Kana's spear danced through the air with deadly precision, sweeping in wide arcs to keep the bandits at bay. Each swing forced the enemies to hesitate, creating a wide enough circle for Bufo to engage the bandit leader one-on-one.
Bufo's gauntlets gleamed as he launched a barrage of punches — no wasted movements, each one aimed for vital points: the throat, the solar plexus, the ribs. But the leader was skilled. He ducked and weaved, closing distance or slipping just out of reach with uncanny timing.
"You've got some moves," Bufo muttered, breaking into a grin. He wasn't even breathing hard yet — his stamina held firm. He pressed the advantage, hammering a series of jabs and uppercuts, refusing to let the man catch his breath.
Meanwhile, Aren held back, scanning the field. Kana had the frontlines under control, so he supported from a distance. He hurled two of his knives toward approaching enemies — but the blades bounced harmlessly off the thick armor layered beneath their clothes.
"We came prepared!" one of them shouted with a sneer. "We heard what you did to our men last time — it won't happen again!"
Aren's eyes narrowed. So they've adapted... fine.
Reaching behind him, he unsheathed the longsword he'd been given that morning. The weight was balanced, the edge still fresh, but his current body hadn't yet caught up to the reflexes of his past life. Let's see if this body can learn, he thought grimly. While I try to remember.
He gave Kana a quick nod. She caught the signal and pivoted back, giving him the space he needed.
The sword felt lighter than he expected — not a bad thing, but it meant he had to adjust his footing to control each swing without overextending. Two enemies rushed in. Aren stepped into a defensive stance, deflecting their attacks with measured parries. The steel clanged as he twisted his shoulder into the counter, pushing one of them backward.
Their footing faltered.
Aren seized the moment. He rotated into a full-bodied slash — the blade cutting through the bandit's heavy gear. Blood splattered, but it wasn't a fatal blow. The man staggered.
Kana stepped in like a shadow and drove her spear clean through his neck. One down.
Aren turned to the next attacker. This time, he brought the sword down in a vertical arc, top to bottom. The strike was faster, more deliberate — and more effective. The enemy fell, cleaved by the weight of his past-life precision now finding root in this new flesh.
On the other side of the fight, Bufo was wearing down the leader. His blows were landing now, slowly chipping away at the man's defenses.
"You're good," Bufo muttered with a grin, "I might actually have to try."
But then — the leader shifted tactics.
In a flash, he drew a compact crossbow from his back and fired.
Bufo raised his gauntlets in time to deflect the first two bolts, but the next pair slipped past. One grazed his bicep, the other sliced across his forearm.
"Tch. That's gonna sting," he muttered.
But it was worse than a sting. A second later, the leader dropped the crossbow and drew his true weapon — a long, curved whip, dark as oil and glinting with barbs. He spun it above his head with practiced flair, then cracked it forward.
The tip lashed Bufo across the chest. His breath hitched. The color drained from his face.
"He's been poisoned!" Aren shouted. He could see it clearly now — the stagger in Bufo's posture, the slight tremble in his stance. "The arrow!"
Kana's eyes widened. "We need to pull him back—"
But the whip snapped again — this time wrapping around Bufo's legs. The barbs tore through cloth and flesh, and with a brutal jerk, the leader pulled him off his feet. Bufo hit the ground hard, breath knocked from his lungs.
He groaned, trying to rise, but his limbs were already sluggish.
The poison was working fast.
Aren's grip tightened around the sword hilt.
This fight had just changed.
Aren sprinted across the battlefield, boots pounding against dirt stained with blood and ash. He had to draw the enemy's focus — give Kana a window to pull Bufo out of danger. The bandit leader turned at the movement, lifting his weapon, but Aren didn't slow. His sword was already raised, a wall of steel ready to meet anything.
Behind him, Bufo groaned, voice thick with strain. "I... I can't feel my arm. Almost can't feel my legs."
Kana dropped beside him in an instant. Her hands worked fast, fingers unclasping the gauntlets strapped to his arms. "You're dead weight like this," she muttered. "I need to lighten the load if I'm going to move you."
The poison was spreading faster than any of them expected.
He's fading too fast... That bastard must have an antidote. He wouldn't carry a weapon like that without a way to counter it.
"Val," Aren said sharply, eyes locked on the enemy, "can you scan him? Look for anything that could be an antidote — pill, vial, injector, anything."
[Scanning in progress. I need you closer to him for optimal resolution, Your Majesty.]
Of course you do.
Aren pushed forward, sword still raised. The bandit reacted, lifting his crossbow and firing two quick bolts.
Clang! Clang!
Aren's blade moved on instinct, swatting the projectiles out of the air before they could find flesh. Sparks flared where steel met steel. He didn't stop.
The bandit tossed the crossbow aside and drew a new weapon — a curved sword with a blade that shimmered green, its edge gleaming with something slick and unnatural.
Poisoned.
The bandit twirled the sword with a relaxed, almost mocking flick of his wrist. His movements were smooth, his grip loose but practiced — trying to bait him, trying to distract. But Aren didn't take the bait.
He watched the man's eyes.
That was where the real fight happened.
The moment came — the blade snapped forward, aimed low for Aren's side.
He was ready.
Steel shrieked against steel as Aren intercepted the slash, twisting his shoulder into the parry to redirect the force. The shock of impact rippled through his arms, but he held his ground.
The enemy advanced, pushing fast, flowing from one strike to the next with relentless efficiency. But Aren stayed with him, matching each blow, adjusting his stance for the weight of his own sword. His body moved on muscle memory — not from this life, but another.
It became a duel of patience. Neither overcommitted. Neither blinked. Each looking for a single mistake.
I can't go for a killing blow. Not yet. If he's carrying the antidote, one bad strike could destroy it.
Aren's eyes flicked over the man's armor, belt, pouches. Where are you hiding it?
[Still scanning. Another few seconds, Your Majesty. Just hold position.]
Easier said than done, Aren thought, as he parried another strike that would have gutted a slower man.
But he stayed calm.
He could afford to wait.
Because this wasn't just about winning.
This was about saving Bufo — and he wouldn't let that clock run out.
The clash of swords echoed like thunder — Aren's blade locked with the curved green edge of his opponent's, neither fighter giving an inch. Every movement was deliberate, shaped by years of combat Aren hadn't lived in this body, but remembered all too well.
Behind him, the battle shifted.
Shouts rang out. The sound of charging footsteps thundered against the ground.
More bandits.
They came from the treeline — five, maybe six, weapons drawn and eyes bloodthirsty. They weren't after Aren. They were coming for Bufo. For Kana.
Kana's eyes narrowed. She rose to her feet in one smooth motion, leaving Bufo propped against a broken piece of stone as she spun her spear into a ready position. The first bandit lunged. Her spear shot out, catching him in the throat with a sickening crunch before whirling into a defensive spin to catch the next.
Blades rang out as steel struck steel, but Kana moved like the wind — fast, fluid, untouchable.
"You want him?" she shouted, breath steady, hair whipping behind her. "You'll have to go through me."
The wind around her began to rise — subtly at first, a soft stir of dust across the battlefield. Then, it howled. Kana's emblem ignited in a burst of pale green light across the back of her hand, the sigil glowing with ancient power.
With a sharp twist of her wrist, she slammed her spear into the ground. A sudden burst of air exploded outward, lifting dirt and debris into the air — the approaching bandits staggered, caught off guard. Wind wrapped around her like armor, invisible but solid, carrying her movements faster, sharper.
Kana dashed forward, her feet barely touching the earth. Her spear danced through the air like it had a will of its own, slicing through defenses, battering weapons aside, sweeping legs from under bodies. A gust-driven spin sent two men crashing into the ground before they even realized they'd been hit.
One tried to strike from behind — but she twisted, using the wind to bend her momentum mid-air, driving the butt of her spear into his gut before finishing with a clean slash across the chest.
The remaining bandits hesitated.
She raised her hand, the wind coiling around her arm in a tightening spiral.
"Leave," she warned, eyes glowing faint green. "Or be torn apart."
They fled.
Without waiting, she dropped to Bufo's side, wind lifting around both of them like unseen hands. It carried him gently as she guided his weight with care, sprinting toward the vehicle — a battered old cruiser tucked behind the rocks. Inside, nestled in the back seat and snoring softly, the pup they'd rescued earlier shifted in its sleep, completely unaware of the chaos outside.
She laid Bufo down beside it, brushing hair from his sweat-soaked brow.
"Just hang on," she whispered. "We'll fix this."
⁂
Back on the battlefield, Aren ducked under a vicious arc of the green blade, then countered with a low strike of his own. His feet slid across the gravel with expert control — every shift of weight, every pivot, echoing years of training from a life he'd once left behind.
The bandit blocked — but only just. A flicker of surprise crossed his face.
"Well, now," the man said, stepping back to put space between them. "Didn't expect to have to work for it."
His stance relaxed, one hand resting on the curved blade's hilt, the other raised slightly, almost casually.
"You've got real form. Precision. Timing. That's rare." He grinned, sharp and toothy. "Name's Gin. Leader of the Dune Reapers."
Aren didn't lower his blade. As suspected, he's really the leader. That explains the coordination, the poison, the arrogance.
Gin's grin widened, as if he could hear his thoughts. "The one you killed earlier — Flint? That was my cousin." His tone held no grief. Only amusement. "Can't say I liked the bastard. But you made an example out of him. Now it's my turn to return the favor."
Without warning, his emblem ignited — a flash of violet fire across the inside of his forearm, where a jagged brand glowed to life. The air shimmered around him. His blade pulsed.
Then the metal began to corrode.
A thin mist of vapor drifted off the blade's edge, and the green hue darkened, becoming oily and toxic. As he raised it again, tiny sparks hissed off the tip — as if the weapon itself was alive with decay.
Aren's instincts screamed. Corrosive enhancement. That blade won't just cut — it'll burn straight through armor. Flesh. Bone.
Gin lunged.
Their blades met again — but this time, Aren felt it. A whisper of heat on his skin. The air where Gin's blade passed shimmered with corrosive energy, eating at the edge of his defense.
One mistake, and I'm losing more than blood.
He adjusted. Every parry had to be clean. Every block deflected instead of absorbed. The swordplay intensified — rapid, brutal exchanges with no room for error. Sparks lit the air as their weapons clashed, Gin's every swing filled with calculated aggression.
"You're good," Gin said between strikes. "Real good. You've danced this dance before. Who were you?"
Aren didn't answer. His body was already moving — a feint low, then a twisting arc meant to throw off Gin's balance. But the man was faster than expected. He matched the strike, pivoted, and lashed out in return.
Aren leaned back just in time, but the wind of the blade kissed his cheek — and it burned.
Skin hissed.
Pain flared hot and sharp.
Dammit. That was close.
Gin laughed. "Oh, it stings, doesn't it? That's just a taste."
Aren wiped the blood from his face with the back of his glove. I need to end this soon. Before that blade lands for real.
Then he shifted his stance.
No more testing. No more defense.
Time to fight like I did back then.
His posture lowered. His grip adjusted. And the rhythm of battle began to change.