The lone warrior trudged across the vast desert, each step deliberate, each breath a battle against the oppressive heat. The sun hung heavy in the sky, a molten orb that scorched the endless sea of sand stretching in every direction. The horizon shimmered like a mirage, but the warrior knew it was no illusion. Beyond that golden veil lay Fyr, a land of ice and snow, a kingdom once mighty, now fractured and bleeding.
Fyr had been an empire, a colossus that stretched its iron grip across Tamia. But empires, like men, are mortal. The death of its emperor had left a void, a chasm that greed and ambition rushed to fill. The villages and cities he had conquered now lay in ruin, their people abandoned, their promises of rebuilding scattered like ash in the wind. The new king of Fyr was but a child, a puppet on a throne, his reign already crumbling under the confusion. Bandits roamed freely, and darkness seeped into the cracks of a once-great nation.
The warrior's footsteps left faint impressions in the sand as he moved forward, a man burdened by purpose. His mission, though unclear to all but himself, carried him deeper into the heart of the land of Fyr. What he sought, none could say, but the desert wind whispered of his coming, and the snow that awaited him held its breath.
His name, no one knew. But after the assassination of Julian, an important figure inside the Holy Church, he was given one: The Bladeless.
A man who cut his opponents without a blade, a wanderer cloaked in black, wearing a mask, whose identity is nothing but a mystery to all.
But even a mystery like him could become exhausted. So, he decided to stop at the Flakao village, a small city bordering Fyr and the desert, the last stop before entering the country. It was a place where the sand met the snow, where the air carried the scent of both fire and frost. A place where a man could rest, if only for a moment.
The village of Flakao was a patchwork of crumbling stone and weathered wood, its streets narrow and winding, its people hardened by the harshness of their existence. The warrior's arrival did not go unnoticed. Eyes peered from behind shuttered windows, and whispers followed him like shadows. A stranger in black, masked and silent, was not a common sight, even in a place as rough as Flakao.
He made his way to the village's only inn, a squat building with a sign that creaked in the wind. The interior was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of stale ale and smoke.A handful of patrons sat scattered around the room, their conversations dying as the warrior entered. He moved to the bar, his movements slow and deliberate, and placed a single coin on the counter.
However, the sight of the innkeeper made him arch an eyebrow in surprise. Behind the counter stood a young girl, no older than twelve, her long blond hair tied back in a messy braid. Freckles dotted her face like constellations, and her eyes, though sharp and wary, held a glimmer of youthful curiosity. She stood on a wooden crate to reach the counter, her small hands gripping the edge as she eyed the warrior with a mixture of caution and defiance.
"What'll it be?" she asked, her voice surprisingly steady for someone so young. The warrior noted the faint tremor in her hands, the way her gaze flicked to the patrons behind him, as if gauging their reactions.
"A room for the night," the warrior replied, his voice soft even while muffled by the mask. He slid the golden coin closer to her. "Do you have one with a bath too?"
The girl hesitated for a moment, then reached out and snatched the coin, her fingers brushing against the rough wood of the counter. She examined it briefly before slipping it into a pouch at her waist. "Right behind the counter, there is the bath. Your room is upstairs, the last door on the right," she said, her tone businesslike but betraying a hint of tremor.
The warrior nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary.
"W-What?" she asked, her fists clenching and trembling as she met his gaze.
"Nothing," Bladeless sighed as he took the key from the counter. He turned and made his way to the stairs, the whispers of the patrons rising again in his wake.
"Did you see his mask?" one man muttered. "Like death himself."
"He looks tough," another replied. "Don't mess with him."
"But he looked at Aly so intensely…" a third voice added, his voice fearful. "I hope he is not one of these bandits."
The warrior ignored them, his mind already turning to the task ahead. But as he reached the top of the stairs, he paused, his hand resting on the worn banister. He glanced back at the girl, who was now wiping down the counter with a rag that was far too large for her small hands. She caught his gaze and held it for a moment, before turning around quickly.
The warrior entered his room and locked the door behind him, the simple act of removing his mask a rare moment of vulnerability. His face was slightly pale, his features sharp but rounder than what a warrior would look like in the collective minds of people. His eyes were soft and weary, glinting with a golden tint. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands resting on his knees, and allowed himself a moment of tranquility.
Even with his mission in the back of his mind, he was still able to rest properly, like a veteran soldier who had been through a lot. His greasy black hair fell on his shoulders, and he looked at himself in the mirror in the corner of the room. It was fractured, but it did the trick.
"I should cut my hair…" he muttered under his breath as he turned his face around to get a better view of his facial features.
Beyond the cracked glass, the night deepened, and outside, the wind howled—a lonely song carried from the desert into the frozen lands of Fyr.
The warrior let out a slow breath, the weight of the road pressing against his shoulders like an old companion. He had traveled far, too far to let distractions linger. Yet, the girl at the counter remained in his thoughts. A child running an inn in a village like this? How odd.
He dismissed the thought and rose from the bed, rolling his shoulders before unfastening the heavy cloak around him. Beneath it, his attire was simple but practical—a dark tunic reinforced with subtle stitching, tight trousers, and boots that had seen their share of battle. He ran a hand over his belt, where once a sword might have rested, but now there was only an empty loop.
"The Bladeless," he mused, shaking his head. The name amused him, though he didn't like being pursued after what happened. He had already been pursued enough in his life, it was getting tiring.
After a few moments of quiet contemplation, he decided to make use of the bath. A luxury he couldn't quite afford nowadays, one he couldn't refuse. he scent of travel clung to him—sand, sweat, and the faintest trace of dried blood. After putting his mask on again, and with practiced silence, he unlocked the door and stepped out in the dimly lit hallway. With the evening settling in, the inn had grown quieter, the murmur of voices now nothing more than a distant hum.
Descending the stairs, he found the common room emptier than before. A few drunkards slouched in the corner, barely registering his presence as they were talking about old times. Aly—the girl—was still behind the counter, scrubbing a metal tankard with a diligence that belied her age.
She glanced up as he approached, but said nothing. He could tell she was still wary. That was good. Wariness kept people alive.
Without a word, he moved past the counter and into the small washroom. The bath was a simple wooden tub, half-filled with water that had begun to cool. It would do. He stripped down to his waist, rolling his shoulders before lowering himself into the water.
With a casual sigh, he unwrapped the mask from his face, and soaked himself in the water fully. For a few moments, he allowed himself to relax. The warmth soothed the ache in his muscles. He ran a hand through his long damp hair and pushed it back as he let his head rest against the edge of the tub.
Then, he heard a sound.
Footsteps.
Light, cautious.
Right outside the washroom door.
He didn't react at first. He was too preoccupied with the rare luxury of a warm bath, and besides, curiosity was common in places like this.
But as he reached for the cloth to dry his hands, the door creaked slightly. His body froze, his ears perking up and his eyes darting toward the door.
"Excuse me—" the voice of Aly echoed in the washroom as she peeked with an eye.
It was too late. He didn't have the time to grab his mask, and he heard a gasp followed by the quick slam of the door closing.
Bladeless sighed heavily.
"This won't be good…" he muttered, staring at the ceiling. He was too tired to deal with this right now.
It wasn't the fact that someone had seen his face—no one in this village would recognize him. That wasn't the problem. What was a problem, however, was the effect of seeing him without the mask. It was something that was hiding his identity on a conceptual level, making it impossible for anyone to either recognize him or know him.
It was all because he had a certain condition.
With another heavy sigh, he reached for the towel and wrapped it around himself, his fingers moving with practiced ease as he retrieved his mask and secured it back in place. Trouble had a way of finding him. But he still was cursing his carelessness just now.
After dressing, he took a knife from his belt and a pair of rusted scissors he had found in a drawer near the washroom's entrance. Without ceremony, he hacked away at his overgrown hair, letting uneven strands fall into the basin. It wasn't elegant, but it would do.
Feeling somewhat refreshed, he stepped out of the washroom and into the dimly lit common room. The same drunkards from before still occupied their corner, slumped over their drinks, heads resting on the sticky wooden table. One of them let out a faint snore, a line of drool slipping from the corner of his mouth.
"They must be regulars," he chuckled to himself, seeing the old men drooling on the table with their heads rested.
As he made his way toward the stairs, he noticed Aly behind the counter, her back turned to him as she scrubbed at a metal tankard with more force than necessary.
Even without being an expert in human behavior, he could tell she was scared of him. No, terrorized. Not openly, not obviously, but he could see it. The stiffness in her shoulders, the way she paused slightly when she heard his footsteps before continuing her work.
For a split second, he considered leaving her alone. No, he should leave her alone.
But too many questions lingered and a sinking feeling in his heart forbade him from just ignoring it. Instead of heading upstairs, he made his way to the counter and leaned slightly against it.
"You clean that cup any harder, you're gonna wear a hole in it," he murmured.
Aly froze. With trembling hands, she set the tankard down and turned to face him. It was as if she was going to cry.
He had seen that face so many times, yet it was still hurting every time.
"P-Please, go away—"
"Where are your parents?" Bladeless asked with the softest voice he could manage.
She stiffened, and, for a moment, she looked like she was going to snap at him. But then something in her wavered, and her gaze dropped to the counter.
"Not there," she muttered, her voice low.
"...Your mom?"
"I don't know where she is," she gripped the edge of the counter as if grounding herself.
"Your dad?"
"He…" her jaw clenched, and her eyes began to water. "H–He was kidnapped by bandits a month ago…
Now it was falling into place. Her father had likely been the true owner of this inn. And with him gone, a twelve-year-old girl had been left to fend for herself. She had no choice but to run the place on her own. For someone so young, she was sharp. Resourceful. But she was also just a child. And she was scared.
"…Did anyone try to get him back?" he asked.
She let out a bitter, humorless chuckle. "No one around here is stupid enough to fight bandits."
"Any other family member?"
"My uncle lives in Fyr…" she muttered. "But it's far away from there."
And she was still only twelve. No way she could make that kind of journey on her own.
Bladeless leaned back slightly, his fingers drumming against the counter. He wasn't sure why he was asking. This wasn't his business. He had his own mission, his own burdens to carry.
But something about the situation sat heavy in his chest.
"…Where was your father taken?"
Aly's head snapped up. Her lips parted slightly, as if unsure whether to answer.
"W-Why?"
Bladeless didn't reply right away. He looked around the room and specifically at the drunkards.
This place was closer to a slum than a proper village, he couldn't just let a little girl like that live alone. There was a very low chance the dad was still alive, but…
Perhaps he could give it a shot?
"I don't know," Aly said, her finger tracing a circle on the counter. "But, mister. Are you—?"
Bladeless put a finger to his mouth, or at least in front of his mask, and smiled. Though his facial features were hidden, she could still make out the expression on his face.
"Keep my face a secret, would you? In exchange, I'll see what I can do for your dad. Deal?"
Aly hesitated. Her small fingers stilled against the counter, her expression shifting between skepticism and something more fragile—something dangerously close to hope.
"…Deal?" he prompted.
Aly swallowed. Then, slowly, she gave a small nod.
"…Deal."
Bladeless exhaled softly, letting his hand drop back to his side.
"Good girl."
With a gentle movement, he rested his hand on her head and stroked it gently. "It must be hard here. You should go to sleep for now, okay?"
"Right…" Aly nodded, her little blonde braid moving alongside the movement.
Bladeless let his hand rest for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the gesture—perhaps more for him than for her. He could see the quiet resolve in Aly's eyes, the kind that only came from having to grow up too quickly.
It was like looking in an old mirror.
"Go on, now," he said softly, stepping back.
Aly nodded again, her eyes still following him as he moved toward the stairs. But before he could go up to get his affairs, she stopped him.
"Mister, are you a knight of Fyr?" she asked, her head tilting.
Bladeless chuckled and shook his head. "Far from it. I'm not a good guy or a bad guy."
Her brow furrowed, and for a moment, there was a flicker of confusion in her eyes.
"Then… what are you?" she asked, the question so simple, yet so heavy.
Bladeless paused for a long moment, considering her words. Finally, he looked back at her with a quiet, almost knowing expression.
"Just a guy who gets things done," he said simply. "That's all."
With that, he turned and started up the stairs, the sound of his footsteps fading as he disappeared into the shadows of the upper floor.
Bladeless settled into his room once more, the door closing behind him. He leaned against the wall for a moment, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, lost in thought.
Ah… She reminded him of someone, and he didn't like it. Because he couldn't say no to whatever she would say now.
Still, he had a job, and an important one at that. With a determined look, he picked up his cloak and wrapped it around him. After checking that everything was right with his belongings, he headed downstairs in a hurry.
Aly was already gone, probably gone to sleep. However, two men were standing there, with spikes in their hands. The same drunkards from earlier. When they saw him darting out of the room, their face went pale and they pointed their jagged spikes at him.
"D-Don't step closer!" one of them ordered in a murmur.
"Yeah! What do you want with little Aly?" the second man added, his hands quivering, but his eyes daring Bladeless to make a move.
Bladeless stopped in his tracks, his gaze narrowing slightly as he sized them up. He then sighed and scratched his head.
"Relax…" he said. "But do you guys know about the bandits who kidnapped her father?"
"What? You're one of them?!" the old man said, recoiling slightly.
The other man, seemingly catching onto the panic, waved his jagged spike erratically, his eyes wide with fear. "Y-You're Bladeless, right? The man the church is looking for!"
Bladeless raised one finger. "First, I'm not with the bandits. Second, yes, I'm that 'Bladeless' guy the church is looking for."
The name seemed to land with them. The two men froze for a moment, eyes flicking back and forth between each other, the realization dawning on them.
"Look," he said, taking a step forward but not in an aggressive manner. "If you're smart, you'll stop waving those things around like you're trying to sell them. I'm not here to hurt anyone. I'm just passing through. And if I were the kind of man who enjoyed trouble, you wouldn't even be standing right now."
The two men stiffened, their shaky hands loosening their grips on the spikes as if they were coming to terms with the situation. Bladeless was no ordinary person. The mere mention of his name had caused them to second-guess their actions.
"What are you doing here then?"
"I'm on the run, dumbass," Bladeless sighed. "But more importantly, I'm looking for the bandits who took that little girl's father. Any idea?"
The younger man blinked, still wide-eyed but slowly catching up. "Y-You're looking for Fallius? Are you here to help us?"
"Those bandits are bothering you, right?" Bladeless pressed on.
The old man nodded rapidly, his eyes darting around nervously. "Yes, they are. They're the famous Band of Fall Peaks. They're terrorizing the whole region!"
Bladeless' expression didn't change. He already knew they were trouble, but hearing it from these two confirmed it. The band of bandits that had taken Aly's father were notorious for their ruthlessness. They didn't just rob; they destroyed everything in their path. If they'd been around for this long, they had their claws deep in this region.
The probability of retrieving Aly's father alive was even lower than he thought.
"Where can I find them?" he asked, his voice calm but edged with a quiet intensity.
The younger man, clearly still shaken but eager to speak, answered quickly. "We've heard rumors. They're supposed to be hiding in the mountains—north, in the caves near the Fall Peaks. No one who's gone after them has come back."
The old man snorted. "Even if they did, no one has come to help us. Fyr has completely given up on us!"
Bladeless nodded thoughtfully, committing the information to memory. He knew these mountains well, and he had an idea where they could hide.
He glanced back at the men, who were still nervously eyeing him, unsure whether to be grateful or fearful.
"Thanks for the info. I'll pay them a visit."
"Wait, why?" the young one said. "Why are you helping us? Aren't you a criminal?"
"Okay, I didn't kill the guy at the church because I wanted to," Bladeless rectified. "To set the record straight, the guy attacked me first."
The two men exchanged uncertain looks, the younger one blinking a few times as if he was trying to process the situation. Bladeless could practically hear the wheels turning in their heads, struggling to reconcile the man they thought they knew with the person standing before them.
"Look," Bladeless continued, his tone a little sharper now, "I'm not some hero. I'm not trying to save anyone for a pat on the back. But I'm not going to let a group of bastards take a little girl's father without doing something about it."
The older man shifted on his feet, glancing nervously at the door before back at Bladeless. "If you're serious, we've got nothing else to offer. We can't stop you, but... don't expect anyone else to."
Bladeless gave a half-smile. "I didn't expect anything coming here."
He turned his back to them and started toward the door. "Take care of yourselves. It's good to see people standing up for her," he added before stepping into the night, the door swinging closed behind him.
The cold air hit him like a wall as he moved swiftly through the quiet village. His boots crunched lightly on the dirt road, his mind already racing toward the mountains. The bandits had been terrorizing the region for too long, and it was time someone put an end to it.
It was just a side job like he was used to, nothing major. What he was worried about was her father and what happened to him.
He reached the edge of the village where the path to the Fall Peaks began, and without another word, he started the long trek northward. The road ahead would be treacherous, especially during the night, but he was used to that. The danger didn't faze him.
The moon was full, casting enough light for Bladeless to see clearly ahead. He made sure not to light a fire, not wanting to attract unwanted attention.
The cold wind howled through the trees, biting at his skin as he pushed forward. His thoughts remained focused, not just on the bandits, but on Aly. She was just a girl—too young to carry such a heavy burden. Yet she carried it, somehow, with the quiet strength of someone who had already been forced to grow up too quickly.
Every time he was thinking about her, his heart ached, and he kept moving forward.
A flash of movement caught his eye, a shadow darting across his path. With a smile, his eyes darted to the deer who then skittered away into the fir woods.
After several minutes of steady progress, the faint murmur of voices reached his ears. A soft glow illuminated the sky ahead, flickering like a distant campfire. He was getting close. Just like he'd thought—the bandits had set up camp in a perfect spot for stargazing, high in the mountains, surrounded by steep cliffs that made it ideal for defense.
It was a place where an ambush could be easily set, where the bandits could feel secure and watch over anyone who approached. Perfect for their kind.
Bladeless slowed his pace, but didn't bother trying to hide. He wasn't here for a fight—not yet. His only goal was to determine whether Aly's father was still alive.
"Hey! Give me some beer, Mitch!" came a loud shout from the camp, followed by raucous laughter.
"Seriously? That's your tenth cup, man!" came the laughing reply, more teasing than reprimanding.
They were all heavily armed, and he could already count around a hundred of them. Truly a little army in the making, one that could have given a run for the money to the band of Darian Galtter back in the day of the Blue Falcons.
It was a blessing for the region that they didn't look very organized. They were just a group of opportunists during these troubled times in Fyr.
While they continued to drink and laugh, Bladeless quietly climbed a rocky incline and emerged right in front of the campfire. The firelight flickered across his mask, casting long shadows as he stood still, allowing the bandits time to process the sudden intrusion. For a few seconds, there was a stunned silence.
Then, one of them, clearly a few drinks too deep, shakily grabbed a sword and pointed it at him.
"H-Hey! Whaddare you doin' here?" the drunkard slurred, his feet wobbling as he tried to steady himself.
The loud, disoriented shout jolted the others from their stupor, and in an instant, every bandit turned to face Bladeless, their hands instinctively reaching for the hilts of their weapons.
There was no immediate movement, just a tense standoff as they processed the situation. One hundred drunken eyes, many of them clouded by alcohol, sizing him up. Bladeless remained unfazed, his posture relaxed but alert, watching the room for any sign of aggression.
"I'm not here for trouble," he said calmly, his voice low enough to carry but steady enough to avoid escalating the tension. "Just here to talk."
The drunkard squinted at him, still holding his sword out but wobbling in place. "Talk? We ain't interestereded in your…" he wobbled his sword in a circle, clearly struggling to focus. "Talking."
"Look," he continued, "I'm looking for a guy named Fallius. Any idea?"
At that, the chatter died down. Everyone seemed to pause, the sound of crackling fire filling the brief silence.
"Of course, that's me," a more sober and calm voice rose among the silence. In the center, right in front of the campfire, he was sitting there. His black hair was tied in a ponytail, and an ear of wheat stuck between his teeth. His eyes were sharp and angular, his posture relaxed yet confident, as if he were completely unfazed by the intrusion.
"You're looking for me, huh?" Fallius said, his voice cool, not the least bit surprised by Bladeless' sudden appearance. He flicked the wheat stem from his mouth, tossing it into the fire. "Who are you, masked guy?"
"Wait…" Bladeless looked confused. "Are you Aly's father?"
The bandit leader raised an eyebrow and froze, staring at Bladeless for a moment before a burst of laughter erupted from him. He doubled over, clutching his chest as he struggled to catch his breath.
"Bahahaha! Aly? Seriously, that brat is still looking for me?" Fallius laughed so hard he nearly fell off his rock. "No way she sent someone!"
The reaction was so unexpected that Bladeless stood still, processing the implications.
"Didn't you kill her mom, boss?" one of the bandits called out, chuckling drunkenly.
"Well, yeah," Fallius said, shrugging as if the matter was insignificant. "She was going to turn me in to the authorities, and I couldn't let that happen. Can't believe she's still alive—guess the brat is still hanging around that old slum."
"Oh man, I was so sick of running that inn," Fallius continued. "I'm glad that Emperor fucked up. Now I can be my old self again!"
"I see. Her father was already dead, then," Bladeless muttered with a sigh.
"Yeah, technically. I never cared about that kid," Fallius chuckled, a smirk on his face. He gestured toward Bladeless with a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Now, how about we make a deal? You strip down, give me everything you've got, and I'll let you go alive. You can even tell her I'm dead, 'kay?"
The audacity of the offer didn't surprise Bladeless, but the sheer disregard for Aly's life—and the torment she must have endured—gnawed at him.
This man was no father.
In fact, she never had a father.
With a fluid motion, Bladeless stepped forward, right near the drunken bandit holding a sword. With a sigh, he punched right in the bandit's guts, and collected the sword from his open hand. Then, in a blink of an eye, he slashed his throat.
A hush fell over the camp as the others took in what had just happened. Even Fallius stopped laughing, his face going pale as the realization of Bladeless' intent hit him. The suddenness of the attack, the efficiency—no one had expected it.
"Oh shit, he's serious," Fallius recoiled in surprise before drawing his own sword. "You do realize there are a hundred and ten of us, right?"
"One hundred and nine, to be precise," Bladeless sighed. Then, in a blur, he threw the sword in his hand, which found its mark embedded in the skull of a man next to Fallius. "One hundred and eight now."
The bandits froze at the sight of their fallen comrade, the blade lodged in his skull, the life drained from him before his body even hit the ground.
Fallius, his bravado crumbling, drew his own sword with a shaky hand. He didn't seem as confident now, his face draining of color. "You really think you can take all of us?"
Bladeless barely moved, his posture unbothered, but his presence suffocating.
The bandits began to stir, unsure of what to do next. Some exchanged wary glances, others seemed frozen in place, their courage evaporating like morning mist. A younger one, clearly too inexperienced to gauge the danger, took a step forward, gripping his sword tight, but Bladeless was faster. With a swift kick, he knocked the weapon from the man's hand and followed with a punch to his throat.
With the man stunned, he picked up the sword on the ground and decapitated the man in a swift spin.
Taking this opportunity, three other fools rushed toward him.
Using the head of the decapitated bandit, Bladeless threw it at the man to his right, which stunned him for a split second. He then blocked the curved sword of the man in front, and crouched down, dodging easily the slice from the one on the left.
In one fluid motion, he seized the wrist of the bandit to his left, pulling him forward and twisting his arm with an almost unnatural precision. The man's body lurched, and in an instant, Bladeless shoved him into the path of the bandit in front, knocking them both off balance.
Before the first could recover, Bladeless used the momentum to his advantage, yanking the twisted arm backward and locking it in place. With a savage twist, he drove his sword through the man's back, burying the blade deep into his spine.
Bladeless wasn't done. Using the now-lifeless body as a shield, he spun it around, pulling it behind him to block the strike of another bandit lunging from behind. The force of the blow rattled the body in his grasp, but it kept him safe for the moment.
He took a step to the left, and in that brief movement, an arrow whizzed past him, missing by mere inches.
With a swift kick, he sent the sword of the man he just killed spinning through the air. The blade twirled, and with a quick, controlled motion, Bladeless kicked the pommel, sending the sword plunging forward. The edge found its mark, piercing the throat of the bandit in front of him with a sickening thud.
Then, with a punch, the sword embedded in the throat spun, decapitating the head with ease as he weaved past another slash, grabbed the sword, and killed another man.
The camp had gone silent. The remaining bandits stood frozen in shock, the scene unfolding before them too brutal and swift for them to comprehend.
If one word Fallius was thinking of at this moment, it was "blender." A meat blender of a man, a whirlwind of death, turning would-be attackers into paste as they tried to reach him. It was chaos in its purest form, a symphony of violence, each movement too fluid, too fast for anyone to catch.
"Fuck…" Fallius whispered under his breath, his sword trembling in his hand. The weight of what he was seeing began to sink in.
This man… Couldn't possibly be human.
All at once, it was clear. Bladeless wasn't just skilled—he was something else entirely. Something far beyond what any of these bandits had faced. And that realization was enough to make a ripple of fear run through Fallius' spine.
However it was short-lived as he saw the man jump at an impossible height, use the trunk of a tree as a platform, and redirected himself toward him.
The last thing he saw was his vision rolling to the floor, and the rest of his body standing tall, motionless.
"R-Run away!" the bandits were now in disarray, having seen so many of them die in a matter of seconds.
But Bladeless didn't stop as he rushed toward an archer. One arrow, two arrows, three arrows, none of them hit their mark as he weaved past them with ease.
There was no excess in his movements, no unnecessary movement.
He elbowed the nearest archer in the face, the sickening crack of bone echoing in the night. As the man staggered back, Bladeless seized his arm, twisting it and disarming him with one swift motion. Then, without breaking stride, he kicked the man's knee out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. Before the archer could even react, Bladeless delivered a brutal punch to his face, the force of it pulverizing his jaw with a sickening crunch.
There was no mercy in this dance of death. Only efficiency, precision, and a silent promise that none of these bandits would see another sunrise.
He picked up the bow and arrow with the same fluid motion, firing it at another archer even as he moved. The arrow found its target without hesitation, sinking into the man's chest and taking him down instantly.
Not pausing for a breath, Bladeless snatched the small dagger from the side pouch of the archer he had just incapacitated. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he hurled it with terrifying speed, the blade finding its mark in the calf of a bandit attempting to flee.
The man screamed in agony, but the blood-soaked cloaked man was already on him. Bladeless planted the dagger deep into the man's throat as he used the momentum to spring himself off the ground, narrowly evading a spear that was aimed for his heart.
With a swift, acrobatic move, he flipped midair and locked his legs around the bandit's neck, twisting it in one smooth motion that brought both of them crashing to the earth in a brutal heap.
Finally, he kicked the spear off the ground, and followed with a combination of elbow blows and kicks to kill the man.
The camp fell silent, save for the soft clinking of weapons and the distant crackle of a fire. The bandits were gone, their bodies sprawled like discarded ragdolls.
Bladeless didn't pause for long. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the night, detecting a faint movement in the distance—twenty, no, thirty meters away—a bandit trying to escape.
With a deep, steadying breath, Bladeless reached for another bow and an arrow. He notched the shaft with a practiced ease, his gaze sharp, focused. With superhuman precision, he released the arrow, sending it flying through the dark night.
The arrow found its mark, piercing the fleeing bandit through the back. The man never even had a chance to react before his life was extinguished in the stillness of the night.
Bladeless stood tall, his senses attuned to the lingering energy in the air. He wasn't just skilled with his weapon—he could sense the magical energy coursing through every living being around him. With a bit of concentration, he could pinpoint anyone's location, even if they thought they had escaped into the darkness.
And no one escaped from him.
That next day, the famous Band of Fall Peaks was found dead, every last one of their members killed in the most brutal and gruesome ways.
And a certain masked man, left with a young girl at his side to look for her family…