A young man was fighting in a cold night, the wind was glacial, and the spectacle was no less.
The young man was desperately defending his life, and the lives of twelve other people, who were now ten.
Indeed, two merchants had died — one with an arrow in his left eye, the other cut in half.
Six people were fighting against thirteen. They were slowly winning, yet they were all exhausted, and deeply shocked by what had happened.
Corpses were everywhere. Blood had already started to form a giant puddle. More than thirty people had died here.
Elsewhere, yet close to the convoy, two people were fighting — their fight was on a completely different scale. While Self Vision martial artists were still close to human, Completion realm martial artists were entirely different entities.
They were cutting trees like leaves, destroying the land in a small radius, yet that land was changing. Their speed was far beyond what a normal human could perceive — they were too fast.
But one of the two had only one arm. He was clearly losing, starting to bleed too much.
In the convoy, the young man was clearly going mad. He had to kill, despite hating it. Corpses were everywhere — corpses of people he had known, and corpses of bandits he had killed himself.
Vomit could be seen around him, and in the corner of his mouth. His hands were trembling, like his legs. The young man clearly didn't want to be here.
Yet... he didn't stop — dodging, protecting, and killing. A gleam of desperation could be seen in his eyes. One thing was clear: he was ready to kill every bandit still standing, despite hating it, to put an end to that battle.
The young man, despite his fear, his rejection of killing, and his trembling limbs, had no choice but to kill — so he did.
A bandit came from his left, trying to pierce him. He dodged and rotated, jumping on the bandit. His long Hendirun saber pierced the bandit's neck — a hole appeared, blood fell, the bandit died.
A second came, swinging his Zweihander toward him, but a young woman cut off his head. The bandit died just like that.
Sirius didn't want to kill them, yet he had no choice. He had already failed his mission — two merchants had died. He couldn't allow any others to fall.
He was tired — too tired. Everything in his body was trembling. He had a headache, an arrow in his left leg, and a second in his left arm. Yet, with enough adrenaline, and the will not to die, Sirius was still in the battlefield.
The guards at Peak Stage had already killed every bandit at Late Stage and above. They were now finishing any bandit they saw. On his side, Marn had cut off the second arm of the bandit chief. Victory was near.
Only eight bandits remained.
But it seemed they knew they would die, and tried a final assault — trying to kill as many merchants as they could. Sirius and Saelira had to stop them. But how?!
Sirius killed one bandit who was stupidly aiming at the merchants, as if Sirius didn't exist. But after severing the second one's head, his body said stop — his legs gave out.
Seven bandits were coming. Sirius was going to die. Neither Saelira nor the other guards would be able to save him.
Sirius saw the bandit with a crossbow, aiming at his head. He couldn't move, couldn't swing his sword. His arms had stopped responding too.
The arrow flew through the air. Sirius, now adapted to the Completion Realm's speed, clearly saw it. His death was here.
He closed his eyes. He didn't want to see the arrow reach him.
He waited one second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds…
He then opened his eyes. How was he still alive? And he saw the scene. Marn, who had killed the bandit chief, was here — each swing meant a falling head. In less than ten seconds, all the bandits were dead.
Sirius tried to stand up but failed. His body no longer responded. He could only move his head. So he gazed around.
Death.
The only thing he could see was death — everywhere.
More than fifty bodies lay on the ground, lifeless, bleeding, creating a river of blood.
They had their necks severed, their heads cut, and sometimes holes in their legs, arms, or abdomen.
And Sirius was one of the people who had killed them. He saw at least five bandit heads he knew he had taken. And he knew more were somewhere, even if he couldn't see them.
Sirius vomited. And each time he looked somewhere, he vomited again. The spectacle was too horrific, too ominous for him.
He wasn't even able to see his own hands — because each time he looked at them, he remembered that he had killed. Blood was on his hands.
"Are you ok… Sirius?"
Caelan was the one who asked. It was obvious Sirius was not okay, so he jumped over the wagon and came closer.
Sirius saw him — and began to cry.
"I-I… I killed! I killed several people! They might've had children, parents, lovers — and yet I killed them!"
Sirius cried and fell into Caelan's arms. He was too shocked by the scene, too shocked by what he had done.
He was still a fifteen-year-old kid, after all.
He was so shocked that he completely forgot he was bleeding too — two arrows had pierced him, he had lost too much blood, and his headache was growing worse. At a moment, he fainted.
"Marn! Come here!"
Caelan was desperate. His friend was slowly bleeding out. If they did nothing, he would die.
"What is it, sir?"
Marn bowed before the young man, as if speaking to someone important.
"You have to help my friend! He's losing blood — he's going to die!"
Marn looked at the friend Caelan was talking about, and his eyes widened in shock.
"This kid is still alive? How? Even experts at Late Stage died, yet he survived?"
Aurelia jumped over the wagon too. She had already vomited, and had come to see how her friend was.
She also begged Marn.
"Please, Marn… help him!"
Marn nodded and took the child, leading him toward his own wagon where there was medical support, and started treating Sirius as best as he could.
Both Aurelia and Caelan followed, looking at the disaster with dark expressions.
"How many people remain?"
"Seventeen. Seven martial artists including me and your friends, eight merchants, and both of you."
Seventeen… The number of corpses on the ground was even higher than anyone had thought. More than seventy people had died here.
The battle had ended. The convoy had won.
But no one celebrated the victory.