To call what I witnessed a whipe* would be a disservice to the events that transpired before my eyes.

The men who had joined the caravan were by no means weak. Several from lower-middle class guilds, meaning they neared if not achieved the highest level of combat available, at our current time, that is.

(On the patch that Reshaped the Realm.)

Most being skilled, with many years of weapons and combat training under their belts. I would be hard pressed to come up with a few names among the party who hadn't trained under a weapons/martial arts masters for any duration of time.

This all being a long-winded way of saying: they were no pushovers.

Being strong was a necessity of joining the Baldwin's Crew after all.

Then, why?

Better said- how?

It was as if the combat hardy men had turned to farmers holding off against fighters.

Organization fell immediately.

Confidence soon followed.

Those with the most experience, the ones shouting orders were the first to be felled.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

A battle tactic that required either prior observation or a level of quick thinking that even the higher level guilds didn't all possess.

Bandits in groups of three working in tandem, as if reading one another's minds, then acting accordingly began to wreak havoc on the scene.

Again, another level unobtainable by anything lower than a higher guild.

My mouth watered at the sight.

All I could do was fend off blows.

Immediately I recognized that if I were to even attempt a strike, I would be countered and killed.

So, I stayed back watching the battle unfold.

From where I had positioned myself with wagons to my back, all I had needed to do was watch my front.

Everyone else around me scrambled and died.

Screams pierced the sky.

Men accustomed to only victory learned real defeat.

The Baldwin's being the only ones putting up a fight.

A struggle, but a fight none the less.

As the carnage continued my eyes centered on a figure that moved unlike the rest.

The moves were graceful yet fatal.

There aura was one of beauty, yet savage as well.

Harmonious in a way that battle never is.

It wasn't supposed to invoke.

It wasn't supposed to move the soul.

An oxymoron of war.

A beautiful death.

My new fixation

I caught myself thinking…

If I were to go…I would want it to be by that man.

The one that dances as they fight.

The one that would transform my life into death and my death into art.

An aura filled the party.

"Hope's loss."

This being one I'd never encountered.

I'd also never died, so I assumed that would follow.

Closing my eyes, I triggered every ability that would aid in a mad dash.

Evasion up.

Dodge chance up

Speed doubled

Power decreased

Threat level lowered

Marking in my mind a horse by the end of the caravan that seemed fit, I turned on my heels…

Then...

My bottom turned stiff

My vision blurred

And the ground was the next thing I met...