Date: April 8, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
The silence of Black Grove snapped like an overstretched string. The sound of the broken twig under Maël's boot still vibrated in the air when the four bandits in the clearing transformed from idly resting vagabonds into a coordinated killing machine. The leader, nicknamed Korgar the "Boar," slowly straightened up, and Dur saw his "Spirit of Boar Bristles" begin to change the man's flesh. The gray haze around him thickened, turning into a prickly cocoon, and the stiff hairs on his face and hands became long, needle-like, and shiny, like blued steel.
"Two rats," Korgar rasped, his small, fat-rimmed eyes igniting with crimson fire. "You came to my forest uninvited. Here you'll stay. Glynth, Ulf—take them!"
Two mercenaries sprang from their spots. They weren't ordinary deserters. Dur instantly read their movements: they weren't coming in a bunch, but flanking, using trees as cover.
"Here we go!" Maël shouted. His voice still sounded cheerful, but Dur noticed his friend crouch, his fingers gripping the knife hilt turning white. Maël wasn't just afraid—he was tuning in. His Spirit of Adaptability began feverishly processing information: air humidity, ground slope, enemy speed.
Dur raised his bow. In the forest, he wasn't the "Shadow of the Eagle"; he was the continuation of Torm's will. His first arrow flew towards Glynth—a wiry mercenary who moved unnaturally fast, in jerks. Glynth was clearly aided by some primitive Anima-type Spirit—"Spirit of Favorable Wind," accelerating his limbs.
The arrow sang its short song, but Glynth, twisting aside with inhuman reaction, dodged. The tip only grazed his shoulder, knocking a puff of dust from his leather jacket.
"Fast one!" Dur muttered, already nocking a second arrow.
Meanwhile, Maël clashed with Ulf—a huge brute with a heavy battle hammer. Ulf lacked agility, but behind him stood the power of a Terra Spirit. As he swung, the air around the hammer trembled with weight.
"Crush you!" the giant roared.
The hammer crashed down where Maël had stood a second ago. The ground shook, moss and turf flying, exposing roots. Maël, tumbling head over heels, landed beside the giant. His knife struck Ulf's thigh twice, but the blade merely slid off the thick skin—Ulf's "Stone Heel" Spirit made his lower body nearly invulnerable.
"Dur, their skin! They're fueling it with energy!" Maël shouted, dodging another devastating blow that nearly crushed his ribcage.
Dur understood: ordinary shots wouldn't work. They had to strike where the Spirit was weaker. He switched his focus to Glynth. The fast mercenary was already flanking, drawing two long knives. He moved in zigzags, flickering between tree shadows.
Dur closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. Torm had taught him: "Don't watch the beast, watch where the beast is going." He felt the vibration of the air. Glynth was using his wind Spirit to make a long leap.
*Whistle.*
Dur shot "blind," aiming where Glynth would land. The mercenary, in mid-air, couldn't change trajectory. The arrow struck him squarely in the knee—the only spot he hadn't shielded with his Spirit before the jump. Glynth screamed and crashed, tumbling over the dry leaves.
"One down!" Dur shouted, but his joy was short-lived.
Korgar, the leader, who had only been watching until now, moved. He didn't run—he charged straight ahead, smashing through bushes. His "Boar Bristles" now covered him completely, turning the man into a living steel hedgehog. Every movement was accompanied by a metallic screech.
"My turn to carve," Korgar snarled.
He raised his hand, and Dur watched in horror as several sharp needles on the leader's forearm elongated and shot from his skin like crossbow bolts.
"Look out!" Dur barely managed to shove Maël aside.
One needle embedded itself in the oak trunk they were hiding behind, piercing the wood a handspan deep. A second grazed Dur's forearm, leaving a deep gash. The youth felt cold spreading through his arm.
"He has a ranged Spirit!" Maël breathed. Despite the danger, he still tried to maintain optimism. "But he's clumsy!"
"He's like a battering ram," Dur bandaged the wound with a strip of cloth, not letting go of his bow. "Maël, Ulf is coming for you. I'll handle the leader. Try to use his weight against him!"
Maël nodded, his face becoming deadly serious for an instant. His Spirit of Adaptability began adapting to Ulf's heavy attacks. Maël noticed the giant always paused briefly before a strike, to concentrate energy in his hammer.
The battle raged anew. Korgar launched needle after needle, forcing Dur to constantly change position. Dur's ordinary arrows bounced harmlessly off the leader's "bristles," causing no damage. Dur understood: his physical strength wasn't enough to pierce such armor. He needed… a miracle.
And on the clearing, a fourth bandit appeared—a silent man in a gray cloak. He didn't join the fight; he stood in the shadows and slowly moved his hands through the air.
"A fog spirit…" Maël whispered, noticing the clearing beginning to be enveloped in an unnaturally thick, sticky haze. "Dur, if he finishes, we'll be blind!"
The situation was becoming critical. Dur was wounded, Maël was barely holding his own against the giant, and magical darkness was descending on the clearing. This wasn't just a fight with bandits—it was a clash with an organized group where each possessed a shred of supernatural power.
Dur looked at Maël. He, dodging the hammer, found a second to wink at his friend. In this gesture was so much absurd optimism and hidden cunning that Dur couldn't help but smile.
"Alright," Dur whispered, drawing his last armor-piercing arrow. "Let's see how tough your bristles really are, Boar."
The battle in Black Grove was entering its bloodiest phase.