Black halted in his tracks and raised his right hand.
At the gesture, one of the spirit warriors beside him stepped forward half a pace, drew the massive greatsword slung across its back, and hurled it with brutal force.
*Thunk!*
Before Ofalil could even register what was happening, a dark shape plummeted from the branches of a nearby tree—a bandit clad in leather armor, a bow clutched in his dead hands. His eyes stared vacantly at the sky, the greatsword having pierced his chest clean through, snuffing out his life instantly.
Who *are* these people?!
Kelly's scalp prickled as he watched the scene unfold. He knew exactly who that bandit was—the leader's most trusted scout, a former ranger exiled for breaking the kingdom's laws who'd fled to Duskwood and turned to banditry. Though his combat skills weren't particularly impressive, his talent for stealth and reconnaissance was unmatched by anyone in the gang. It was thanks to him that they'd avoided countless ambushes and survived so long in these woods. And yet, here he was—discovered and killed without even a fight?
Kelly knew he didn't have the skill to pull off a trick like that. He wasn't even sure if their leader, a mid-tier Swordsman, could manage it. In a one-on-one duel, the leader would've crushed the ranger easily—but in the dense forest, where stealth ruled supreme? That was a different story entirely. Even a disgraced ranger was a master of hiding in plain sight.
But what had these people done? The ranger's prized stealth had been utterly useless. From the moment Black raised his hand to the warrior throwing the sword—had five seconds even passed? It was as if the ranger had never been hidden at all, but had been standing right in front of them, waiting to be killed.
"How much farther?" Black asked, not turning his head.
Kelly swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he replied, "R-right up ahead, my lord. Just a little farther."
The spirit warrior marched over to the fallen bandit, wrenched the greatsword free, and wiped it casually on the corpse's tattered clothes. Ofalil stared at the body with a complex expression, drew a deep breath, closed her eyes for a brief moment, then hurried to catch up with Black. For all her resolve, the sight of death still unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
The raid went far smoother than anyone could have imagined.
By the time Black and his warriors reached the bandits' hideout, most of the outlaws were fast asleep. Their "profession" demanded it—they were night owls, resting by day and striking at the caravans traveling the Golden Trade Route under cover of darkness. Only the largest, most powerful gangs—those with bribed guards in their pockets—dared to attack in broad daylight, clashing head-on with their targets. Small fry like this gang had no choice but to lurk in Duskwood, waiting for nightfall to strike.
Which was why, when Black's forces stormed the hideout, many of the bandits were still groggy with sleep. They blinked blearily, thinking it was just the patrol returning—until the flash of cold steel and the sound of screams jolted them fully awake.
"We're under attack!"
Years of living on the run had honed the bandits' reflexes to a razor's edge. They sprang to their feet, grabbed their weapons, and charged the intruders—all the while cursing the sentries for failing to raise the alarm.
Poor fools. The two guards who'd been posted on the watchtower were already dead, their bodies pierced by greatswords and left to crumple to the ground. They couldn't very well warn their comrades now, could they?
The bandits moved quickly, but their speed was meaningless against the spirit warriors. After all, these were no living soldiers—they were undead beings, their armor nothing more than a vessel to anchor their spectral forms. Even if a bandit managed to hack off an arm or a leg, the warrior would feel no pain, no loss of strength. Not that the bandits had the power to do that, anyway.
At Black's command, the ten spirit warriors spread out in a fan formation, wielding their greatswords like human threshing machines, unstoppable and relentless. Most bandits were disarmed in the first clash, their weapons sliced clean in two before the greatswords carved through their flesh. The warriors didn't even bother to pull their blades free from the corpses—they simply swung again, cutting down the next foe with the same brutal efficiency. For spectral beings, power was measured in mana, not physical strength.
Of course, there was one notable exception to that rule—a being with absurdly vast mana reserves, yet practically no physical strength to speak of.
Black did not lift a finger. He stood watching calmly as the spirit warriors fought, his hands resting casually at his sides. The bandits were too busy scrambling for their lives to spare him a second glance. Ofalil stood beside him, her fists clenched tightly, her knuckles white, her face as pale as a sheet. She wanted nothing more than to turn away, to block out the carnage and the agonized screams—but she forced herself to look. She knew these bandits were monsters, men who had killed countless innocent travelers, who deserved every bit of what was coming to them. But the sight of their bodies falling, the sound of their cries mixing despair and terror—it still twisted her heart.
And yet, she stood her ground. She understood why Black had brought her here. She wasn't just a bait for his trap. He was teaching her a lesson with his actions: if she wanted to stay by his side, she had to get used to this. To the blood, the death, the violence that came with ruling a domain like his. She was painfully aware of her own weaknesses in this regard—and if she wanted to repay him for giving her a second chance at life, for granting her a body again, she had to overcome them. She had to become a worthy ally to this young lord. As a princess, she had long known that some things could not be avoided, no matter how much one might wish it.
She had no choice.
The bandit gang was small—barely thirty men strong. Half of them were already dead, cut down by the spirit warriors in the first few minutes of the attack. The rest had lost all will to fight. When you saw a towering figure in black armor charging at you, a greatsword dripping with your friend's blood and guts raised high—how many people would choose to stand and fight, instead of turning tail and running?
Then a roar cut through the chaos.
A burly middle-aged man burst from the crowd, a sword in one hand and a shield in the other, charging at the spirit warriors like a raging storm. Unlike the other bandits, who had cowered at the sight of the greatswords, he raised his shield and blocked the blade that came swinging down at him—a strike that should have cleaved through steel and stone alike.
*BOOM!*
Shield and sword collided with a deafening crash, sending shockwaves rippling through the air. Both figures staggered back a step.
Mid-tier Swordsman.
Black's eyes narrowed slightly as he observed the clash. Upon reaching the mid-tier, warriors unlocked the ability to generate a protective aura—a shimmering field of energy drawn from their own soul. For the spirit warriors, who were spectral beings to begin with, this aura came naturally once they were bound to their armor. For humans, however, it required years of grueling training to master. The fact that this man had managed to block a spirit warrior's strike meant he was undoubtedly a mid-tier Swordsman—the strongest fighter in the gang.
"Who are you?!" the man roared, gritting his teeth as he struggled to hold back the spirit warrior's greatsword. "Daring to attack my territory like this?!"
He was the gang's leader—the very man Kelly had served under. With a mighty heave, he shoved the spirit warrior back two steps, forcing it to stagger to regain its balance. When the remaining bandits saw their leader charging into battle, they let out a cheer, abandoning their attempts to flee and rallying around him.
Too little, too late.
*Whistle!*
Black wasted no time. He put two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp, piercing whistle, then raised his right index finger and pointed directly at the bandit leader.
At the sound of the whistle, every spirit warrior froze mid-swing. They pivoted as one, turning their attention to the man Black had singled out, then raised their greatswords high above their heads.
In the next instant, ten black blurs streaked across the battlefield—too fast for the human eye to follow.
It was the spirit warriors' deadliest skill: the Charge.
The bandit leader didn't stand a chance.
He'd been planning to use his shield to deflect the warrior's next strike, then press his advantage with his sword, seizing control of the fight. But in the blink of an eye, he saw nothing but black. A massive force slammed into him, sending him flying backward. He'd braced himself for the impact, but the sheer power of the blow still made him stumble. Before he could recover, another impact hit him—then another.
Human bodies have limits. No matter how strong, no matter how skilled, no one can withstand being hit by ten spectral warriors charging at full speed.
*CRUNCH!*
The sickening sound of bones breaking echoed through the hideout, silencing the remaining bandits instantly. They froze mid-step, their eyes widening in horror as they looked up. Their leader—the man they'd thought invincible—was nothing but a cloud of blood and flesh now, his body torn to pieces by the force of the charges, raining down on the ground like a gruesome rain.
It's… over?
None of the bandits could believe their eyes. They stared at the mangled remains of their leader, their mouths hanging open in shock. For a brief moment, they'd dared to hope that he could turn the tide of the battle—but Black had crushed that hope with a single gesture.
At that moment, Kelly's voice rang out—half scream, half plea.
"DROP YOUR WEAPONS! SURRENDER NOW—OR YOU'LL ALL END UP LIKE HIM!"
The bandits had no choice.
Faced with the unstoppable might of the spirit warriors, with their leader dead and half their number already slaughtered, they threw down their weapons and raised their hands in surrender, their faces ashen with fear.
"What do you plan to do with them, my lord?" Ofalil asked, frowning as she watched the spirit warriors herding the surviving bandits together. "Are you going to recruit them into your forces?"
"Of course not," Black replied, shaking his head and dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand. "They're too weak to be of any use. And besides—they're all hardened criminals. I have no interest in bringing that kind of trouble upon myself."
"Then… what *are* you going to do?" Ofalil blinked, glancing at Kelly, who was still trembling in fear beside them. She'd thought Black's plan was to take the bandits under his wing—but now it seemed she'd been wrong.
Black smiled, a cold, elegant curve of his lips that sent a shiver down Ofalil's spine. He clapped his hands together, then turned to the spirit warriors, his tone warm and welcoming—as if he were greeting honored guests instead of undead killers.
"Gentlemen," he announced, his voice carrying clearly over the silent hideout.
**Dinner is served.**