Chapter 9:
The afternoon sun hung heavy over the merchant road three miles from Korn Village. Dust clouds rose from the caravan's overturned wagons, and the air stank of blood and fear.
Sirenia pressed her hand against the wound in her side, crimson seeping between her fingers. Her silver hair was matted with sweat and dirt, her blue eyes sharp despite the pain. Around her, the four other members of her party—the Silver Blades—fought desperately against impossible odds.
Forty bandits. Maybe more. They'd come from nowhere, organized and vicious, overwhelming the caravan's defenses in minutes.
"Sirenia! Fall back!" Garrett, their swordsman, parried a strike meant for her throat. He was a solid swordsman, B-rank, but even he was flagging. Blood ran from a gash on his shoulder.
Beside him, twin daggers flashed as Mira—their rogue—danced between enemies. "There's too many! Where's the damn guard escort?"
"Dead!" called Thomas, their archer, loosing arrows from behind an overturned wagon. "All of them! First volley!"
Roland, their mage, was chanting through bloodied lips, trying to gather enough mana for another spell. His robes were torn, his staff cracked.
The bandit leader—a scarred brute with an axe the size of a small child—laughed as he surveyed the carnage.
"Is this the best the guild can send? Five C-rank weaklings to protect a merchant caravan?" He pointed his axe at Sirenia.
"After we finish with you lot, we're taking everything! The goods! The money! And her! I'm gonna have fun with that silver-haired bitch before I slit her throat!"
Garrett's grip tightened on his sword. "Shut your filthy mouth! We won't let you touch her!"
"Then stop breathing!"
The bandit leader raised his axe, preparing to charge—
And his head hit the ground.
The body stood there, blood fountaining from the stump of its neck, axe still raised. It took three seconds for the corpse to understand it was dead, then it toppled forward with a wet thud.
Silence crashed over the battlefield.
Standing in the center of the road, sword held loosely at his side, was a young man. Black hair tied back in a ponytail. Crimson eyes that held no emotion. Blood dripping from his blade.
Hexia.
He looked at the remaining bandits with that empty gaze. "You should leave this area now. Please."
The word "please" carried no politeness. Only the cold promise of death.
One bandit found his voice, trembling. "Who the hell are you?!"
"My name is none of your business. I'll ask you again. Leave. Or else."
The second-in-command—a lean man with a scarred face—stepped forward, trying to salvage authority from the shock. "Or else wha—"
His head rolled before he finished the sentence.
Hexia stood in the same spot, as if he'd never moved. He wiped his blade on a cloth and partially sheathed it, the motion deliberate, almost ceremonial.
"Or else..." He paused, letting the silence breathe.
"Heads. Will. Roll."
The words dropped like stones into still water.
Panic erupted. Bandits scattered, trying to run, trying to flee this demon that had appeared from nowhere.
Hexia didn't let them.
He moved through them like death given form. Each strike economical. No wasted motion. No unnecessary flourishes. Just killing.
A bandit tried to block. Hexia's sword went through the rusty blade, through the neck, out the other side in a shower of sparks and blood. The head rolled. The body collapsed, the broken sword still gripped in dead hands.
Two attacked from opposite sides, thinking to overwhelm him. Hexia spun—one fluid motion—and both heads flew in different directions, tumbling through the air before hitting the ground with wet thumps.
A bandit tried to flee toward the tree line. Hexia's hand moved in a blur. A throwing knife embedded itself in the man's spine, severing the cord. He collapsed, legs suddenly useless, screaming. Hexia walked over, pulled the knife free, and drove it through the base of the skull. The screaming stopped.
Three bandits formed a desperate defense, backs to each other, weapons raised. Hexia approached without hurry. His sword flashed three times. Three heads rolled. The bodies stood for a heartbeat, then crumpled.
An archer loosed an arrow at point-blank range. Hexia's hand caught it mid-flight, inches from his face. He reversed it and threw. The arrow punched through the archer's eye, the arrowhead emerging from the back of his skull in a spray of brain matter. The body pitched backward.
Two more charged screaming. Hexia's blade traced a horizontal figure-eight. Both men's heads left their shoulders simultaneously, spinning through the air. Their bodies ran another three steps before collapsing.
A bandit with a mace swung wildly. Hexia ducked under it, his sword coming up in a rising slash that opened the man from groin to throat. Intestines spilled, steaming. The bandit looked down at his own guts in incomprehension before his legs gave out.
Four bandits tried to surround him. Hexia became a whirlwind. His sword never stopped moving—high slash severing one's arm at the shoulder, low sweep taking another's leg at the knee, backhand strike crushing a third's windpipe, forward thrust impaling the fourth through the heart.
Blood painted the road crimson.
A massive brute with a battle-axe roared, bringing his weapon down in an overhead strike. Hexia stepped into it, inside the arc. His sword flashed.
The brute's hands fell, still gripping the axe handle. Before he could scream, Hexia's blade opened his throat. He collapsed gurgling, trying to stem the blood flow with arms that ended in stumps.
Three more tried to flee. Hexia's hand moved three times. Three daggers flew. Three spines severed. Three bodies dropped.
A bandit fell to his knees, pissing himself, crying. "Please! I have a family! I—"
His head rolled.
One by one, they fell. Blood sprayed. Bodies collapsed. The perfect horizontal strikes that took heads so cleanly they rolled across the ground like severed fruit.
Thirty-six dead in less than five minutes.
Four managed to escape into the forest. Hexia watched them go. They'd spread the word. Fear would keep others away. Message delivered.
He turned to face the Silver Blades.
They stood frozen, weapons raised but trembling. They'd just watched a single man slaughter thirty-six bandits with the casual efficiency of someone performing morning chores.
And his eyes—those crimson eyes—held nothing. No rage. No satisfaction. No emotion at all.
Empty.
Garrett stepped forward, positioning himself between Hexia and Sirenia, his sword raised defensively. "Wait! Hold it right there! Don't even think about pointing your sword at our party member!"
Hexia stopped. Slowly, deliberately, he sheathed his sword and raised his hands, palms out, showing he held no weapon.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice flat. "But it's not my intention to harm anyone. I just want to help her. I can heal her."
Garrett's sword didn't waver. "I don't trust you. How can I be sure you won't harm her?"
Hexia's expression didn't change. He walked forward. Slowly. Hands still raised. Directly toward the sword pointed at his throat.
He kept walking until the blade pressed against his jugular. One thrust and he'd be dead. One slip and his throat would open.
He stopped.
Looked Garrett in the eyes.
And closed his own.
"If you do not trust what I've said, then please—do it. Cut my head off."
The sword trembled in Garrett's hands. The sheer audacity of the offer—the complete absence of fear or self-preservation—was more unnerving than any threat.
This man had just slaughtered thirty-six people. And now he offered his throat without hesitation. Without concern. Like his life meant nothing.
Sirenia's voice cut through the tension, weak but steady. "Garrett. Let him help."
"But—"
"Look at his eyes. He's not lying. He doesn't care enough to lie."
Garrett slowly lowered his sword. "Okay. I'll let you heal her. But if you do anything—if you hurt her in any way—you'll pay for it."
Hexia opened his eyes. Something almost like warmth flickered there, so brief it might have been imagined. "Yes. I'll gladly give up my life if I try anything suspicious."
He walked past them and knelt beside Sirenia. Silver hair framed her pale face, blue eyes wide with pain and something else. Curiosity. Recognition of something familiar in his emptiness.
She should have been terrified. Instead, she saw something beneath the void—sadness, loneliness, loss.
Someone who'd been where she'd been. Who understood.
Hexia placed his hand on her forehead, his touch surprisingly gentle.
"Heal."
No chant. No magic circle. Just one word.
Golden light flooded from his palm, washing over Sirenia's body. The wound in her side closed, flesh knitting together, skin smoothing over as if it had never been torn. Pain faded. Strength returned. Color flooded back into her face.
The Silver Blades gasped in unison.
"He didn't chant!" Mira breathed. "You need to chant healing spells!"
Roland's eyes were wide. "And that power! That's at least A-rank magic! Maybe S-rank!"
Thomas lowered his bow slowly. "Who is this guy?"
Hexia finished healing, removed his hand, and stood without a word. He turned to walk away, his task complete.
"Wait! Please!"
Sirenia's voice stopped him. She struggled to her feet, her party members steadying her.
"My name is Sirenia. Please—may I have the pleasure of knowing yours?"
Hexia didn't turn around. Didn't look back.
"Hexia."
One word. Nothing more.
And he walked away, leaving behind corpses, stunned adventurers, and one woman whose heart had just decided—without her permission—to fall in love.
Sirenia watched him disappear into the trees, her hand pressed against her side where the wound had been. No scar. No pain. Completely healed as if she'd never been injured.
But the touch of his hand lingered. The gentleness despite the violence. The emptiness in his eyes that called to something in her own soul.
"Sirenia?" Garrett's voice was concerned. "You okay?"
She couldn't answer. Couldn't look away from where Hexia had vanished. Could only think one thing:
I'm going to save him. Whatever it takes. I'm going to bring him back from that emptiness. I have to.
"Sirenia, seriously, are you alright?"
She finally looked at Garrett, and he stepped back from the intensity in her eyes.
"I'm fine. Better than fine." She looked back toward the forest. "Where was he from again? Korn Village?"
"According to the stories, yeah. Why?"
A smile crossed Sirenia's face. Determined. Stubborn. Absolute.
"Because that's where we're going next."
Mira exchanged glances with Thomas. "Uh, Sirenia? Did you hit your head? That guy just massacred thirty-six people without breaking a sweat."
"He also saved our lives. Healed me. Offered his throat to Garrett's sword to prove his intentions."
She touched her side again. "That's not a monster. That's someone who's forgotten how to be human. And I'm going to remind him."
Roland whistled low. "You're actually serious."
"Completely."
Garrett sighed. When Sirenia got that look in her eyes, there was no point arguing. "Fine. We'll escort the caravan to Briarkeep, then head to Korn Village. But if this Hexia tries to take any of our heads—"
"He won't. Not unless we threaten his village." She said it with complete certainty. "He's a protector. Not a killer. There's a difference."
"Could've fooled me," Thomas muttered, looking at the thirty-six corpses and scattered heads.
"Pretty sure he's both."
But Sirenia wasn't listening. Her mind was already racing ahead, planning. How to approach him.
How to reach him. How to crack through that shell of emptiness and find the person underneath.
She didn't know why she felt such certainty. Didn't understand the pull toward this legend of rolling heads and empty eyes.
But she knew one thing with conviction:
She was meant to meet him. Meant to save him. Meant to show him that life could be more than violence and void.
The universe had thrown them together for a reason.
And Sirenia had never been good at ignoring destiny.
The merchant caravan gathered itself slowly, the survivors processing what they'd witnessed. The merchant himself—a portly man named Aldric—approached the Silver Blades with shaking hands.
"That man. That swordsman. What was his name again?"
"Hexia," Sirenia answered. "From Korn Village."
"The stories. Sweet gods, the stories are true." Aldric looked at the carnage.
"They call him the Swordsman of Rolling Heads. Say he can take a head so clean it keeps blinking after. Say his horizontal strike—they call it the Guillotine—is faster than thought." He shuddered.
"I thought it was tavern talk. Exaggeration. But I just watched him kill thirty-six men in five minutes. Watched heads roll like he was harvesting wheat."
"And he saved our lives doing it," Sirenia said firmly. "Remember that part."
"Oh, I will. Trust me, I will." Aldric looked toward Korn Village. "I'll spread the word in every town I visit. The Swordsman of Rolling Heads is real. And he protects these roads. Any bandit with half a brain will avoid this area like plague."
Garrett organized the caravan's departure, but Sirenia barely participated. Her mind was elsewhere, replaying every moment of their encounter.
The way Hexia moved—precise, economical, no wasted motion.
The emptiness in his eyes—not cruelty, but absence. Like he'd hollowed himself out.
The gentleness of his healing touch—contradiction to the violence that preceded it.
And most of all, that moment when he offered his throat. The complete lack of self-preservation. Like his life meant nothing to him.
What happened to you? she thought. What broke you so completely that you'd offer your life to strangers without hesitation?
She didn't know.
But she was going to find out.
And when she did, when she understood what had shattered him into this empty shell, she was going to put him back together.
Piece by piece.
No matter how long it took.
To be continued...