CHAPTER 1

FACING BANDITS

Mark rode his white horse through the humble village. Wooden houses with thatched roofs lined the streets. The villagers appeared poor, wearing simple, dirty clothes. As he rode through, all eyes turned to him. His shining armor made him stand out. Reaching the local inn, a modest building, he dismounted his horse and tethered it outside before entering.

The inn was small, with only half a dozen wooden tables and chairs. A handful of peasants sat around, enjoying their wine or cold beer. Their lively conversations and laughter filled the air until Mark stepped in. Instantly, the room fell silent. Mark walked up to the innkeeper, tossed him a coin, and requested a cup of beer. The innkeeper nodded, and moments later, Mark received his drink, which he promptly downed in a single gulp.

"I'm on the hunt for work," Mark queried the innkeeper. "I'm a swordsman for hire. Any chance you know of someone in need of my skills?"

The innkeeper paused, eyeing Mark to assess his capabilities. "As a matter of fact, we could use someone like you," he replied. "Times are tough. With Archon Anthemios' armies busy battling Archon Innokentios, bandits roam freely, terrorizing villages like ours. A group of them has threatened to raze our homes if we don't surrender everything we own by tomorrow morning. We're simple folk, no match for well-armed bandits. But you... you look like you can handle yourself."

Mark nodded firmly. "I'm asking for fifty gold coins."

The innkeeper's face paled. "That's too steep! Sir, we're just humble villagers; we don't possess such wealth!"

"Alright then," Mark conceded, "Thirty coins it is. But that's my bottom line. I don't work for free. I'm not running a charity."

The innkeeper agreed with a nod. "Very well. Thirty coins it is, and all the beer you can drink."

The day flew by as Mark kept ordering beer at the inn. He enjoyed some tasty chicken with bread. Though he noticed the peasants whispering and glancing at him, Mark paid them no mind. Deep down, he felt a twinge of worry about facing the bandits. Sure, his muscles remembered how to handle a sword, but with his memory gone, he couldn't recall past battles. Still, he reckoned he could handle a bunch of petty bandits.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The following morning, Mark rose with the sun. Armed and ready, he positioned himself at the heart of the village, anticipating the bandits' arrival. The villagers had retreated to their homes, fearing the impending clash. At last, the bandits emerged: rugged, menacing figures with unsightly faces, brandishing swords.

"Who do you think you are?" one of them bellowed.

"I'm here to protect the village," Mark responded calmly. "If you value your lives, I suggest you turn around and leave."

"Hah! You think we're scared of you?" another sneered. "We're taking your head as a trophy and setting this whole village ablaze!"

One of the bandits lunged at Mark, but he quickly blocked the attack with a swift upward stroke of his sword, resulting in a loud clang. Mark retaliated with a rapid, powerful slash. The bandit failed to defend himself against the assault. Mark's blade sliced through his chest, causing him to scream in agony before crumpling to the ground, blood pooling around him. Another bandit rushed at Mark, but he dodged the incoming blade. With a swift kick to the groin, Mark sent the man howling in agony. Seizing the opportunity, he drove his blade deep into the bandit's chest. As Mark withdrew his sword, now stained crimson with blood, the bandit crumpled to the ground.

The remaining bandits exchanged fearful glances. Though hesitant to attack, their leader – the one who had shouted at Mark – stepped up. "If none of you cowards have the guts to take on this guy, I'll do it myself!"

He inched closer to Mark, cautious and deliberate. Mark surmised that this guy must be skilled in duels, seeing as he wasn't rushing into attack. Finally, the bandit lunged with a downward slash, swift and forceful, but Mark managed to block it. Stepping back, the bandit and Mark locked eyes, a silent standoff. Then, the bandit struck again, this time horizontally, but Mark leaped, narrowly evading the blade. As he landed, Mark countered with a downward slash of his own, barely blocked by the bandit.

“Not bad…” Mark smiled.

The bandit lunged once more, but Mark dodged to the side and stabbed his blade into the bandit's thigh. The bandit crumpled to the ground, and Mark swiftly ended him with a deep thrust into his chest. Witnessing their leader lying lifeless in a puddle of blood, the remaining bandits fled in terror.

The villagers poured out of their homes, cheering for Mark with beaming smiles. He had become their hero. The innkeeper approached him, handing over a pouch of golden coins. "Thirty coins," he said with a smile, "just as we agreed."

Mark returned the smile. "Thanks. I'd love to stick around and celebrate, but I've got places to be." Such was the life of a wanderer – always on the move, never staying put for long.