"Ahhh!"
Raif's scream ripped through the air as he clutched his convulsing right leg and collapsed to the dirt.
But after that first cry, he bit his tongue and forced himself silent.
Sweat streamed down his face as he glared toward the treeline, snarling through his teeth. "Get me out of here—now!"
The nearby riders jolted from their daze.
"Move! Get him behind cover!" someone shouted.
A few bandits rushed forward, dragging him clumsily behind the shattered remains of the wagons.
Raif leaned against a plank, breathing in ragged gasps. The color drained from his face, replaced by a gray pallor.
He could already feel it—the leg was ruined.
"I can't… I won't become a cripple," he hissed, eyes burning.
Then a mad grin spread across his bloody face. He reached out and barked through clenched teeth, "Get up there! I want the bastard who shot me—his head!"
The riders nodded and spurred forward.
But the moment they entered the woods, they hesitated.
The shadows were thick and twisting, trees packed close. All around, bodies lay tangled in the roots—bandits impaled, slashed, or broken, their weapons still clutched in dead hands.
Up on the slope, something moved fast between the trees—a man in dented plate armor, spattered with blood, cutting down anyone who came near.
Sir Haven.
He struck once more, cleaving through a skull, then slipped deftly into the greenery before arrows could reach him again.
His heavy armor turned him into a ghost of death, darting between trunks and ambushing stragglers. Every strike brought another corpse tumbling down the slope.
Elsewhere, chaos reigned.
Matthew and Morty were still being hunted, darting through the undergrowth like hunted wolves.
Every few yards, they would stop, spin, strike down a pursuer—and vanish again in opposite directions, drawing the enemy apart.
Bit by bit, the bandits' formation shattered. Their curses echoed from every shadow as they tripped over each other chasing ghosts.
Watching from a distance, the mounted raiders saw the confusion spreading like fire. One of them shouted, "Stop chasing! Regroup—back to us!"
But the crazed killers ahead, high on bloodlust, didn't even hear.
Only a couple dozen cowards turned tail and scrambled back, panting.
The rest—thirty, maybe more—were scattered all over the hillside.
That was when Matthew noticed.
From his position, he scanned left and right. The enemy had thinned. Only about thirty still stumbled after him, while his own men—eleven mercenaries plus himself, Bors, Haven, and Morty—remained in fighting shape.
The thought came sharp as lightning. This is it. We can turn the tide.
Especially with Haven and Morty both armored. In a forest where long spears were useless, they were walking slaughterhouses.
Matthew dropped the caution that had ruled him until now and bellowed, "Everyone—here!"
Even as he shouted, he twisted aside, swung his blade, and sliced clean through the neck of a spear‑wielder too bold to stop his charge.
> [Sword Mastery +1]
He didn't retreat. He surged forward.
While the moment of shock still held, he seized a discarded spear, spun, and hurled it.
The weapon flew end‑over‑end with a whistling shriek. The bandits flinched, crowding back.
Matthew used that heartbeat of hesitation to switch entirely into instinct. His mind emptied; his body moved faster than thought.
Years surviving in the court's deadly alleys had honed this killer's rhythm.
He danced among the trees like a whip‑thin shadow—each step a dodge, each movement a strike.
His blade cut where muscle met bone, slashing through weak points with brutal precision.
Every impact felt sharp and efficient, his technique wasting nothing. He slashed, recoiled, pivoted, and ripped through another throat.
Blood sprayed hot across his cheek. The stench was metallic, choking.
Exhaustion hit—but he refused to give ground.
Eyes wild, he circled a trunk, parrying blow after blow with perfect timing.
His awareness flared; every flicker of motion lit up in his mind's eye. His sword answered those flickers with death, emerging from impossible angles like the Stranger's own hand.
Bodies fell around him.
Instead of overwhelming him, the bandits hesitated—paralyzed by fear.
Then, one after another, they began to back away.
Matthew saw the change immediately. They were trying to encircle again, to cut off his retreat.
He could feel the moment tightening around him—the trap closing.
No. Not this time.
He lunged in a feral rush, chasing them before they could regroup, hacking furiously just to keep space open.
But for every step forward, they slid back into place.
Seconds felt like hours. He was surrounded.
Then—the rustle of movement behind him.
"Lord Matthew! I'm coming!"
Branches cracked apart as Bors burst through the shrubs wielding a fallen trunk thicker than his arm, bark studded with long spikes.
His eyes gleamed wide and wild, and behind him came the other mercenaries.
The bandits hesitated—staring in disbelief at the giant man charging at them with what looked like a tree for a spear.
Bors didn't slow.
He leapt, thrusting forward with a roar. The improvised weapon skewered straight through three raiders before the rest even blinked.
The log punched holes through armor and flesh alike; blood dripped from its splintered tip as he yanked it free.
The survivors scattered.
The forest was too cramped for Bors's massive swings, but even stabbing alone he was monstrous.
Now the advantage shifted again.
Matthew's mercenaries rallied, encircling what was left of the enemy. Their rhythm came back—cutting off escape, pushing the raiders into a clearing where there was no cover.
Then, from another angle, Haven and Morty crashed down the slope like twin boulders clad in steel.
Their armor clanged like thunder.
The first line of bandits never even raised their blades before being crushed beneath the sheer momentum.
Where the knights swept through, the forest erupted in blood and screams.
Matthew pressed from the front, blade flashing, driving his men forward. In moments, the bandit formation broke apart completely.
Most tried to run—but the dense trees trapped them like flies in a web. Panic shredded their will.
After that, it wasn't fighting. It was slaughter.
Only a handful tumbled down the slope alive, sprinting with blind terror and shouting warnings to everyone they met.
"Run! Run for your lives!" they screamed, stumbling toward Raif's remaining riders.
Their panic infected the rest.
Even the mounted raiders started to pull back.
But when Haven and Morty stormed down from the ridge, covered in gore, it was too late.
The heavily armored pair carved straight into the riders' ranks.
The first to face them died without a sound. Haven's charge hit with the weight of a battering ram—his steel‑clad shoulder slamming into a mounted man and sending both horse and rider flipping through the air.
The sound of impact cracked like thunder.
The rest of the raiders froze in horror.
Haven steadied his horse and swung. His greatsword whipped through the air in deadly arcs—each blow followed by a scream, each swing a gush of red.
Within moments, half the bandit cavalry were corpses.
Desperation spurred the rest to fight back, but Morty and the mercenaries were already upon them.
For one brutal heartbeat, the forest echoed with steel, shouts, and dying cries.
And then it was quiet.
When Matthew and Bors finally descended from the trees—carrying spears, axes, bits of looted armor—the battle was done.
Only five mercenaries were left cleaning the field, dragging bodies into piles.
They looked up, faces streaked with blood, and grinned weakly.
"My lord," one said hoarsely, "we won."
Matthew exhaled, the tension finally breaking. His smile was tired, tinged with irony. "Yeah… we won."
He'd known, once the bandits chased them into the woods, that victory was only a matter of time.
He had learned these tricks in the royal hunting forests of King's Landing—fighting guerrilla skirmishes for coin, ambushing guards, living off the chaos.
Still, the triumph didn't feel light. Too many young men lay still on the ground.
Matthew walked to the survivors, resting a hand lightly on each shoulder. "Gather our brothers," he said quietly. "Take their bodies. We'll carry their ashes home someday."
The surviving mercenaries nodded, eyes red, jaws tight.
"Yes, my lord. We'll take them home."
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