Greg's boots crunched in the snow-covered underbrush of the Lonely Hills as he rushed forward to meet the bandits, the cool night air filling his lungs. He could've enhanced his sword’s sharpness, made it slice through their weapons like a lightsaber — weapons, bone, flesh, all at once really — but that trick was a drain he couldn't afford mid-fight.

Plus, he mused, a little swordplay made for good practice.

The bandits, clearly not used to their prey fighting back, circled him with a mix of shock and anger on their rough, dirty faces. The huge guy with the greatsword looked super pissed, like he obviously wanted to split Greg in half. On either side were two of his bandit buddies—one with a bastard sword and the other with a quick little smallsword, both ready to get a piece of him — while two others hung back by the treeline.

Greg braced himself, feeling the barely noticeable weight of his own sword in hand, ready to meet their advance head-on. His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins. Let’s just get this over with and get paid, he thought, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Look 'ere, boys!" the big guy with the greatsword bellowed, his voice rough as gravel, a mouth full of black, rotting teeth. "This wee lad finks 'e can take us all on!"

Greg's eyes narrowed. Wee lad? Seriously? "Hey," he shot back, "your penis is small."

The brute roared and swung downward in a move that could have cleaved Greg in half… had it landed. Hit a nerve! Greg's response was immediate, stepping back with a swift pivot that turned a lethal strike into a harmless miss. His boots skidded slightly on the snow-covered rocky ground.

As the greatsword gouged the dirt, the bandit with the bastard sword jabbed at Greg's open side. Simultaneously, the smallsword wielder lunged from the right, blades hissing through the air.

Greg twisted away, feeling the wind of both blades missing him by inches. He stabbed back with his own sword, forcing the two bandits to jump away.

"I'll gut ye like a fish, boy!" the bastard sword guy yelped, barely avoiding the counterstrike.

"Fuckin ‘ell!" the smallsword wielder hissed as the blond in green parried a thrust from the man’s balde, his sword clashing against the metal and sending sparks flying. He used the momentum to block a swing from the bastard sword, the impact juddering up his arm.

"You know I killed all your guys, right?" Greg taunted, his blood pumping. “Like I’ve only ever done the knife thing on trees. It works on people, too!”

The three bandits circled him, their movements growing more coordinated. As the bastard sword swung toward his midsection, the smallsword darted in from the side

Greg twisted out of the path with a practiced backstep he couldn't have pulled off a few months ago, smirking as the bastard sword stumbled. The third bandit, nimble with his smallsword, shot in like a striking snake again, attempting to exploit Greg's momentary distraction. He shoved the smallsword wielder back with a hard elbow, only to have to immediately duck a whistling slash from the greatsword.

"Not so cocky now, are ye?" the big man growled.

Greg parried the slash with the flat of his blade, metal ringing sharply. He ducked under, the greatsword slash going wild. "Actually," Greg grunted, "I'm not cocky at all. I just hate you." He wasn’t even joking, he really did hate people like this.

Something in him just couldn’t see them as human. How many people had he killed now? Thirty? Forty? The worst part wasn't the killing - it was how he really didn’t have to justify it. He didn’t even really care much about pushing that down as he slashed forward, a slight smile on his face.

Each move was a calculated risk, a test of the skills he'd picked up recently. Every breath was measured against the tornado of blades around him. His heart raced, adrenaline surging, but his head was clear.

Sharper than ever.

This was the training he couldn’t get from simple drills in the woods.

The rocky outcroppings of the Lonely Hills loomed around them, casting long shadows in the moonlight. Snow crunched underfoot, and the clash of steel echoed off the stone faces.

The bandits pressed their attack, blades flashing from all angles. Greg parried and dodged, his sword a blur of motion. He caught the smallsword with the flat of his blade and redirected it into the path of the bastard sword, the two bandits nearly striking each other.

"Watch it, ye idiot!" the bastard sword wielder snapped.

The bandits, however, didn't seem appreciative of being used as practice dummies. “T’ain’t me fault, Dom!”

The smallsword wielder, frustrated, tried to sneak in a low strike, but Greg caught the movement from the corner of his eye and blocked it with an ease that he doubted any one with his level of practice should have.

"Stand still, ye little shit!" the man spat, his face contorted with rage.

Greg couldn’t help but smirk, despite it all. "Yeah, no. I think I'll pass.”

Feeling a familiar prickle of intuition, Greg ducked under another heavy swing from the greatsword, feeling its wind rip through his hair. He rolled to the side, his hands gripping the damp earth as he narrowly avoided a stabbing motion from the bastard sword. Snow crunched beneath him, the cold barely seeping through his enchanted green clothes.

Greg bounded to his feet and lunged, abandoning defense for a brutal offense. Less about strength, more about precision.

The other man, overconfident and slower, didn't anticipate the change in target. His sword sank into the bandit's forearm with a sickening, meaty crunch before he yanked it free, trailing ribbons of blood.

The bandit howled in pain, dropping his weapon and clutching the stump of his arm as blood spurted wildly, staining the white snow crimson. The scream that filled the Lonely Hills was bloodcurdling, and Greg winced at the sound, irritated. Geez, drama queen much? he thought, before immediately feeling guilty for the callous thought.

"Sorry about that," he muttered with only a hint of sarcasm. If it were anyone else, he would have meant it. Even here, he almost did, even if he only felt bad for how he didn’t feel bad.

He just couldn't find it in him to care about guys like this. "Really."

The remaining two bandits hesitated, shock evident on their faces as their comrade writhed on the ground.

Greg lazily kicked the writhing man away, his boot squelching in the blood-soaked snow. He turned to face the remaining two as the fallen bandit's screams echoed off the trees, bouncing between the rocky outcroppings. The sound sent a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

Three left.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Now it was just him against the greatsword and the smallsword. The latter's wielder looked hesitant now, his eyes darting to his disabled companion. The man's face was pale, a sheen of sweat visible even in the dim light.

"Ye've gone and done it now, boy," the smallsword wielder growled, his voice shaky. "We was just gonna rob ye, but now... now we's gonna make ye suffer."

Greg wrinkled his nose, unable to keep a straight face with that blatant lie. “...what?” He snorted at that. “This is not the first of your guys I killed.”

The greatsword snarled, spittle flying from his lips. "I'll cleave ye in two, I will!"

"Ye'll try," Greg retorted with a cocky grin. God, I love this accent. I sound like Braveheart.

Before he could make another move, Greg's intuition whispered again. He ducked, feeling the whoosh of air as a blade grazed where his head had been seconds before. The smallsword wielder slid past, his blade scraping against a nearby tree and showering Greg with bark and splinters.

"Stay still, ye little rat!" the big man roared, slashing his own sword down and embedding his own blade in that same tree with an even angrier yell.

Greg's senses heightened, the metallic scent of adrenaline and fear mingling in the air with the coppery smell of spilled blood. He launched a rapid series of attacks, his blade flashing in the dimming light. The smallsword bandit parried frantically, the sound of clashing steel a constant echo in the cool evening air.

"What in th' seven hells are ye?" the smallsword wielder gasped between parries.

Greg grinned, a manic edge to his voice as he replied, "Just your friendly neighborhood Witcher! Wait, is that this universe? Let's go with... hero?” His grin widened. “Yeah, I fight evil. That works."

He was learning the rhythm of real combat, a far cry from the neat forms and drills he'd practiced. This was raw, chaotic, primal. But there was a strange exhilaration to it, a fierce joy in the strain of his muscles and the hammering of his heart, as he danced between both men, snow crunching under his feet, his breath coming out in sharp, visible puffs.

The greatsword arced down and Greg barely twisted aside in time, feeling the heavy blade score a line of icy pain across his bicep. He hissed through clenched teeth, but the wound was already knitting itself closed, flesh and skin sealing as if by magic. Gotta love that healing factor.

Granted, it only seemed to work faster after he killed some bad guy, but Greg figured that was just his HP recovery mechanic or something. He didn’t really wanna think about it too much.

Greg spun away, putting some distance between himself and the greatsword, and nearly impaled himself on the smallsword as the bandit lunged, lips peeled back in a feral grin.

"Thought ye could forget about me, eh?" the man sneered. "I'll be takin' yer guts for garters, boy!"

"Dude, gross," Greg grimaced, batting the sword away. "Seriously, what's with you guys and guts? Is it a fetish or some--oh shit!"

The smallsword managed a quick stab that sliced at Greg's arm, nicking just above his wrist. The sharp pain was immediate, but so was the healing—Greg felt the wound stitch itself closed almost as quickly as it had opened, a warm rush flooding through him as his adrenaline spiked with frustration. Okay… stop fucking around.

Greg spun, his sword flashing out in a wide arc, aiming to keep both the smaller sword and the greatsword at bay. His blade connected with the smallsword again, forcing the wielder back a few paces. The clash of steel rang out, echoing off the rocky hills around them.

"Ye can't keep this up forever, boy," the big man taunted, his greatsword whistling through the air.

He dropped into a roll as the greatsword whistled over his head, coming up in a crouch. The big man roared in frustration, spittle flying from his mouth as he charged again blindly like an enraged bull. Ole!

Greg waited until the last second, then pivoted sharply, letting the brute's momentum carry him past. He hammered the pommel of his sword into the bandit's kidney as he went by, eliciting a bellow of agony.

"Oh I'm sorry, did that hurt?" Greg mocked. Shit, I sound like a villain. Quick, say something heroic! "Uh... crime doesn't pay!"

Nailed it.

Greg parried another thrust from the greatsword then slid past a stab from the smallsword wielder, only to spin around to deliver a hard kick to the second man's knee. As the bandit stumbled, Greg swept his blade in a wide arc, aiming to incapacitate rather than kill. His sword slashed across the back of the bandit's legs, hamstringing him with a spray of blood. The man screamed and crumpled, his blade tumbling from suddenly nerveless fingers.

"Me leg! Ye bloody bastard, ye've taken me leg!" the man howled, his face contorted in agony.

"Technically, I just sliced it. It's still attached. Mostly," Greg quipped. Man, when did I get so... cold? He didn’t pause but his thoughts did for a half-second. Probably around the same time I started counting kills like achievements.

"Yield, ye bastard!" the bandit sobbed, clutching at his ruined legs. "I yield!"

Greg ignored him, whirling to search for the big man-- just in time to catch a greatsword to the chest. His own blade flickered up, catching the heavy steel in a shower of sparks, but the force still slammed him back a step, driving the air from his lungs. Shit, that's gonna bruise!

"I'll 'ave yer 'ead on a spike," the brute growled, baring his teeth. "An' fuck yer corpse for the crows!"

"Okay wow, you have some serious issues," Greg panted, an eyebrow raised. I swear, one more threat involving my entrails and I'm going full Vlad the Impaler on these assholes.

Steel clashed against steel, breaths mingling in the frigid air as they strained against each other. Greg's arms trembled as he tried to hold the guy off, slowly giving ground before the bandit's brute strength. Crapcrapcrapc--

With a burst of desperate strength, Greg shoved the sword away and darted back, barely avoiding another swing.

With a roar, the bandit rushed after him.

That’s it, fuck you! Greg met the charge head-on, twisting to let the greatsword pass harmlessly while delivering a punishing elbow to the man's jaw. The impact sent the bandit staggering, his grip loosening on his weapon. In pain and clearly more a berserker than anything, greatsword made one last desperate swing.

Greg ducked under the swing, feeling the wind of its passage ruffle his hair. With a quick, clean flick of the wrist, his blade caught the moonlight as it opened the belly of the man, who fell to his knees with a wet thud on the snow. The man's eyes widened in shock, his hands frantically trying to hold in what should have stayed inside.

With a grunt, the teenager flicked his wrist out in the other direction, his own blade slicing viciously at the brute's neck-- a clean, perfect decapitation. The bandit's head flew free, a fountain of arterial spray painting the snow crimson as his body slumped into a twitching heap.

Greg straightened up, breathing hard, his sword dripping with a cocktail of regret and necessity. The metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils, making him want to gag as it always did after a fight like this.

Then, that familiar whisper of intuition told him to move—he stepped aside on instinct just as an arrow whizzed past his face, embedding itself in a tree with a solid thunk. The sound made his heart leap into his throat.

Turning, he saw the archer, the last of the bandits, nocking another arrow, face pale with fear but determined. The man's hands shook as he drew back the bowstring.

"Don'tcha come any closer now," the bowman warned, his voice trembling. "I swear on the old gods an' the new, I'll put the next'un through yer eye!"

Greg frowned, fatigue nipping at his edges. I need this to be over. With a reluctant sigh, he swung his sword from a distance, channeling his power into the blade. A crescent of blinding blue-white energy sizzled from the metal, streaking across the snowy clearing like a comet. The air crackled with power, the hair on Greg's arms standing on end.

A half second later, another head fell to the floor in one clean cut, a body following it a moment later. The bow clattered to the ground, unused.

"I really hate doing that," Greg muttered as he watched the headless body collapse. The energy moves were flashy but draining, leaving him feeling like he'd sprinted a whole city block. He glanced around at the carnage, the reek of blood and raw meat thick in the icy air, doing some quick mental math.

Shit, one got away… After a moment, he shrugged and then looked up at the faces of the hostages, their eyes wide with a mix of awe, nausea and tearful relief.

"So... job said rescue a kid," Greg said out loud, biting his lip. "Guess I got a… nine-for-one deal, huh?" He turned, his gaze finding the rocky outcrop nearby. "Ash! You good, buddy?"

A loud grunt came back in answer as a small brown fuzzy figure poked its muzzle over the rocks. He blinked and a half-second later, made an odd noise that he was barely able to keep from turning into a groan as memories flooded his mind. What the…

Pulling himself together, Greg quickly nodded, turning back to the kids with a smile that he hoped was reassuring and not terrifying. "Okay, we're good. Let's go."