Caelvir stood alone, sword in both hands, the weight of the blade grounding him as the sun peeled heat from the sky. Before him, twenty warriors waited.
They were not what he expected.
Not beggars thrown into steel, nor desperate slaves seeking freedom. These were trained men—equipped head to toe with polished helms, reinforced leather under hardened plate, high-grade boots, and weapons forged with intent.
Shields gleamed with fresh lacquer. Blades curved with deadly precision. Sharp daggers carried along their waist, strapped tightly in leather sheaths, made for instinct rather than strategy—quick slashes or desperate thrusts in the blind confusion of melee
Among them stood one—taller, broader, with a glinting claymore slung across his back. His posture didn't mirror arrogance, but command.
Caelvir's gaze narrowed. A commander. Flashy weapon. Larger. Stronger. He's not just better armed. He's leading them.
That would be a problem.
Uncoordinated blind men might fall to speed and guile. But this? Twenty men working as one, guided by a leader? That was war.
"Look at that brute," Lord Masquien said from the shaded balcony, his voice like a snake curling through the ears of the others. "He didn't bring muscle to impress. He brought it to control. The rest will follow his weight."
"Blind, but not headless," Lady Venara murmured. She tilted her emerald-laced spyglass toward the formation. "They've studied his rhythm. They trust it. That formation isn't random."
"Head of an arrow," Lord Talen grunted, arms crossed over his broad crimson chestplate. "Standard split-advance wedge. Thirteen front, seven in reserve. Perfect for a blind press. Holds the field. Smashes the line."
"A good arrow breaks a shield wall," Masquien mused, "but an arrow can be bent..."
"Only if you know where to press," said the old noble softly.
Caelvir took a step. Then another.
He tread softly, the sand muffling his footfalls, bare feet granting him the quiet of a creeping cat. The crowd wasn't loud yet—still caught between curiosity and boredom, their voices a low tide that hadn't yet risen to full roar.
He had to test their hearing range.
Eighty feet. No reaction.
Sixty feet. Still nothing.
Forty.
Not even a shift in stance. Not a twitch of a sword tip.
But he wasn't approaching the center.
He angled left—toward their right wing.
Their formation was perfect in shape. Every soldier stood with shoulders brushing the next, using contact as their compass. Occasionally, a hand tapped a neighbor's arm or shield. Silent, coordinated corrections to hold the line.
Four pillars of any modern formation were structure, rhythm, and perception. They had the first two. The last? That was their wound.
If they couldn't perceive him then he could bleed them through it.
"They're statues," Faron muttered, impatient. "Does the boy plan to dance circles until we all rot?"
"Perhaps that's his only option," Venara replied coolly. "To make them doubt. Force a mistake."
Twenty feet.
Still no reaction.
Caelvir crept farther to the rightmost edge of the arrowhead. The air grew still. The crowd's murmurs grew louder—some shouting now. Bored. Jeering.
And perhaps the warriors noticed it too.
The edge warrior's head twitched an inch. Barely. But Caelvir saw it. Then—tap. Shield against shield. A message sent sideways, quick as a ripple.
They knew he's there.
The warrior before Caelvir shifted—just a touch forward. Shield up. Sword poised. Silent.
But silent doesn't mean unaware.
Then came the voice. Not a whisper. A command, loud and clear.
"Location No.1. Right wing rotation to the right. Left Wing No. 5 and No. 4 support. The right-wing rear advance."
Caelvir's eyes shot to the side.
The right wing moved like a hinge, rotating cleanly outward. Soldiers on his far right sprinted faster than those close, forming a wall that curved like a claw around him.
"Did you see that?" Masquien snapped. "Blind men don't move like that on instinct. That's rehearsal. They've drilled this."
"Discipline," Lord Talen agreed, with a nod. "They're no arena fodder. They're soldiers. Probably bonded—same unit, maybe same village."
"Or family," the old noble murmured.
The warriors closest to Caelvir did not strike. Not yet. Their blades hovered, but they held their ground, not daring to slash blindly into the chaos.
Caelvir tried to break away—but the warrior he had baited stepped forward, slashing quick and hard.
The man was good. Too good.
Strike to the chest? Shield.
Strike to the throat? Sword.
Strike low? Countered before impact.
His hearing was unnatural. It's like he heard him think. The man's armor caught every shallow blow. His blocks came just before the strike—not after. As though he knew.
"This one's trained beyond instinct," Venara said. "He's their ears."
Caelvir's focus on him cost precious seconds.
Behind, the right wing had completed its arc. Five soldiers blocked the right. The rear had advanced. Two more from the left wing had shifted to the far end, forming a crescent.
"Right wing done. Two more."
No escape forward. No escape right. No escape back.
His only hope—left.
But even that closed.
"Two from back rear done."
"Circle complete."
They were everywhere.
"The trap's shut," Talen declared. "He's finished."
"He still breathes," Venara corrected.
"He won't for long," Masquien said. "They'll keep him dancing until he's exhausted, then close in."
But Faron leaned forward, watching like a predator. "No. Not yet. Not if he breaks the pattern."
Steel sang.
The warriors struck as one, coordinated by their senses, their rhythm—slashes sweeping, swords cutting air, keeping the circle tight. Their formation wasn't perfect—but it didn't need to be.
Just good enough.
Caelvir dodged. Blocked. Rolled under a blade.
But he was surrounded.
One second. One gap. That's all he had, before the rest joined to strengthen the circle.
He chose.
The one before him—the outermost—lean, with legs exposed at the ankles beneath his greaves. Caelvir spun low, kicking up dust, rotating on the heel of his foot and—
CRACK.
Blade cut through tendon.
A scream. Blood on sand. Shield dropped.
The circle stuttered.
"One down," the Lord Faron whispered.
Caelvir didn't waste it.
Foot on the fallen man's wrist—he leapt, using the momentum to drive his blade into the man's throat, severing his voice. Then, before the others could trace him—
He was gone.
Into the dust. Into the noise. The blind no longer knew where he was.
Chaos rippled.
The warriors near the fallen man moved first, hands brushing out desperately to reestablish touch.
"No. One is out. The rear—advance forward behind the hollow wedge." the commander barked, voice sharp, tone unshaken.
But the wedge no longer knew where to hold.
A single breath had broken their rhythm.
"Now," Faron whispered, eyes wide, a grin splitting his face, "it just got interesting."