The Bandit King had been in a foul mood the whole night. Most of his able men died in that attack. A heist he thought would be rewarding had ended in a tragedy that made his overall power drop considerably.
Sure, he was an Apprentice, but the Willow Mountains not only had him as an Apprentice. In these woods, where team power mattered as much as individual strength, the previous day had crippled his dreams of bringing more territory under his control.
The wasteland wind howled like a dying beast, carrying with it the grit of red sand and the metallic tang of dried blood.
The Bandit King marched through this desolation, his heavy boots crushing rocks into dust with every step.
A storm brewed behind his eyes, a dark and simmering rage that was far more dangerous than any sudden outburst.
Several of his remaining subordinates trailed behind him, keeping a respectful distance, their heads lowered as if avoiding the gaze of a predator.
Dust swirled around his broad shoulders, seemingly repelled by the sheer density of his killing intent.
He crested a small ridge, his eyes cold and hard as flint, watching the scene of butchery below.
Broken trees lay splintered ahead, creating a grim atmosphere together with the heavy scent of blood.
Bodies were strewn across the clearing, but they did not look like men who had died fighting.
The Bandit King stopped beside the first corpse.
It was Rigel.
The man had been his second-in-command, a warrior with strength that rivaled many Initiates, yet he lay there looking like a discarded doll.
His torso was twisted at an unnatural angle, his chest caved in as though struck by a falling boulder, yet there were no cuts, no slash marks, no signs of a blade.
Crouching down, the Bandit King ran a calloused finger along the dead man's bruised ribs.
Rigel's eyes were wide open, staring up at the harsh sun, frozen in an expression of absolute shock.
"Monster," the Bandit King whispered.
He moved through the carnage, examining body after body. Every wound told the same story: massive blunt force trauma, bones pulverized, armor dented inward.
It was not the work of precision weapons. Somehow, he was satisfied knowing they weren't killed by that woman. If that were the case, he would have had to reconsider his plans to capture her.
Standing up, he dusted off his palms with a derisive snort that broke the eerie silence.
"For Rigel to die like this… the monsters roaming here must be at the peak of the Initiate class."
He kicked a broken shield aside, watching it clatter against a rock, and spat into the dirt.
"Not even an attack-type monster. Trash." His rage made everyone flinch. It wasn't easy to fight an Initiate monster without a comprehended skill, he knew that.
But it wasn't that difficult for an Initiate to survive it, if they were on guard. For such elite men to be killed by mindless beasts was an insult to him.
His pride as a swordsman burned. The thought of his men being overrun by mere animals disgusted him, leaving a sour taste in his mouth.
Yet, beneath that fury lurked a whisper of unease he refused to acknowledge.
Monsters of this caliber usually stayed deep in the wilderness, far from the caravan roads. Their presence here was an anomaly.
His hand drifted to the hilt of his greatsword, gripping the leather until his knuckles turned white.
In his mind, there was only one culprit for this disaster.
That woman.
The memory of the silhouette atop the carriage, the one who had taunted him from the smoke, flashed through his mind.
If she hadn't interfered, if she hadn't used her strange tricks to delay them, Rigel would not have been exposed to these beasts.
She had to pay for it. He would make sure of it.
"I will find you," he growled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "I will carve you open inch by inch and feed you to the same beasts that took my men."
The killing intent radiating off him thickened the air, making it hard to breathe.
Even his hardened subordinates instinctively took a step back, terrified of becoming the target of his misplaced wrath.
He turned away from the massacre, the corpses already forgotten in the face of his vendetta.
Boots crunched against dried leaves and gravel as he began to walk toward the horizon, his gaze fixed on a distant shape rising from the wasteland haze.
A small, isolated village.
Redfern.
He stopped, staring at the cluster of wooden houses and the faint smoke rising from chimneys.
A thought stirred in his mind. Villagers always talked. In a place this desolate, nothing happened without eyes watching from behind shuttered windows.
Someone passing through a lonely village with a suspicious background—like a woman capable of such trickery—would be impossible to miss.
"Send scouts to Redfern," he ordered without turning around.
"But do not mess with the villagers. Keep your weapons sheathed and your tempers in check."
The men behind him froze, exchanging confused glances. Bandits, by nature, did not like being told to show restraint. Pillage and plunder were their birthright.
The Bandit King sensed their hesitation and continued, his tone darkening. "Lately, the military has been moving heavily in this area. If you draw attention, you die."
A shadow flickered in his gaze as he stared at the village.
"There is also a chance… that someone from the Guild is passing through."
When the word Guild left his lips, the atmosphere shifted instantly.
The bravado that usually surrounded the Bandit King cracked, revealing a sliver of genuine fear. It was brief, gone in a heartbeat, but it was unmistakable.
Even an Apprentice Swordsman knew better than to antagonize the Guild.
They were monsters wearing human skin. Adepts, Masters, Grandmasters—lunatics who could slaughter entire armies alone and call it a warm-up.
If a Guild member was investigating the area, or if one had decided to rest in Redfern, drawing their attention would be suicide.
Bandits survived because they knew who to prey on, and more importantly, who to fear.
"Act as merchants," he continued, his composure fully restored, burying the fear deep inside.
"Buy food. Trade tools. Blend in with the locals."
His eyes narrowed as he formulated the plan.
"Bribe someone in the village. Copper loosens tongues faster than torture. Tell them to report any stranger who appears, anyone who doesn't belong."
He pressed his heavy boot onto a crushed helmet lying nearby, grinding the metal into the dirt until it flattened completely.
"Also—if you find any able-bodied men, the type with desperate eyes and nothing to lose… recruit them. We need to replenish our numbers."
His men nodded quickly. They understood. He was rebuilding. And he was preparing for a hunt.
The Bandit King turned to leave, satisfied with his orders.
But halfway through his step, he froze.
Every hair on his arms stood up. A prickling sensation crawled violently down his spine—the primal instinct of a predator realizing it is being watched.
He whipped his head around, scanning the desolate landscape.
The wasteland was silent. The wind blew through the dry bushes, rustling the leaves.
No movement.
Nothing but the dead and the dust.
He narrowed his eyes, slowly surveying the treeline, the rocks, the shadows.
Yet he found absolutely nothing.
Eventually, with a grunt of annoyance, he dismissed the feeling.
Paranoia was a side effect of survival, but today it was wasting his time. He turned and stalked away, his cape billowing in the wind.
Between thick wild berry bushes, hidden deep in the darkest shadow, a round, furry potato trembled.
Nibble's large, glossy eyes watched the Bandit King march away, its tiny heart hammering against its ribs.
It suppressed a squeak with heroic effort, pressing its paws over its mouth.
Master said: Be quiet when danger comes.
So Nibble stayed absolutely still, blending perfectly with the earth, becoming one with the dirt and the roots.
Only when the bandits had vanished completely into the distance did the furry creature dare to breathe again.
It wiggled its nose, sniffing the air to make sure the scent of the bad men was gone.
Then, slowly, it began to bounce away, intending to return home and tell Master what it had seen.
SNAP!
The sound was sharp and sudden.
An iron cage dropped from the tree canopy above, falling straight onto Nibble with terrifying precision.
The little creature froze instantly, its eyes widening to the size of saucers.
It made no sound—because if it squeaked, the bad men might come back.
Nibble's small paws pressed against the cold iron bars. It pushed, but the cage was heavy.
Its ears drooped.
Tears gathered in its eyes, shimmering like tiny dew droplets, wobbling on the edge of its lashes.
It looked pathetic, adorable, and heartbroken—just like its master did when he was begging his wives for forgiveness.
A shadow shifted in the branches above.
A woman dropped lightly to the ground, landing with the silence of a falling leaf. She stood over the cage, watching Nibble with a calculating gaze.
"You are smart for an Initiate monster," her voice was emotionless. "Strange. I haven't read any of your kind. Are you from the portals?" She rubbed her chin, narrowing a pair of dark eyes without any white.
"Not my business, but I think you will taste good."
Nibble shook its head.
"You think you taste bad? Why do you think so? You haven't eaten yourself."
Nibble bounced in the cage.
"…Sure. I will not eat you. But you have to agree to my one condition."
Nibble stopped moving, looking at her in confusion.
"Lead me to your owner."
Nibble froze, then its eyes almost spat fire as it squeaked loudly, banging against the cage.
The woman curled her lips upward. "So you have a master. He must be from that village, right? Fine, don't lead me. I will find that one myself."
With that, she bent down and lifted the cage effortlessly.
* *
Author notes: [1]
[1] I keep trying to stay within 1,200 words per chapter, but some scenes refuse to fit neatly inside that limit. This one already pushed past 1.5k, and I have a feeling the upcoming chapters will be longer too. I hope that won’t bother any of you. I simply prefer finishing a scene within a single chapter rather than stretching it across several.