Hermit drove the ramrod down with one final, precise tap. Powder and ball seated cleanly.
He snapped the flintlock shut and cocked the hammer back in a smooth motion. A faint haze of smoke still clung around his white gloves from the earlier shot.
The barrel rose again. His eyes moved calmly across the bandits. Three stepped forward at once.
The short heyuman with the burn scar curling down his neck and a crooked nose. The lean man with chains looped around his forearms instead of bracers, metal clinking softly as he moved. And the broad werewolf with the heavy cleaver resting against his shoulder.
They spread slightly as they advanced—just enough to surround. Hermit stepped back once. Then again. His polished shoes slid quietly over gravel. They closed in fast.
From inside the car, Krineka's voice rang out, sharp with worry.
"Hermit!"
He didn't look back.
"Please remain inside, my lady. Do not step out."
The burn-scarred man lunged first. A short curved blade flashed low toward Hermit's ribs. Hermit twisted at the waist, coat flaring slightly, and drove his elbow straight into the attacker's throat.
A choked gasp burst out of the man. Before he could fall away, Hermit seized his wrist mid-stumble and yanked him hard to the side—straight into the path of the chained man rushing in from the right.
They collided heavily. Chains clattered. Both lost their balance. The werewolf didn't hesitate. He charged from the left, cleaver raised high, jaws open in a feral snarl.
Hermit dropped low. The blade sliced through empty air above his head and buried itself into the dirt with force.
Hermit rose inside the creature's reach. One gloved palm pressed flat against the werewolf's chest. He pushed—not with brute strength, but with precise redirection.
The werewolf stumbled forward, momentum carrying him straight into the other two who were still struggling to regain footing.
All three ended up clustered together in a rough line, facing Hermit once more. The burn-scarred man tore himself free first.
Hermit raised the flintlock with one hand. The shot cracked through the night. A sharp flash.
The burn-scarred man's head snapped backward. A small red bloom appeared between his eyes.
He dropped before the echo faded. Hermit shifted his wrist slightly.
Second shot.
The chained man jerked violently. Metal links rattled as the ball tore through his forehead. He collapsed sideways, chains dragging over gravel.
The werewolf roared and ripped his cleaver from the dirt. Hermit was already aligned.
Third crack.
The shot punched clean through the center of the werewolf's broad forehead, directly between glowing yellow eyes.
The snarl died instantly. His knees gave out. He fell forward slowly, like a tree surrendering to gravity. The cleaver slipped from lifeless fingers and clanged against the ground.
Three bodies struck the dirt in quick succession. Silence followed, broken only by the fading echoes and the soft drift of powder smoke curling around Hermit's gloves.
He exhaled once, calm and steady. The flintlock lowered. His hand reached for the pouch at his belt again.
The boss rose slowly from the iron chair. The metal legs scraped harsh lines into the dirt as she stood. She stretched her arms above her head in a lazy arc, shoulders rolling as if she had just woken from a pleasant nap. Then her hands settled on her hips.
"Everyone retreat," she said flatly. "You're all useless. They're too strong for weaklings like you."
One of the men close to her—the one with mismatched armor plates strapped crooked across his chest—turned toward her, outrage twisting his face.
"But boss—!"
Her glare cut him off. Her eyes narrowed, lips peeling back just enough to bare her teeth.
"Follow my orders, you fucking idiots. I'm the boss here."
The protest died in his throat. One by one, the others lowered their heads. Reluctant nods followed. Then they turned and ran, boots hammering against gravel as they scattered across the bridge and vanished into the scrub lining the ravine.
She watched them go. A small smile appeared. Then it widened, curling at the edges. Her voice dropped into something softer and almost playful.
"Let me play with them~"
Across the clearing, the last standing man—the tall one in patched leather who had attacked Vane earlier—circled her again. His breathing was heavy through his nose. Sweat darkened his collar. He rolled his shoulders once, cracked his neck, then rushed in low, knife in one hand, fist pulled back in the other.
Vane adjusted her grip. The staff felt warm and slick in her palms. She met him halfway. The knife thrust came first. She snapped the staff up to block. Steel struck wood with a sharp clang, sparks snapping briefly between them.
She twisted and shoved him back a step, then swung the butt of the staff toward his ribs.
He reacted a fraction too late. The strike grazed his side, tearing fabric and slicing a thin red line across his skin.
He hissed and staggered sideways.
'This is annoying,' Vane thought, irritation tightening her jaw.
'My blood type B only grants short, intense bursts. And I already burned one against those werewolves.'
Another slash came in wild and close. She parried it, wood slamming into his forearm. The vibration shot up her arms.
She gritted her teeth.
'My recovery isn't fast enough either. And deflecting that bullet earlier nearly wrecked my wrist.'
The man pressed harder, blade flashing in tight arcs meant to overwhelm. Vane gave ground deliberately, letting him think he was forcing her back.
He swung high. She ducked under it and jabbed the end of her staff into his thigh, just above the knee. The strike sank deep into muscle.
He grunted. His leg faltered for a heartbeat. She swept low at his ankles. He hopped awkwardly to avoid it, leaving his hand exposed.
Her staff cracked across his knuckles. The knife spun out of his grip and clattered onto the dirt.
He cursed, clutching his hand as blood welled between his fingers.
Vane stepped inside his space and drove her elbow into his jaw—not full strength, but enough to rattle him.
His head snapped back. She hooked the staff behind his calf and pulled sharply. He dropped to one knee, swearing louder.
Hermit moved.
The flintlock rose steady in his white-gloved hand. He aimed for the man's head and squeezed the trigger.
The crack split the night. Smoke burst outward. At the last instant, the man twisted to avoid Vane's next strike.
The ball tore through his shoulder instead.
Blood sprayed. He staggered sideways with a strangled yell, hand clamping over the wound.
Vane saw the opening and immediately sprang back three long steps, planting her staff between them like a barrier.
"Thank you, Sir Hermit," she said quietly.
Hermit gave no reply. He dashed forward in three quick strides, coat flaring behind him, and stopped beside her—close enough to coordinate, far enough not to hinder.
The flintlock remained raised, smoke curling faintly from the muzzle.
The boss approached at an unhurried pace, hips swaying deliberately. She stopped beside the wounded man and looked down at him as if he were something spilled on the floor.
Her boot nudged his good shoulder.
"You disappointed me. But that's fine. I can't let you die here. You're useful so retreat now."
He nodded through clenched teeth. Blood seeped between his fingers. He forced himself upright and staggered toward the jungle's edge, disappearing into shadow without looking back.
She turned toward Vane and Hermit. That unsettling smile stretched wider.
"Well, well. I hope you enjoyed playing with my men. They're only impressive in bed~ In a fight? Apparently not a match for an old man and a bitch who's an amateur at BTC."
Vane's grip tightened on her staff. Hermit's jaw hardened. A faint tremor ran through his gloved fingers before he steadied the pistol again.
She glanced toward the three bodies Hermit had dropped earlier.
"I didn't want those three dead though. They were the talented ones. Oh well."
The air grew heavy. Vane felt her stomach twist, shoulders locking in disgust.
Hermit's posture went rigid.
Inside the car, Azrean's expression darkened, revulsion flashing across his face. Behind him, Krineka pressed her hand to her lips, her cat ears flattening against her head, blue eyes wide with unease.
The boss tilted her head, false sweetness painting her features.
"Allow me to introduce myself."
She spread her arms slightly.
"I'm Monisa Berker. The Tenth General of Swallow Crows."
Her smile sharpened into something cold.
"And I'm going to kill you all."