From his position in the shadows near the cave entrance, Aeon watched the battle unfold with the analytical mind that had kept him alive through every horror he had endured. The goblins were numerous and desperate, but the bandits were beginning to organize their defense—and with it came a terrifying reminder of why escape had seemed impossible for so long.
A bandit sergeant raised his hands toward a group of goblins charging his position. Flames erupted from his palms, turning the air into a wall of searing heat that incinerated three creatures instantly. Their screams were cut short as flesh and bone were reduced to ash in seconds.
Fire attribute.
Twenty feet away, another bandit stomped his foot against the ground. The earth responded to his will, sending spikes of stone erupting from beneath a goblin's feet. The creature was impaled through the chest, lifted into the air, and held there like a grotesque trophy.
Earth attribute.
Near the camp's water barrels, a female bandit gestured sharply. The liquid responded to her command, forming into whip-like tendrils that wrapped around goblins' necks and squeezed until vertebrae snapped audibly.
Water attribute.
The demonstrations continued around the compound. Wind that could lift goblins off their feet and dash them against walls. Lightning that could stop a creature's heart with a single targeted bolt. Ice that could freeze blood in veins. The bandits weren't just humans with weapons—they were individuals blessed with elemental powers that made them capable of feats that bordered on divine.
This is why they could control so many slaves with so few overseers. This is why escape seemed impossible.
But the goblins' sheer numbers were beginning to tell. For every creature killed by elemental magic, two more took its place. The bandits were powerful, but they were also exhausted from fighting the fire, scattered across the camp, and caught completely off guard.
More importantly, they were all focused on the immediate threat. No one was watching for a small figure moving through the shadows, picking his way between corpses and burning buildings.
Aeon forced his broken body to move, staying low as he searched for anything that might serve as a weapon. The dungeon had taught him that bare hands weren't enough—not when survival depended on being able to kill quickly and efficiently.
He found what he needed near the eastern wall, where a goblin and bandit had killed each other in mutual destruction. The bandit's spear lay beside his corpse, its steel point still sharp despite being coated in black blood. Aeon grabbed the weapon, testing its weight and balance despite the agony from his broken hand.
Not perfect, but better than nothing.
The camp's eastern gate was unguarded, its sentries either dead or drawn into the fighting near the center of the compound. This was his chance—possibly his only chance—to escape while chaos provided cover.
Aeon sprinted toward the gate, his bare feet silent on the blood-soaked ground. Behind him, the sounds of battle continued—screams, the crack of magic, the clash of steel on crude weapons. The bandits would eventually win, but not before suffering losses that would take years to replace.
The gate stood open, abandoned in the panic of the dungeon break. Beyond lay the dark forest that surrounded the bandit camp, offering the possibility of concealment and escape.
He ran.
The night air hit his face like a blessing as he left the compound behind. His legs, weakened by malnutrition and abuse, carried him forward through sheer determination. Each step took him further from the hell he had endured, closer to something resembling freedom.
The forest was a maze of shadows and twisted branches that caught at his torn clothing. Roots threatened to trip him with every step, and low-hanging branches scraped against his wounds. But he had learned to run through pain, to ignore his body's protests in favor of survival.
Distance. Put distance between yourself and them. They'll come looking eventually.
He had covered perhaps a mile when the sound of hoofbeats made him freeze.
Through the trees ahead came the unmistakable rhythm of a horse moving at a steady trot. A patrol—one of the outer guards returning to camp, probably drawn by the sounds of battle and the glow of fires visible through the canopy.
Aeon pressed himself against the nearest tree, gripping his stolen spear and trying to control his ragged breathing. If the rider passed without noticing him, he might be able to continue deeper into the forest. If he was spotted...
The hoofbeats stopped.
"Well, well. What do we have here?"
A bandit sat astride a brown mare, perhaps thirty feet away down the forest path. The man was older than most of the camp's inhabitants, with gray threading through his beard and scars that spoke of decades of violence. His hand rested casually on the hilt of a curved sword, and when he smiled, it didn't reach his eyes.
"A little rat, escaped from its cage," the bandit continued, dismounting with the fluid grace of an experienced warrior. "Marcus Redhand thought he could slip away while we were busy with the goblin problem. Clever little rat."
He doesn't know who I am. He thinks I'm one of the other slaves.
That might be an advantage. If the bandit thought he was dealing with a simple runaway rather than the person responsible for the night's disasters, he might underestimate the threat.
"Come now, boy. Drop that spear and come quietly. Captain Voss is busy tonight, but he'll still want to have words with any slaves who thought this was their chance for freedom."
The bandit drew his sword with a casual motion, the steel gleaming in the moonlight that filtered through the canopy. "Make this easy on both of us. You can't fight a man with an attribute, and you certainly can't outrun a horse."
Aeon gripped his spear tighter, his mind racing through possibilities. The bandit was right—he couldn't outrun a mounted opponent, and he certainly couldn't match someone with elemental powers in direct combat.
But he had learned something important during his time in the dungeon: sometimes the most desperate plan was also the only one that offered hope.
The bandit was confident, relaxed, treating this as a routine recapture of escaped property. He expected submission, fear, the broken spirit of a slave who knew his place.
He wasn't expecting a cornered animal that had already killed six goblins and crawled through hell to earn its freedom.
"Last chance, boy. Drop the weapon."
Aeon raised the spear and settled into a fighting stance.
For the first time since escaping the corpse pit, he was choosing to fight rather than simply reacting to threats.
It felt good.