"We're too late. Again."
Staring at the carnage that was once a bandit hideout, the old man in silver armor sighed, turning to the young noble beside him with a helpless smile. His face seemed kind and gentle at first glance—but anyone who spotted the eagle emblazoned on his breastplate would know exactly who he was. The sigil of the Pale Eagle, one of the three most prestigious knightly orders in the Kingdom of Wester.
And this elderly knight was none other than Baron, Grand Master of the Pale Eagle Order.
The young noble said nothing in reply, his brow furrowed, his expression dark with fury.
It was no wonder he was so enraged. As the hereditary steward of the Golden Trade Route, Pelzerin had long dreamed of purging the bandits that plagued it, of restoring the road's safety and prosperity. As one of the most powerful nobles in Wester, he craved a legacy that would distinguish him from his ancestors. So he had set his sights on eradicating the outlaws lurking in Duskwood. Pelzerin knew the bandits were a festering sore on the route; generations of his family had tried to stamp them out, but all attempts had ended in failure. If he could succeed where his forefathers had not, his prestige among the nobility—and even the royal court—would soar. Even if he couldn't wipe them out entirely, a decisive crackdown would bring order to the route, making the merchant guilds more dependent on him than ever before.
To ensure his campaign's success, Pelzerin had journeyed to the royal capital, spending a fortune in gold and political favors to secure the aid of the Pale Eagle Order. In his mind, the reason his family had always failed to crush the bandits was simple: insufficient military might. For all their wealth and influence, noble houses were limited in the number of soldiers they could field. With the Pale Eagles at his side, and intelligence he had spent months gathering, Pelzerin had been certain victory would be his.
But fate, as always, had other plans.
From the moment they entered Duskwood, Pelzerin realized something was terribly wrong.
Using his carefully compiled intelligence, the Pale Eagles had tracked down a hidden bandit camp deep in the forest. But when they arrived, ready to launch their assault, they found only corpses and an empty stronghold. Someone else had gotten there first.
If this had happened just once, Pelzerin might have dismissed it as a stroke of luck—mercenaries occasionally hunted bandits for bounties, after all. But they had raided *four* hideouts in a row, and each time, the result was the same: dead bandits, empty camps, and no sign of the attackers.
Everyone knew fighting bandits in Duskwood was a perilous, grueling affair. That was why even the vast resources of the Pelzerin family had never been enough to root them out. Yet someone had managed to do it—wiping out entire gangs, leaving nothing but desiccated bodies in their wake.
"Who *is* doing this?!" the young noble growled, equal parts shocked and infuriated.
"I cannot say," Baron replied, stroking his white beard as his eyes swept over the ruined camp. "But I *can* tell you this: they are few in number… and devastatingly powerful."
He raised his knightly lance, pointing it at the mutilated corpses scattered across the ground. "Look at the wounds. Every single one of these bandits was killed with a single strike. None of them managed to put up a meaningful defense. That is not ordinary. I have fought these Golden Trade Route bandits before. They are not skilled warriors, but they are at least low-tier swordsmen—more than capable of holding their own against common soldiers. To kill them so effortlessly, without taking a single casualty themselves… the attackers must be elite mid-tier warriors, bordering on high-tier."
"*Elite mid-tier*?!" Pelzerin's eyes widened in disbelief. As a swordsman himself, he knew exactly how staggering that claim was.
On the continent, swordsmen were divided into distinct ranks. At the lowest were *low-tier swordsmen*—little more than trained fighters who wielded blades. Those who transcended this rank unlocked the power of the soul, manifesting a protective aura known as the *Spirit Shield*. This marked them as *mid-tier swordsmen*. The Spirit Shield not only defended against ordinary attacks but also infused their weapons and armor with soul energy, making them far sharper and more durable. A low-tier swordsman stood no chance against a mid-tier opponent unless they wielded a magic weapon. The gap was simply too vast.
In every nation on the continent, the majority of soldiers were low-tier swordsmen. Only elite units—like the Pale Eagle Order—counted mid-tier swordsmen in their ranks. Even the Pale Eagles had only a few thousand mid-tier knights, their most prized warriors. Training methods varied from country to country, but the power of a mid-tier swordsman was universally feared.
Above mid-tier stood the *high-tier swordsmen*—warriors who had mastered the art of unleashing their soul energy in devastating, wide-ranging attacks. They transcended the limits of the Spirit Shield, wielding power that bordered on the supernatural.
Which was why Baron's words left Pelzerin reeling. Mid-tier swordsmen were already difficult to recruit. For a noble house like his, even with generous pay and land grants, attracting a handful of mid-tier warriors was a struggle—and those were usually lower or average mid-tier fighters. *Elite* mid-tier swordsmen, on the verge of breaking through to high-tier? Such warriors were practically unicorns. They dedicated their lives to training, not to hunting bandits in some backwater forest.
And yet—Baron was saying there were *a dozen* of them. A dozen elite mid-tier swordsmen, operating in his territory, and his vast spy network had detected nothing. The thought sent a chill down Pelzerin's spine.
But fear was not his primary concern right now. His reputation was on the line. News of his campaign—of him leading the legendary Pale Eagle Order to purge the bandits—had spread like wildfire through his lands and the royal capital. Everyone was watching, waiting to see if he would succeed. By his plan, he would return in triumph, hailed as a hero, showered with praise and rewards.
But now? All he had to show for his efforts were dead bandits and empty camps. If he returned home empty-handed, what would the other nobles say? What would the royal family think? If it had just been his own private army, he could have silenced them. But the Pale Eagles were a royal order. Their knights answered only to the king. The moment they returned to the capital, stories would spread—of the foolish noble who led them on a wild goose chase, who didn't even realize the bandits were already dead. By sundown, he would be the laughingstock of the entire nobility.
Baron watched the young noble's face twist with anxiety and said nothing, a faint smile playing on his lips. At first, he had suspected the attacks were the work of one bandit gang eliminating rivals—territorial disputes were common on the Golden Trade Route. But he had quickly dismissed that idea. Unlike Pelzerin, Baron had examined the corpses closely. Most of them had been unarmed when they died. The attackers had disarmed the bandits before killing them. That was not how gang wars worked. Bandits were not soldiers or mercenaries; they couldn't afford to turn away potential recruits. Captives from rival gangs were almost always forced to join the winning side. A few might resist, but they were rare exceptions.
What truly puzzled Baron, however, was the state of the bodies. Their desiccated, mummified appearance was unlike anything he had ever seen. As Grand Master of the Pale Eagle Order, he was a seasoned veteran who had witnessed countless battles and horrors. He was certain this was not the work of mid-tier swordsmen. Necromancers could produce similar effects, but this… felt different. There was no trace of dark magic, no lingering stench of decay.
Who were these people? And what were they after?
Baron narrowed his eyes, his mind racing with possibilities.