The first bandit lunged. The man's fist blazed like molten iron as it met the attacker's chest with a thunderous crack. Fire erupted, hurling the bandit backward into the sand, screaming as smoke curled from his body.
The children gasped.
The others grinned, unfazed. Their leader, a scarred man with a hooked blade, raised his hand.
"Oi, big guy. Don't waste your strength. We don't want you dead. Just the brats."
The tall man's jaw tightened. "Over my corpse."
The scarred bandit sneered.
"Think about it. You're strong, sure, but strength doesn't feed bellies. These kids? They'll sell high in the trade markets. Healthy, fresh… You hand them over, we'll even cut you in. Ten percent. Enough coin to buy yourself a palace."
The children whimpered, clinging to one another.
The man's hand trembled—but only for a breath. Fire licked his knuckles once more as he stepped forward. "I'd rather starve than sell them to dogs like you."
The leader spat. "Then you'll burn with them."
He signaled, and the rest charged.
The man roared, fists erupting into flame, meeting the rush head-on. Fire weaved into every strike, each blow shattering blades, searing flesh. The desert lit up in bursts of orange and red, the rhythm of strength and fire pounding like a war drum.
But for every man he dropped, two more pressed in. His shoulders sagged under the strain, the ground blackened with every step.
Behind him, the children cried out as a dagger flew toward them—only for it to snap midair, unseen chains shredding it apart. None of the orphans noticed. Igron smirked faintly, eyes never leaving the battlefield.
An arrow followed, hissing toward a child's throat—but it veered sharply off course, buried harmlessly in the sand. Kairo stood motionless, his crimson eyes dim in the shadows, the weight of his presence warping the air itself.
The man fought on, unaware he was not alone. But his fire flickered, his breath came ragged, and the wolves closed in tighter.