The square of Dovira was abuzz, tension mounting as the voices of the Myrathian Marshals rose above the crowd's murmurs. Zane, pausing in his daily chore of helping a local merchant set up his shop, noticed an increasing number of townsfolk gravitating towards the commotion. Curious, he approached an onlooker to inquire about the unfolding drama. An elder of the town, looking particularly dismayed, confided, "The Palace has kicked the Marshals out. Now they're going mad, turning everything upside down to find out who complained about them."

Navigating through the thickening crowd, Zane reached the epicenter just in time to witness George, a familiar face among the townspeople, lying on the ground, battered by the Marshals. Two of them stood guard as their leader, Hugo, a burly man awkwardly donned in the traditional garb of a Myrathian Marshal, dubbed "Greasebag" by the townsfolk for his slippery dealings and bribes that seemed to slide into his pockets. Greasebag demanded, "Tell me who it was," before striking George in the abdomen.

"Stop it!" Zane couldn't hold back. A concerned Maya tried to stop Zane by holding his arm, her eyes wide with fear for what might happen next. "No, Zarin," George gasped. "How dare you hit him?" Zane confronted the Marshal leader Greasebag, standing defiantly before him.

The leader, in a bid to intimidate, grabbed Zane's collar. "Who the hell are you?" Zane, with a swift and practiced motion, managed to grapple and hurl the assailant over his shoulder, sending him crashing to the ground. A collective gasp, followed by an eerie hush, fell over the onlookers. The other Marshals readied themselves for combat. Their leader, taken aback and staggering to his feet, unsheathed his sword, barking, "You attacked a Marshal!"

"I thought you all were suspended," Zane replied, his calmness contrasting the escalating tension. Insulted, the leader lunged in a reckless attack, which Zane effortlessly dodged. Seizing the moment, Zane grabbed the Marshal's sword by the pommel, using it to pivot, disarming him in one fluid motion. The two Marshals behind him stepped forward, ready to join the fray, but a gesture from their leader halted them. "Wait, let's see him fight the bandits," the leader sneered, regaining some composure. "We were the only thing standing between those bandits and this town. The tax was a trifling sum for your safety. You'll realize the gravity of your mistake by sunset."

After the Marshals left, whispers filled the square. Zane and Maya helped George to stand, dusting him off. Maya, with a teasing smirk, said, "I already knew you were a Myrathian Elite Soldier. Why else would I have taken you in?" Zane, with a knowing glance towards Maya's playful boast, countered, "And what about Myrathian horses knowing when to stick by their rider?" Maya scoffed, dismissing the notion, "That? That was totally nonsense." Zane smiled confidently, nodding towards the horizon behind her, "Is it?" Turning, Maya's eyes widened as the silhouette of a horse appeared, gracefully cantering closer with every stride.

Maya watched in astonishment as the horse approached gracefully, slowing to a trot before coming to a stop beside Zane, who embraced his horse with a relieved hug, stroking its neck affectionately. Zane then carefully removed his sheathed sword and an alchemy pouch from the saddle, his thoughts reflecting a sense of urgency, "Just in time, when I need them the most."

"How? I don't understand," Maya expressed, her confusion clear. Zane explained, "Myrathian horses are trained alongside their riders from an early age. They can sense our emotions, like fear or the rush of adrenaline when we're about to engage in combat," he said, giving his horse an affectionate pat. Under his breath, "Though mine seems to be a bit too clever, deciding to leave me right when I met you," he murmured, earning a playful snort from the horse.

George, with worry creasing his brow, interjected, "The bandits... if they break through, they could ravage everything." Zane's voice was resolute, "I won't let anything happen to this town. Is there somewhere high up we can go to see how many bandits are coming?"

Maya suggested, "The Dam. It collects water for our reservoirs from the River Saras. It's massive—you can see for miles from there."

Arriving at the Dam, they were greeted by an impressive feat of engineering. Constructed with massive stones and mortar, it spanned the River Saras, creating a vast reservoir lake that glistened under the setting sun. As Zane and Maya ascended to its crest, the clacking of the horse's hooves on stone echoed around them. From this vantage point, they scanned the horizon, searching for any signs of the approaching bandit horde.

"I need to intercept them before they reach the town. I'll stand a better chance fighting them out there while keeping the town safe," Zane outlined his strategy, determination evident in his tone. Maya, her worry apparent, responded, "But can you handle them all by yourself? Wouldn't it be safer to seek reinforcements? Perhaps we could enlist the aid of Myrathian Marshals from nearby towns?" Zane replied, "We're running out of time. Soon a new team of Marshals would be sent by the palace. They would surely attack today. "

The sun dipped lower, painting the sky a deep shade of orange, signaling the day's end. From afar, a cloud of dust billowed up from the salt marshland, marking their approach. "They're here," Maya's voice broke the silence, tinged with alarm.

Pushing his horse to its limits, Zane hastened towards the town. He slowed only to drop Maya near the gates, his voice firm yet reassuring, "Alert everyone. And don't worry—I can handle this." Concern shadowed Maya's usually vibrant features as she watched him ride away.

Across the vast landscape, a group of riders thundered towards the town, their intentions clear. Zane, in stark contrast, charged from the opposite direction, alone. Drawing his sword, he braced for the imminent clash. The disparity was stark: a dozen against one. The bandits, noticing the lone figure racing towards them, exchanged wary glances. "That must be the one Greasebag warned us about. Does he really think he can face us alone?" a bandit leader sneered disdainfully.

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Moments before the clash, Zane whispered an apology to his horse and hurled a cluster of his alchemy bombs into the fray and jumped off his ride. The resultant explosion unleashed a shrill, dissonant sound, throwing the bandits' horses into a frenzy. The animals bolted, unseating their riders with abrupt ferocity, leaving the bandits sprawled in the dust.

As the disoriented bandits struggled to their feet, Zane issued a stern warning, "Turn back now. Whatever Greasebag has promised you, it's not worth it." His voice carried the weight of an undeniable threat, echoing in the sudden quiet of the marshland.

The bandits, wielding crude and aged swords that reflected their rugged lifestyle, gathered themselves from the ground. Their leader, distinguished by his slightly more ornate but equally weathered sword, barked an order to attack. Two bandits, positioned closest to Zane, charged at him with their blades swinging. Zane skillfully parried one sword while sidestepping the other's slash. In a fluid motion, he delivered a sharp hilt punch to one assailant and a forceful kick to the other, sending them reeling. Then, with a quick, sweeping motion of his sword, he delivered a shallow cut to another bandit charging at him, effectively disarming him.

As yet another bandit advanced towards Zane, weapon poised for a strike, Zane anticipated the move. He used the momentum to hoist the bandit over his shoulder and onto the ground with impressive precision. He quickly subdued the man by pinning his arm down and delivering a carefully aimed, non-fatal stab to the arm, showcasing both his combat mastery and his mercy.

As Zane engaged the bandits, skillfully felling one after another, it appeared he held the upper hand, poised to easily dispatch his adversaries. However, in a sudden turn of events, a sharp pain exploded in his back. Grasping at the site, he realized an arrow had struck him. Behind him, a group of Myrathian Marshals appeared, one with a bow drawn and aimed in his direction. Among them was Greasebag, who urged his horse forward, sneering, "I don't know who you are, meddling in my affairs, but you've just sealed your fate." He signaled the archer to fire again.

An arrow whistled through the air, aimed directly at Zane's throat. With a reflexive motion, Zane raised his arm, the arrow piercing through, the intense pain causing his sword to clatter to the ground. A bandit leader seized the opportunity to slice at Zane's thigh, causing him to cry out in agony and collapse to his knees.

As Zane fell on his knees, the bandit leader pressed his sword against Zane's neck, poised to deliver a fatal blow. "Don't kill him," Greasebag ordered, his voice dripping with mock concern that quickly twisted into a malevolent sneer. "Just sever his arms and leave him to bleed out in the marsh. Let him feel the slow approach of death for daring to insult me."

Despite the dire situation, Zane met Greasebag's gaze with a defiant smile. "Don't you hear it?" he challenged. Greasebag, puzzled and annoyed, retorted, "Hear what?" But then, the unmistakable sound of a horse's gallop reached him too. Suddenly, a figure on horseback charged past the bandit leader, swiftly circled back, and came to a halt. To the shock of all present, the bandit leader's head fell to the ground. The rider, clad in the distinctive leather and metal armor of a Myrathian Elite soldier, dismounted and removed their helmet, revealing themselves as General Idris.

Fear spread among the Marshals at the sight of General Idris, her formidable reputation was widespread across the Eastern Lands. As they scrambled to escape, Idris's precise throw of a knife struck Greasebag in the arm. His scream, sharp and childlike, echoed as he fell from his horse, while his companions quickly fled the scene.

Zane, despite his injuries, lit up at the sight of his mentor, General Idris. As Idris dismounted, her gaze fell immediately on Zane's wounds. "Are you alright?" she inquired, concern evident in her tone. "Yes, they're just surface wounds," Zane reassured her, using his sword as a prop to stand. "They ambushed me, or I would have had them," he added, trying to justify his predicament, hoping to not disappoint his mentor.

"You single-handedly took down a Thrayan demon creature; you've become quite the fighter," General Idris acknowledged, pride evident in her voice. Then, in the manner of a true mentor, she added, "Still, you need to stay more alert during battle. You should have spotted those Marshals approaching from behind." Zane's grin acknowledged his oversight.

Approaching the groveling Greasebag, Idris queried, "What's to be done with him?" Zane, with a hint of jest, loomed over Greasebag, "How about I repay the favor you intended for me?"

Begging for mercy, Greasebag implored, "Please, I beg of you, let me go. I swear, I'll never trouble this town again." Zane, showing a measure of clemency far from Greasebag's own intentions, took the bandit's horse and left him to his fate. "Walking back through the marshlands will give you ample time to think over your pathetic life and fix it," Zane declared, ensuring the bandit's punishment was more reflective than retributive.

"Come Idris, I've been staying with some wonderful folks in a nearby town. You should meet them," Zane said, eager to introduce General Idris to his new acquaintances, particularly Maya. Mentioning "and there is this girl," he couldn't hide the budding warmth in his tone, prompting a knowing smile from Idris. "And what of this girl?" she prodded gently.

"Nothing, she's just... a friend," Zane quickly demurred, a faint blush betraying the depth of his newfound connections.

The townspeople's spirits soared at the sight of Zane and his company's victorious return. As Zane dismounted, limping slightly from his injury, a concerned Maya quickly approached him. With a reassuring smile, Zane eased her worries, "It's nothing Healer Aunt can't handle." Amidst this, George declared, "We must celebrate this victory," his enthusiasm echoing among the crowd.

Amid the growing excitement, Zane took a moment to make introductions. "Meet General Idris, my mentor, who taught me how to fight," he said, gesturing towards Idris. Turning to Maya, he added playfully, "And this is Maya, who...", thinking for a bit, "...who just talks."

Maya, taken aback and deeply impressed, responded with a mix of awe and reprimand, "Oh, be quiet, Zarin! Are you really the renowned General Idris? It's an honor. You were the first captain of the Myrathian Hunters, and your team almost took out all the Thrayan Demon Creatures from Myria and nearby. And aren't you also the youngest woman ever to be appointed General?"

Zane couldn't resist another jest, "As I said, she just talks." Idris, with a serene and humble smile, clarified, "Not just the youngest woman, but the youngest individual to become a General."

As the town's celebrations echoed into the night, Greasebag trudged through the marshland, the cold night air enveloping him. With each step, his resentment towards Zane and the townspeople deepened. Exhausted and seething, he finally reached the Marshal outpost, a dilapidated structure that served as his base of operations. Stumbling towards the armory, he hastily gathered several tightly bound explosives, shoving them into a sack.

Under the haunting glow of the moon, Greasebag's silhouette cut a chilling figure against the open marshland, a sack of explosives slung over his shoulder he trudged forward towards the distant, massive Dam.