For a moment, the clearing held its breath.
The wind shifted, brushing through scorched grass and bloodied armor, brushing past the wall of fire that hissed and danced between the chaos and its quiet center.
Everyone—friend and foe alike—had turned their eyes toward him.
His blade rested low, tip near the ground, but his posture didn't waver. He stood there, eyes focused, not with arrogance, but with a cold, steady resolve that none of them had seen in him before.
It was Tireuz's healing that first broke the silence. The soft green glow returned to his wounded shoulder as he muttered a spell under his breath, eyes never leaving the enemy as he clutched his staff tighter. The healing light pulsed slowly, and the wound began to close.
Then—laughter. Sharp. Scattered. Disbelief bleeding into mockery.
One of the outlaws, a thick-necked man with a missing ear, threw his head back and barked a laugh so loud it echoed off the stone ruins nearby. "Hahaha... This one's serious!"
Another joined him, jabbing a finger toward Amukelo. "They've done nothing but barely hang on, and now he wants to play hero? Surrender? From you?"
The third outlaw, leaning on a dented spear, scoffed. "What can a kid like you do? You think you scare us now, little sword-boy?"
The jeers spread like wildfire, emboldened by the rising tension, by the clear imbalance in numbers.
But Amukelo didn't flinch.
He looked across the line of outlaws—six melee fighters, three archers, one mage. Then he looked at the fallen outlaws.
"A few of you are already dead," Amukelo said. His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. "And if we keep going like this, more of you will die. Maybe all of you."
His sword lowered slightly. Not in surrender—but in exhaustion. He didn't want to kill any more people.
"If you surrender," he continued, "you will live. And I'll do everything I can to make that happen. I swear it."
He exhaled slowly. "I just… don't want more people to die."
The laughter died off.
Something shifted.
Even Bral—who had known Amukelo fpr a very long time—felt a chill creep into his spine. This wasn't naivety. It was something else. A quiet acceptance of what had to be done… even if he hated every second of it.
Some of the outlaws looked at one another. One or two lowered their weapons slightly. A few stared at the fallen ones—Genkil who's breath was ragged, the spearman, others who now lay broken in the grass or scorched in fire.
A flicker of doubt moved through the group.
But Celeste shattered it.
"What are you doing?!" she screamed.
Her voice was sharp, biting. Eyes wide with fury as she turned on her own group. "Did you forget what just happened?! One of them just did the exact same thing—trying to buy time with sweet words! And now look! You're all hesitating! Like fools!"
Some of them looked confused. Others looked away.
She didn't stop.
"You were the ones telling me not to act on emotion," she growled. "So don't you dare listen to some fake sympathy now! These people are liars!"
She gritted her teeth as if holding something back. "All 'civilized' paeople are nothing but liars and cowards. The second it gets hard for them to keep us alive, they'll go back on everything they say! You saw how mercilessly he killed one of us!"
Her words hit Amukelo hard.
He didn't move, but his eyes lowered for a breath, just enough to remember the spearman. The kill. Not an act of cruelty. But necessary. And yet, it didn't make it feel right.
Padrin, still frozen behind the wall of fire, raised his head and spoke through gritted teeth.
"Celeste…" he rasped. "Is that really you? What had happened to you?"
She froze—just for a second. The name. The voice.
Then she turned away, fast, masking whatever had flickered in her expression. "Doesn't matter," she muttered, too quiet to be sure.
Another outlaw stepped forward. "She's right. We can't trust them. They'll strike the moment we lower our guard."
Celeste turned back to the fight and broke into a run. "I'll deal with the guy next to the one bound in ice."
The man beside her followed. "I'm with you."
He turned back and barked orders to the rest.
"Archers! Keep your eyes on the entire battlefield! Support those who are in bigger trouble!"
"To the rest—take the kid and the healer!"
They surged forward.
Bral saw it all unfold. He didn't hesitate. His blade was already ignited, and he raised it again to finally shatter the ice binding Padrin.
But something caught his eye.
A flash of white. A mana beam.
He threw himself backward just as a concentrated lance of pure energy exploded into the ground where he had just stood. The impact kicked up a cloud of light and dust, burning a shallow crater in the earth.
Bral rolled to his feet, breathing hard.
"Tsk..." he muttered, eyes narrowing at the mage in the back. "Now I'm even further from him than before…"
The wall of fire still held—but it wouldn't hold forever.
Amukelo pushed forward, he tired to get to Bral and Padrin, break the ice bindings to finish the fight with as few casualties as possible. But he didn't even make it halfway before the enemy moved in.
Four figures surged out from the side of the battlefield.
The first came fast, daggers glinting in each hand. He moved low, weaving left and right in erratic patterns. Amukelo didn't hesitate—he swung his blade in a clean arc targeting his shoulder to avoid delivering a fatal injury. Though he expected the outlaw to dodge or parry.
But the outlaw did neither. Seeing that the swing wasn't aimed to kill him, he just took the hit.
Steel bit into flesh, blood spraying out, but the man didn't even flinch. He pushed forward into the blow, closing the distance with a crazed grin, as if the pain fueled him.
Amukelo's eyes widened, but he didn't have time to dwell on it.
A roar came from his right.
He turned just in time to see an axeman bringing down a cleaver-like weapon aimed to split him in half. Amukelo yanked his sword back and stepped—light on his feet, he pivoted, the axe grazing just inches from his ribs. The wind of the swing passed him in a blur.
He prepared to counter, angling his sword upward—but two more shadows loomed.
Twin swordsmen—one from the left, one from the right—rushed in perfect sync, their blades arcing toward his sides.
Amukelo made a split-second decision.
He met the left swordsman first, steel ringing out as their blades clashed. Then, using the pressure from the impact, he twisted, shifting his entire weight into the pivot.
His shoulder hit the swordsman hard, and he closed the distance, dragging the two of them into a lock.
CLANG! Both of their swords collided with the second swordsman's weapon, all three blades clashing at once in a jagged triangle.
Using the moment of confusion, Amukelo drove his elbow into the first man's chest.
The swordsman gasped, stumbling back, his breath knocked clean from his lungs.
Amukelo raised his sword for a clean disarming blow—but he felt something behind him.
He twisted his body to the side, jumping back on sheer reflex. SHNK.
The assassin's daggers pierced only air.
The man crouched where Amukelo had just stood, a snarl twisting his face. His arms were drenched in blood from the earlier wound, but it didn't slow him down.
Amukelo landed hard and growled under his breath. "Tsk..."
The four of them circled him again.
Meanwhile, the real danger had arrived at Padrin's side.
Celeste and the hammer-wielding outlaw charged ahead, their eyes locked on their immobilized prey. Padrin still knelt, the ice gripping him like a frozen tomb. His arm flexed, fighting against the bindings, but it was no use. His sword lay too far. His legs were locked tight.
He saw them coming. The blur of movement. The gleam of steel.
And then her face. Celeste. The one he'd been searching for.
"Celeste!" he shouted, desperation lacing his voice. "It's me! Padrin! I've been looking for you! Please—listen to Amukelo. He's telling the truth. No one else needs to die!"
Celeste's steps faltered. Her eyes widened for the briefest moment.
"Pa… Padrin…?" she murmured, dagger still tight in her grip.
There was a crack in her voice. Her stance loosened.
But the man beside her didn't share her hesitation.
"Celeste, stay focused!" he snapped. "Remember what you said!"
Her face hardened again. She dashed toward Bral.
Bral intercepted.
He lunged at the hammerman first, their weapons crashing. The man swung with brute force, forcing Bral's blade wide. His muscles flared with effort, the hammer striking low, threatening to throw Bral off balance.
And then Celeste was there. Her steps were silent.
She slid in close, her dagger low, angling up toward Bral's side.
He twisted instinctively, the blade missing his vital organs—but her grip changed mid-motion, and she slashed back in a fluid arc.
The tip of the dagger sliced across Bral's side, drawing blood.
He let out a grunt and dropped to one knee, pain flashing across his face.
Celeste stepped in for the kill.
But the ground shook.
BOOM.
An earth wall surged from the dirt between them, thick and solid. Celeste's dagger scraped the side of it as it closed off her path.
And then a vibrant, green glow enveloped Bral, flowing across his torso, knitting skin back together in real time.
"Tireuz," Bral whispered through clenched teeth. "Perfect timing."
On the other side of the wall, the hammerman didn't hesitate.
He swung the massive weapon over his shoulder, slamming it down where Bral had just been.
But Bral was already rolling.
He evaded the strike by inches, the hammer shattering the dirt where he had knelt moments ago.
Bral came to his feet again, wincing as his body protested.
He glanced down at his sword—its core still glowing faintly, embers flickering along the edge.
"One more fire attack," he muttered. "Make it count."
His eyes lifted to Celeste and the hammerman standing across from him.
Behind him, Padrin still trapped.
And behind him, Amukelo still fighting alone.
But Bral's jaw set, and he raised his sword again.