The villagers are gathered in the town square, like a herd of hapless mogs surrounded by circling wolves. They tremble with fear, tightly packed as if to seek safety in numbers.
The bandits brandish crude weapons to intimidate them. Axes, scythes, even pitchforks. Even so, the villagers are no match, half-starved as they are.
Like an experienced pack of predators, the bandits herd the villagers past an open sack, in which they deposit their valuables. Seashell necklaces, polished rocks strung together, simple metal bracelets. Perhaps even the occasional copper coin. Mere trinkets. A typical Cinnabarn merchant would turn his nose up at such a haul—beneath his dignity to pick up, let alone transport and sell!
Nevertheless, it fills me with fury. Even a simple mog herder must care for his herd and safeguard them from predators, whereas a lord must do so much more. What right do they have to demand tribute? Do they think themselves conquering kings levying reparations from the vanquished? On any other day, I would have drawn my blade without hesitation and cut them down like the scum they are. But without my Aura …
To the side, a host of bandits surround one man. Uncowed by their cowardly tactics, he bellows furiously and swings his fists wildly, shrugging off their assault as if immune to pain. Whereas the others are subdued and fearful, this one is a raging bull, fierce and untamed.
And yet, youthful defiance alone is no substitute for martial prowess. When another pair of bandits run up and join the group to surround the lone villager, the man’s fate is sealed. With neither Aura nor allies to compensate, the result is inevitable. He crumples to the ground, and the bandits seize the opportunity, beating him into submission while he curls up in a futile attempt to protect himself.
It is easy to prey upon common peasants, untrained and unarmed as they are. All it requires is to cast away your honor, to become lower than dirt and more pathetic than a worm! And if in doing so, you think yourself mighty, then you do yourself a disservice.
Do I fear those who making a living out of taking from those weaker than them? No! I am not weaker. For half my life, I have trained in the blade arts, honing my mind, body, and blade. Even without my Aura … even without my blade … I dare.
“My name is Rory Wilbor, baron of the Korsan Empire,” I shout, projecting my voice across the square. The bandits stop and turn to look at me in confusion. “To commit such acts before my eyes, I ask of you: are you tired of living?”
I stride across the square, pausing only to scoop up a long, sturdy stick, before pointing it accusingly at the bandits. “Look at you! You steal and lie and cheat, have you no shame? Pathetic! What worth do your lives hold? How many of you have done an honest day’s work in your lives? Lay down your weapons and I will spare your unworthy lives!”
And then they begin to laugh, chortling and holding their stomachs as if I am a court jester. These fools have only themselves to blame—they reject Mother Hayley’s embrace and walk straight into Nayef’s grasp!
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I leap into the air, kicking off the shoulders of one man to launch myself into their midst. A swing with the branch breaks an arm, and my sweeping leg knocks another off his feet. I land neatly on my feet, right beside the injured villager—unconscious, but still breathing—and they scatter in panic. The laughter has stopped. Now there are shouts of panic and confusion. They are afraid. The hunter has become the hunted.
Some dare to resist, ignorant to their weakness. Others flee in fear, having met their better. I sweep through like a storm, howling winds and torrential rain leaving a trail of destruction behind. Before long, only I am left standing.
Without Aura, things are not the same. No longer can I leap and flip—the classic hallmark of the Tempest Blade Style—without great effort. Lacking a proper weapon does not help either, a stick being a poor substitute for a real blade. Even so, bruised and bleeding, gasping for air, I am triumphant. Common bandits are no match for discipline and training.
“Who’s next?” I roar. “Who dares defy me?”
The rest have all backed off, looking at me hesitantly, like the cowards they are.
“That’s enough.”
From behind them, a man steps forward. Tall and imposing, he cuts a striking figure unlike his comrades. He stares at me, one eye covered by a black eyepatch, a deep scar running down his cheek and disappearing under a trimmed, white beard.
“What a surprise,” he drawls. “What is a baron doing travelling alone in parts like these?”
“It is no business of yours whom I travel with, bandit!”
He raises his eyebrows. “Nevertheless, these aren’t your lands, are they? You’re far from home, little baron.”
“My home is Korsa,” I bellow furiously, “and you stand on her soil, plundering her riches!”
“Oh?” He sneers derisively. “You nobles sit on your high horse, wringing out your pound of flesh, and proclaim yourselves to be righteous and upstanding! After all, what you call tax, we call plunder; what you call plunder, we call tax. Are you any different from us?”
“Don’t compare me to honorless scum like you!”
“Honor,” he repeats spitefully. “Honor is a luxury for those who can afford it. Nobles like you, who wallow in excess, while those like us toil in the dirt. Can honor feed a hungry man? If I must cast away honor to fill my stomach, then so be it!”
“Toil?” I exclaim. “What toiling have you done? You steal the hard labor of others and feast merrily!”
A noble with a bleeding heart,” he jeers. “A rare breed indeed! In any case, I don’t think we’ll get anywhere with words. I propose we let our blades do the talking.”
He throws a sword in my direction, and I reach out to catch it. Immediately, I can tell it is cheaply made. Heavy and poorly balanced, it is a sword fit for scrap.
And before I can disparage the insult of a weapon, he draws a blade no better than my own. As expected of a common bandit. At the very least, the playing field is level—only if you equate a trained swordsman with a common bandit.
“Listen well, bandit. I have no wish to spill blood unnecessarily. If you treasure your life, then lay down your blade and surrender.”
He remains silent.
I raise my eyebrows. “Perhaps you fear the consequences of your actions? Should you show remorse and make amends to your victims, I would offer to plead mercy on your behalf. At the very least, it should be possible to avoid execution. Any more than that, I can make no promises.”
“How gallant!” he cries. “How valiant! But I must confess there is one thing I’m curious about. You seem to think that your victory is assured and my defeat is certain. What is the basis of your confidence? Perhaps you think yourself to be Renol’s bastard son?”
I dismiss his blasphemy against the God of Victory as a cheap provocation and level my blade at his chest without a word.