That was when a jet of fire, or rather, a massive cylinder of fire that glowed, so much so the flames looked white, slammed onto the ground where the 10 men were, spreading itself out and for a moment, the militia at the makeshift sandbags recoiled, for fear of getting burned, but the fire, rolled out and out and out but stopped short of the sandbags.
The ten men stood there, as if not feeling the fire, but in a few moments, they seemed to stumble clumsily, clawing their throat, but no sounds came out. All watched in horror as they knelt down as if begging for deliverance from the fire and roasted alive, their bodies crumbling to ashes.
As the group that surrounded Lawrence watched the horrendous ideal, Lawrence quickly turned on his auto-combat and giving a roar suitable for his motion, his sword piercing the thigh of a distracted man wielding a club, causing him to yell in pain.
Lawrence then punched the man in the face while gripping his tower shield, his gauntlets smashing into the man’s face with such force that it seemed as if his skull had caved in, while simultaneously, spinning around with his sword, the sharpness of the blade cleanly decapitating a further four.
“Craig, Jacob, who on earth is this guy?” Roland asked, half in awe and another in apprehension as Lawrence practically fought the bandit group single-handed.
Jacob caught a whiff of the bandits that had been roasted alive and coughed in disgust.
“Does it matter? He is really saving our arses now.” Craig said, having lowered his bow after deciding that Lawrence was moving even faster than he could normally track wild boars. He may actually end up shooting Lawrence instead of any of the bandits around him.
Old Man Frost was hugging his granddaughter, tears running down his cheeks. The old man’s taut and drawn skin covered in bruises had trails of tears running down it, as he hugged his granddaughter tightly, with the little girl sobbing.
“Old Man, I think you should go in and join the others,” Jacob said, his tummy shaking as if in agreement as the butcher stated that and the old man stood up, looking at the massacre in front.
“But the hero?” Old Man Frost asked he had not even known that man’s name, the man who without asking a single question, came to his aid.
If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
“You mean Lawrence? I don’t know, but that armour doesn’t remind me of any of the crusaders that go by here once in awhile.” Roland commented. The armour of crusaders usually are etched with holy engravings and was either in silver or white colour. However, Lawrence was one of a dark colour. His weapon on the other hand…
“That sword isn’t just a normal sword, huh?” Roland remarked and the others nodded in agreement as the encirclement of Lawrence Carstein turned into a bloodbath as he twisted and turned.
The sword was a pale blue colour, a dim light that glowed whenever Lawrence drew blood. Unknown to them, Lawrence’s sword, which was named Shatterspire, upon opening a wound on an enemy, would cause that specific wound to fester, no matter what form of treatment was carried out on it.
Not that it would be a problem, seeing that Lawrence either wounded them so severely that they are almost unmoving on the ground and whimpering or are dead.
“Warrrgh!” the massive man that Lawrence had detected was level 6, swung his sledgehammer as his fellow men rallied, seeing that he had stepped forward.
“Watch out!” Jacob shouted, as the man with a massive hunk of muscle slammed the sledgehammer down on Lawrence, who had simply raised his tower shield to defend against it. A drop of cold sweat fell from Craig’s forehead, if Lawrence was lucky, he may fracture his arm from the impact against this, or if he was not—
However, a resounding thunk and the muscular man with the sledgehammer staggered backwards, a look of absolute disbelief, the sledgehammer’s head having been shattered against the shield, but not a dent was made.
Lawrence, responding to this attack swiftly, jumped forward, kicking into the kneecap of the hulking man, a nasty crunch later, the man had knelt down, clutching his broken knee, screaming in pain, which was cut short by Lawrence’s slicing of his neck.
As he gurgled and drowned in his own blood, the remaining 41 bandits threw their weapons down and ran for it, leaving behind Jacques, the “salesperson” and leader of the Axe Hill Tribe all alone.
“Where are you all going!?” Jacques yelled, taking a few steps back himself as Lawrence approached him, his sword drawn, flicking away the blood on his sword, his armoured boots stomping over skulls, intestines, limbs and other body parts of his fallen comrades.
“Where is your base?” Lawrence asked, taking a step forward to Jacques, whose legs suddenly lost strength as he sunk to the ground.
“Who on earth are you!?” Jacques screamed, grabbing the first thing he felt on the ground and threw it at him.
A head bounces off Lawrence’s armour.
Lawrence sighed, grabbing the once fierce bandit leader who has been reduced to a whimpering wreck and dragged him to the makeshift barricade of sandbags and throws him there.
“There, I leave him in your good hands, Village Chief,” Lawrence said politely and Old Man Frost himself came forward, rope in hand to tie Jacques up.