Amukelo's boots slammed against the dirt as he reached the hammerman, whose massive weapon spun in a wide arc, full of rage and wounded pride. The rusted sword still stuck out of his back, but it hadn't stopped him. The hammer came low and fast, a full-body swing meant to sweep Amukelo off his feet and end the fight in one blow.
But Amukelo didn't stop. He leapt.
The hammer whooshed beneath him, slamming into the ground with a deafening crack. Amukelo sailed over it, sword raised high. In mid-air, he shifted his grip, already preparing to drive the blade downward into the back of the man's skull, to end it.
But then, he saw a sudden flash to his side.
Amukelo turned his body, twisting mid-air, and his sword spun sideways. There was a clash, sparks flying as he blocked a dagger that came in sharp and precise.
He landed hard, knees bent. And standing there was Celeste.
Her amber eyes were locked onto him, unreadable. Her stance was narrow, her frame angled, her blade already low and aiming to slide between his ribs with deadly precision. It was poison-tipped—he knew it.
He reacted before he thought.
He slammed his elbow forward.
The blow caught Celeste right in the face.
She staggered, dazed, but Amukelo didn't let go. He grabbed her by the collar, twisted, and raised his sword. His muscles tensed. His face hardened. His blade began to drop.
She didn't even scream. She only stared at him with a strange emptiness.
But just as the sword came down— "DON'T KILL HER, I BEG YOU!!"
The scream tore across the battlefield, ragged and desperate. It was Padrin.
His voice broke on the last word, filled with something far deeper than just fear. It stopped Amukelo cold. His grip held, his blade hovered—but he didn't strike.
Celeste blinked in disbelief. Amukelo's hand trembled.
Even in the middle of this storm, he kept enough control over himself. He looked over his shoulder.
Padrin was still bound in ice, weakened, but his body leaned forward, eyes wide with emotion. His face wasn't filled with anger or pride—it was fear. Concern.
Not for himself. But for her.
"Please…" Padrin said again, softer this time. "Thank you…"
Amukelo's heart pounded.
The weight of his sword felt heavier in that second than it had the entire battle.
He grit his teeth and released her collar. But even then, danger wasn't done.
The hammerman, groaning in fury, had raised his weapon again. Celeste hadn't moved—but he had.
He brought the hammer around in a reckless swing.
Without thinking, Amukelo kicked Celeste in the stomach, sending her backward. She slammed into the hammerman just as the swing was released, disrupting the momentum. They both stumbled.
Amukelo jumped back, barely avoiding the blow.
Dust kicked up again as he slid to a stop.
Padrin, still trapped behind the remnants of the battle, slumped with relief. "Thank… thank you…"
But there was no time to reflect.
An arrow came screaming toward Amukelo's side.
He turned and raised his blade, swatting the projectile from the air with a sharp clang.
And then he spoke.
His voice wasn't loud. But it cut through the battlefield like a blade. "Wait."
He raised one hand, the other still clutching his sword. "Stop resisting."
Everyone froze.
The remaining outlaws—all that was left of them—held their ground. Some crouched near the edge of the trees. Some still had arrows notched. The mage's fingers staff still ignited with fire spell, but he hesitated.
Amukelo turned slowly, looking at all of them.
"Look around you," he said. "Most of your people are dead. Or down. Or can't fight anymore."
His voice didn't tremble.
"The longer this drags out, the more likely it is that our reinforcements will arrive. You know this. You've already lost. Don't make this any worse than it has to be."
He took a step forward, sword still lowered.
"I don't want to kill anyone else. But if you force me to choose, I will always choose to protect my people. Even if it means killing the enemy."
The hammerman staggered, his arm trembling as he held his weapon. Blood still oozed from his back. His knees were failing.
Celeste sat at his feet, stunned, the breath knocked from her lungs by Amukelo's kick. She looked to the side, at Genkil, lying a dozen feet away, his body barely moving. His breathing was shallow. His face pale.
She looked back at the rest of her group.
The archers. The mage. None of them had moved.
No one wanted to die for this anymore.
She exhaled, long and slow.
Then her fingers loosened.
Her daggers hit the ground with a soft clink, the sound quiet but deafening in the stillness.
Her voice followed, low and ashamed. "But… promise you won't kill anyone else."
The hammerman's eyes widened. "Celeste, what are you doing!?"
She turned her head toward him, shouting back, "Look around! We can't win this!"
Her voice cracked. "We've lost."
For a long moment, the hammerman didn't respond. His fingers tightened on the handle of his weapon. Then slowly… painfully… he let it fall.
The hammer hit the dirt with a dull thud.
The three archers—hesitant—lowered their bows.
The mage sighed and let the fire spell flicker out.
Amukelo lowered his blade fully now, shoulders rising and falling with exhaustion. His expression softened.
He looked at them all—Celeste, the hammerman, the archers—and with a quiet voice, he said. "Thank you."
The outlaws stepped back from the brink, each one with their hands raised slowly into the air—some in shame, some in silent defeat, and some just glad to be alive.
Tireuz stepped forward carefully, his staff glowing softly. He muttered an incantation, and from the tip of his staff, a stream of water slithered into the air like a serpent. With precise motions, it formed a whip that looped itself around the prisoners' wrists, tightening into cold bands that held them together.
The water hardened slightly, held in place by a subtle freezing charm to maintain its shape. The restraints pulsed with gentle mana, glowing faintly blue.
The hammerman looked down at his bound wrists, and a snort escaped him. "You really think something like this will hold me?"
Tireuz didn't even flinch. "No," he replied calmly, "but it doesn't need to. It only has to buy us time. If you try anything, it will hold long enough for us to react."
The hammerman narrowed his eyes but didn't speak. He'd felt Amukelo's sword, and the rusted one in his back. He wasn't ready for another round.
Amukelo didn't even look at him. He was already running. "Tireuz!" he shouted, voice sharp. "Stop babbling—heal Bral!"
Tireuz's eyes snapped toward him.
Bral lay in the dirt, just beyond the broken ice and the scorched fire-scarred earth. His breathing was fast, too fast. His right side soaked in blood. His left arm gone, below the elbow.
Tireuz moved immediately.
He knelt beside Bral and placed both hands over the wound. The gem on his staff pulsed once, and then the familiar green light flooded over the stump. The glow pulsed rhythmically as his healing spell worked—slower this time, deeper. Tireuz's face furrowed in concentration. His magic had already been stretched thin, and this wound wasn't simple.
Amukelo knelt beside him, uncorking a vial with shaking fingers. "Here—this potion will help. We'll give it to him—"
"Don't use it!" Tireuz barked, not looking up.
Amukelo's eyes snapped to him, confused and irritated. "Why!?"
Tireuz didn't raise his voice. He just kept his hands on Bral's arm and said calmly, "We don't know how much mana he's burned through. Healing potions use the user's mana to heal him. And he's been using scrolls. Scrolls eat mana, fast. If you use this potion he can black out from mana usage."
Amukelo frowned. "He needs healing now. What does it matter now? Pao's blacked out before and she's fine. The more healing, the better!"
Tireuz finally looked at him. "If you force mana use through a potion or other tool when someone's already near their limit—you can rupture their core."
Amukelo blinked.
Tireuz continued, serious and unwavering. "If he blacks out on his own, that's one thing. His body shuts down to protect itself. But if you force mana usage through potions when his reserves are empty, it can cause permanent damage. He might never recover from it. And with a wound like this…"
He looked back at Bral's stump, where the blood had stopped flowing, but the skin was still raw and glistening.
"…It would only make it worse."
Amukelo hesitated, holding the potion still, his jaw clenched. Then he slowly lowered it. "...Fine."
Tireuz nodded once and returned to his healing, pouring every last bit of his strength into the spell. The green light pulsed again, thicker this time, as the edges of the wound sealed further.
And then Bral stirred.
His breathing came back heavier at first, then steadier. His fingers on his remaining arm curled into the dirt as he blinked up at the sky. His lips moved slowly. "...Amukelo…?"
"I'm here," Amukelo said quickly, crouching closer. "You're okay. You're safe."
Bral blinked again, then tried to sit up.
But the moment his eyes drifted to his left arm—what wasn't there—his entire body froze.
He stared. His chest rose faster. Then the panic hit.
"Wait—" he gasped, eyes wide. "Wait. My arm. My arm—!" He looked up at Tireuz. "Can't you reconnect it!? Tell me you can do it! Please!"
Tireuz's face tensed. He stopped casting and met Bral's eyes. "I'm sorry."
Bral's face fell.
Tireuz continued, gently but firmly. "I can't. I'm not strong enough. I tried. But we couldn't wait any longer—you were losing too much blood. An infection could've killed you, and there was no way to keep the limb viable."
He looked down.
"This is the best treatment you can get… right now."