer force behind it was alarming.

That’s even stronger than the mace, I realized, instantly covering my arm in a thicker shroud of wind, forming a barrier just above my skin.

As he tried to grab my throat, I countered, catching his armored arm and twisting. A loud pop echoed as his shoulder dislocated.

“Gaaah!” Hans screamed, more in shock than pain. He looked at me, wide-eyed, as if he couldn’t believe what had happened.

“H-How? How is this possible?”

I wanted to ask him the same. How did you manage to deflect my wind?

Even though I’d put considerable force into the twist, his armored arm hadn’t cracked. This wasn’t ordinary armor; there was something peculiar about it.

It’s the arm. That armor is strange.

Though his shoulder was dislocated, the armor itself remained unscathed. It looked ancient and worn, yet it hadn’t taken a scratch. Destroying the armor seemed like an option, but there were easier methods to finish this.

I reached out and grabbed Hans by the top of his head, and though he tried to wrestle free, his strength paled in comparison to mine.

With a firm twist, I turned his head. There was a sickening crunch as his neck snapped, his head facing the wrong way. The life drained from his eyes as he slumped forward, his arm falling limp.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, as if awakening from a trance, the crowd erupted in cheers.

“Hans the Mighty is dead!”

“Rafa the Dragonslayer has triumphed!”

“Kill the bandits! Leave none alive!”

With a wild cry, someone brushed past me, charging toward the bandits. “With Rafa here, we have nothing to fear! Charge!”

The older leatherworker held two hammers, storming toward a bandit’s head without hesitation.

Fear was nonexistent in our ranks. Around me, craftsmen and soldiers, their eyes blazing red with fury, wielded weapons of every kind. From the largest tent, Paul and his guards emerged, blood staining their swords.

“The Hans gang has bounties on them! Leave none alive!” someone shouted, perhaps one of the leatherworkers.

The bandits who had entered the tent with Hans began to back away, their confidence visibly shattered. I let Hans’s lifeless head fall and turned my attention to the fleeing bandits.

At that moment, the armor on Hans’s limp arm detached and latched onto my own arm, moving as if magnetized.

“What the—?” I shook my arm, trying to dislodge it, but the armor crept further up, securing itself onto me.

Stolen novel; please report.

A cold chill ran through me as the armor snugly fit over my forearm. What is this?

Paul approached, stopping short as he glanced between my face and the strange armor.

“Rafa… what are you doing?” he asked, clearly disturbed.

“I-I don’t know. This thing just latched onto me, and it won’t come off.”

Paul looked torn, hesitating before stepping closer, then stopped, eyeing the armor warily.

He’s afraid it’ll attach to him too.

And I couldn’t blame him—I was just as afraid. Could this be… cursed?

“What do I do?” I muttered under my breath, and Paul quickly gestured for his guard.

“Help Rafa remove that… thing.”

The guard gulped. Not exactly willing, I noted grimly.

With as steady a hand as he could manage, the guard reached out and gingerly touched the armor. When nothing happened, he wrapped his hand around it and pulled.

Nothing. The armor didn’t budge.

“Come on, pull harder,” Paul urged, and the guard tightened his grip until his fingers went white, yanking with all his might.

Still nothing.

A chill ran down my spine, and I tested something else. Extending my arm toward the guard, I said, “Try pulling on my hand directly.”

Understanding my intention, the guard grasped my hand and pulled, confirming that my sense of touch was still intact.

Thank goodness.

Paul himself gave the armor a try, pulling with all his strength, but it remained stubbornly attached.

The armor doesn’t interfere with my movements, I observed as I swung my arm, testing my range. It’s just… stuck.

All around us, the clash of weapons and cries of battle continued.

“Some of them are escaping on horseback! Don’t let them get away!” someone yelled from a distance.

Since my movement wasn’t impaired, I figured I might as well continue fighting. And if anyone knew more about the armor, it would be one of Hans’s followers.

As I ran toward the outer edge of the village, a handful of bandits came into view, fleeing on horseback. Among them was one of the bandits who’d emerged from the tent with Hans.

Surrounding myself with wind, I sprinted, reaching the bandit’s side in no time. With a calculated swipe, I backhanded him from his horse—not too hard, just enough to knock him down.

His body hit the ground with a heavy thud as his horse galloped away riderless. Oops.

I halted and looked down at the man sprawled on the ground. Blood pooled around his head. No need to check. He’s dead.

I looked at the cursed arm again. Somehow, it still felt like my own, but evidently, my strength was far greater than usual.

This armor… it’s amplified my strength.

I took off again, chasing down the remaining bandits. I’d never run like this before, as if my feet barely touched the ground.

Within moments, I’d caught up to another bandit and yanked him from his horse, this time using my left arm. The bandit tumbled to the ground with a groan, his leg twisting unnaturally, but thankfully, he was still breathing.

At least the armor only affects the arm it’s attached to.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I crouched down, presenting the armored arm to the bandit, who was whimpering as he clutched his leg.

“This armor. What is it?” I demanded.

“P-Please… mercy…” The bandit’s eyes widened in terror, his face streaked with tears.

He thinks I’m my mother. Maybe he’s from the pursuit team.

I repeated my question, “Tell me. What is this armor? Where did it come from?”

The bandit blinked, his face a mess of snot and tears. “It—it was… found… in a tomb.”

“A tomb?” I echoed, my brow furrowing.

“Yes… a grave,” he stammered, nodding frantically. “Hans killed the original owner to take it.”

The bandit explained that they’d come across an old acquaintance who had lost the use of his arm and had taken up the armor to regain his strength. When Hans saw him, he got the man drunk, waited for him to fall asleep, and then killed him, taking the armor for himself.

“How do I take it off?” I asked.

“I-I don’t know!” The bandit shook his head frantically. “Hans… he never once took it off…”

So it can’t be removed… The weight of the realization settled heavily in my chest.

This wasn’t an ordinary piece of armor—it was truly cursed. It had come from a tomb, its former owners both meeting tragic ends. And now it had latched onto me, binding itself as if sensing my strength, refusing to let go.

My mind raced. If this really was a cursed item, it was only a matter of time before it might start affecting me as well. Would I, too, be doomed to suffer the same twisted fate as Hans and his predecessor?

I released the bandit, who slumped to the ground, visibly relieved at the small mercy. But I couldn’t let him go so easily.

“Who does the armor belong to?” I pressed, leaning close to his face. “Do you know anything about its origin?”

The bandit’s terrified eyes darted around, searching for a way out. His leg was still twisted, so running was out of the question. Realizing his only option was cooperation, he gulped and nodded weakly.

“There… there’s a legend,” he whispered, voice trembling. “An old tale of a cursed warrior who could never be killed in battle. They say he roamed the lands, his power growing each time he faced death.”

He swallowed hard before continuing, “But the more he fought, the more… twisted he became. Eventually, he went mad. He was trapped in his armor, and he tore through anyone who crossed his path. They say his body finally gave out, but the armor… it still thirsted for a host.”

The story left a chill in the air. It was unsettling but matched the cursed aura of this armor all too well.

“Where is this warrior’s tomb?” I asked, a plan forming in my mind.

The bandit’s gaze turned vacant, as if he were recalling a distant nightmare. “Somewhere in the ancient ruins to the north, in a forsaken valley. Few return from there. They say it’s a land untouched by time.”

“North, huh?” I muttered to myself. That’s not too far. I could travel there and search for answers. If I found the origin of the armor, maybe I could find a way to remove it.

I was about to stand up when I realized I’d need to deal with the bandit. I couldn’t just leave him here to spread rumors.

The bandit seemed to sense my thoughts, his eyes widening in horror. “Wait! I won’t tell anyone! Please—”

A thundering crack split the air. I looked up to see Paul and the remaining soldiers advancing, bloodied and worn but triumphant. It seemed the village was safe again, the last of the bandits either dead or fleeing into the night.

“Rafa!” Paul called out, his relief palpable as he approached. “You handled Hans and his men superbly. The townsfolk owe you their lives.”

I nodded, the weight of the armor pulling at my arm. “It wasn’t just me. Everyone fought well.”

Paul’s gaze dropped to the armor still latched onto my arm. “But that… Rafa, are you alright? That thing isn’t… affecting you, is it?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, watching the armor glint ominously in the torchlight. “But I think I’ll need to visit the ruins in the north to learn more about it.”

Paul looked uneasy. “Those ruins… they’re cursed lands, if you believe the stories. No one goes there without reason.”

“And I have a reason.” I looked back at him, feeling a strange conviction rise within me. “I need to get rid of this thing before it does more harm.”

Paul held my gaze for a moment, then nodded, a new respect in his eyes. “Understood. Let us know if there’s anything the guild can do to support you. We owe you that much, and more.”

I nodded and turned back toward the bandit, who lay silently, his face twisted in fear and regret. There was a part of me that wanted to spare him, to leave him to the mercy of fate. But I couldn’t risk him spreading the story of this cursed armor.

With one swift blow, I ended his misery.

This is just the beginning, I thought, as I looked down at the armor, its strange, ancient gleam still pulsing faintly. If I wanted to be free, I’d have to uncover its secrets. And if the warrior’s spirit still lingered, I’d face it.

One thing was certain: I wasn’t going to let this cursed relic claim me as its next victim.