The pollen settled over the pile of bodies like glittering dust. One by one, the Mud-Dogs began to stir.
Grog was the first to wake. His constitution was unnaturally high, likely a side effect of his Swamp Magic reinforcing his bulk. He gasped, his eyes snapping open. He sat up, mud sliding off his face, and clutched his chest.
"Gah!" He looked around, disoriented. "What... where..."
Then he saw Lencar.
The man in the wooden mask was leaning against a tree, arms crossed, watching them with the impassive stare of a gargoyle.
Unlike Pyre, who had woken up with fear, Grog woke up with rage. His humiliation burned hotter than any fire. He had been beaten in front of his men. He had been dragged through the mud.
"YOU!" Grog roared, scrambling to his feet. He grabbed the grimoire resting on his chest without even looking at it. "You think you can humiliate me?!"
The shout woke the others. They scrambled up, confused, reaching for their weapons and books.
"Kill him!" Grog screamed, pointing a trembling finger at Lencar. "Everyone! Blast him to hell!"
"Die!" another bandit yelled, grabbing a dagger from his boot.
"Swamp Magic: Mud Dragon's Jaw!" Grog bellowed, pouring every ounce of his mana into the spell.
"Poison Magic: Venom Needle!"
"Water Magic: Cutter!"
They attacked. All at once. Fifteen spells launched at a single target standing ten feet away.
Lencar didn't move. He didn't flinch. He just watched, his head tilted slightly to the side in genuine curiosity.
Whoosh.
The Mud Dragon roared into existence... and then, inches from Lencar's cloak, it dissolved. It didn't explode; it just unraveled into harmless brown mist.
The poison needles turned to steam.
The water blades splashed like a gentle rain against an invisible wall.
The attack stopped dead.
"What?" Grog blinked, staring at his hands. "My... my magic misfired?"
"Do it again!" a bandit with a scar shouted. "Poison Magic: Venom Needle!"
Pfft. The needle vanished again before it could touch Lencar.
"Why isn't it working?!"
They tried again. And again. They screamed curses. They poured mana into their books until the veins in their necks bulged. But every spell aimed at Lencar simply evaporated upon contact with his aura.
Lencar watched them panting, their faces red with exertion and rage.
"It's fascinating," Lencar said finally. His voice cut through their panic. "I left you alive. I gave you your grimoires back. I woke you up. And your first instinct is to kill me."
"Shut up!" Grog yelled, abandoning magic. He charged, raising a massive, mana-reinforced fist. "I'll crush you with my bare hands!"
He swung.
His fist stopped an inch from Lencar's nose. It hit an invisible barrier—a repulsion field generated by his own mana refusing to strike the Source.
"Ghh! Let go!" Grog struggled, pushing against the air, but he couldn't touch him.
"It's no use," Lencar said, sounding almost bored. "I have tampered with your grimoires. You can't harm me."
He looked at them.
Usually, when men realize they are powerless, they bargain. They beg. Pyre had begged.
But these men were still trying to find a rock to throw. They were looking for a loophole. They were cursing him.
"Why?" Lencar asked again. "Why attack? Do you not value your lives?"
One of the younger bandits, a thin man with rot on his teeth, suddenly dropped to his knees. The realization hit him. The magic wasn't working because this man had somehow controlled it.
"I'm sorry!" the young bandit wailed. "I'm sorry! Don't kill me!"
Then another dropped.
But Grog and the core group—about six of them—just stood there, seething. They were predators who had never been prey. They didn't know how to submit.
Lencar looked at them, and he finally understood the difference.
The Red Hoods were fanatics. They had a cause. Twisted, yes, but they believed in something higher than themselves. They could be redirected.
The Mud-Dogs believed in nothing. They killed for fun. They raped for power. They kidnapped for greed. They were rabid dogs. They didn't understand mercy; they only understood dominance. And dominance required a demonstration.
"I see," Lencar said coldly. "You aren't like the others. You don't want a purpose. You just want victims."
He raised his hand.
"Chain Magic: Binding Serpent."
The chains erupted again. This time, they moved faster, tighter.
"Wait! Run!" Grog turned to flee.
But the chains caught him by the ankles, dragging him face-first into the dirt. The others were snatched up mid-sprint, bound like hogs for the slaughter.
Lencar walked slowly toward the bandit who had thrown the first poison dart—the man with the scar. The man who had laughed the loudest back at the camp.
"You tried to kill me three times in the last minute," Lencar noted, standing over him.
"Screw you!" the bandit spat, struggling against the chains. "Let me go, and I'll peel your skin off! I'll find your family and—"
Lencar looked down at him. He felt a wave of anger at the man and nausea at what he was about to do. He hated this part. He hated that his stomach churned, that his hands wanted to shake. But he couldn't let them see it. He had to be the monster they feared.
"You won't be peeling anything," Lencar said.
He raised his hand. He channeled the Fire Magic.
"Fire Magic: Ember Coffin."
He didn't use a flashy explosion. He used a slow, concentrated heat.
The bandit's clothes caught fire.
"AAAAHHH!"
The scream ripped through the forest, high and jagged. The man thrashed in the chains, but the fire didn't spread to the trees. It clung to him, burning steadily, turning skin to char.
Lencar stood there, watching. He forced himself to keep his eyes open. He forced himself to listen to the screams until they turned into wet gurgles, and finally, silence.
The smell of burning meat filled the clearing.
Lencar felt sick. He felt like the lowest creature on earth. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to run away and hide in his bed in Nairn.
But to the bandits watching, he looked like a demon carved from ice.
"This is the result of your actions," Lencar said. His voice didn't waver. It was steady, hard, and devoid of pity.
He turned his gaze to the remaining fourteen men.
They were screaming now. Not in anger, but in pure, unadulterated terror. Grog had pissed himself. The dark stain spread across his trousers, mixing with the mud.
"Please! NO!"
"I'll do anything! ANYTHING!"
"Don't burn me! Oh god, don't burn me!"
Lencar walked closer to them. They shrank back against their chains, crying, snot running down their faces.
"The reason you are alive," Lencar said, stepping over the ashes of their friend, "is because I have a use for you."
He looked at Grog. The massive leader was trembling so hard his teeth chattered audibly.
"I want you to work for me," Lencar stated. "You will be my subordinates. You will obey every word I say. You will not question. You will not hesitate. Or you will face the same aftermath as him."
He pointed to the pile of ash.
"Do you understand?"
"YES!" Grog screamed, smashing his forehead into the dirt. "We will obey you! We are yours to be ordered around! Forever! Just don't burn us!"
"We will obey! We will obey!" the others chanted, sobbing into the ground.
It wasn't loyalty. It was broken will. But for men like this, it was the only leash that held.
"Good," Lencar said.
He pulled out his Far-Speaker's Mirror from the Vault. He touched the ring on his finger, channeling the artifact's marking spell silently.
He tapped Grog on the shoulder.
Grog didn't even feel it, but now, Lencar could hear everything Grog said, anywhere in the kingdom.
"First order," Lencar commanded. "Go back to the camp. Free the hostages there. Give each of them your horses. Send them home. Do not touch them. Do not ask for money."
"Yes! Right away!" Grog nodded frantically.
"If I find out you hurt them... if I find out you even looked at them wrong..." Lencar let the sentence hang.
"We won't! We swear!"
"Go."
Lencar released the chains.
The Mud-Dogs scrambled to their feet and ran. They ran back toward the swamp not to escape, but to obey, terrified that if they didn't free the hostages fast enough, the burning man would come back to finish the job.
Lencar watched them go.
He stood alone in the forest next to the pile of ash.
Once they were gone, the facade cracked. Lencar fell to his knees. He ripped off his mask and retched onto the forest floor. Nothing came up—he hadn't eaten since lunch—just dry heaves of guilt and adrenaline.
Although he had killed before too but he had mostly only killed unconscious people and this was the first time that he killed someone, burned someone alive...
"I'm a monster," Lencar whispered to the dark trees, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand. "But at least... at least the hostages are going home."
He stayed there for a minute, breathing in the cool air, forcing the nausea down. He put the mask back on.
[Spatial Magic]: [Coordinate Shift].
He vanished, leaving the ashes to cool in the silence of the woods.