By the time Daros led his bandits to the gate of their stronghold, chaos had already erupted.
The once-impregnable wooden gates lay splintered and broken. What greeted Daros's eyes was a scene of utter carnage: a dozen towering warriors clad in pitch-black armor wielding massive two-handed swords, carving a path through the throng of bandits as easily as a scythe through wheat. The outlaws scrambled to fight back with swords, crossbows, even rocks—but their attacks bounced harmlessly off the black armor. Every time the warriors raised their blades, nearby bandits screamed and stumbled back, only to be sliced in two—or worse, into even more pieces. No one bothered counting how many parts were left.
"Mid-Tier Swordsmen?"
At the sight of the soul energy glimmering faintly off the black armor, Daros's first thought was that the Pale Eagles had found them. After all, while Mid-Tier Swordsmen were not exactly rare, fielding them as a cohesive unit was beyond the means of any mercenary band or local garrison. The militias along the Golden Trade Route barely had enough Mid-Tier Swordsmen to lead their squads—only the royal army could afford to maintain an entire unit of them. But Daros quickly realized he was wrong.
These warriors wore none of the Pale Eagles' signature silver armor. Their weapons were not the standard-issue blades of the Wester military—they were strange, unfamiliar designs, each sword varying slightly in size, style, and shape.
"FALL BACK! ALL OF YOU!"
Daros roared, cutting off the idiotic bandits who still tried to charge forward. From a purely tactical standpoint, letting these fools throw themselves at the enemy to wear them down would have made sense. But Daros was more than just a warrior—he was a bandit leader. He had no desire to waste his men's lives. This was no army, where soldiers could be conscripted by the thousands at a moment's notice.
At Daros's command, the bandits scrambled back, their faces pale with relief. They were not so stupid as to throw their lives away willingly—but with Daros watching, fleeing would have been just as deadly. Caught between a rock and a hard place, they'd gritted their teeth and charged, if only to die with some semblance of dignity.
Now, with the order to retreat, the bandits clustered around Daros, gripping their crossbows and swords tightly as they stared warily at their enemies. Almost as soon as the bandits fell back, the black-armored warriors halted their advance. In perfect unison, they raised their greatswords to shield themselves, then stepped back to form a semicircular defensive formation.
*Who the hell are these people?*
Daros frowned, a knot of unease forming in his gut. He'd never feared a mere Mid-Tier Swordsman—but these strange warriors were clearly well-trained, and they moved as one, with a coordination that spoke of disciplined teamwork. Could they really *not* be part of the Pale Eagles?
Daros did not let his guard down. He sensed this battle would be far trickier than he'd anticipated. After a moment's consideration, he slammed his fist into his palm.
Five bandits clad in armor and wielding longswords stepped forward from the crowd. At first glance, they looked no different from the rest—but the faint glow of soul energy swirling around their blades betrayed their true identity.
Mid-Tier Swordsmen.
Daros was no fool.
As a High-Tier Swordsman with immense power, he had long ago learned to hold onto leverage. In exchange for working for his noble patron, he had gathered plenty of dirt on the man—enough to destroy him if necessary. To protect himself from being silenced, building his own power base had been essential. So Daros had scoured his gang for men with talent and potential, training them personally. These five were his finest pupils, his most trusted lieutenants.
The enemy had ten Mid-Tier Swordsmen. He couldn't tell their exact ranks from their earlier skirmish—but with himself in the fray, plus these five, he should have more than enough firepower to take them down. Provided they had no more surprises up their sleeves.
At that moment, the black-armored warriors moved—but not in the way Daros had expected.
One of the towering warriors stepped forward, greatsword in hand. The other nine fell back, blocking the entrance and exit of the stronghold, showing no intention of joining the fight.
*What in the world is this?*
Daros stared in confusion at the lone warrior approaching him. How could a single Mid-Tier Swordsman be foolish enough to stand against a High-Tier Swordsman and five Mid-Tier Swordsmen? Did he really think he could hold them off alone?
Daros blinked, wondering if this was some kind of delaying tactic. But his instincts as a High-Tier Swordsman told him there were no hidden ambushes nearby, no reinforcements marching to their aid. In other words, the force challenging him here was nothing more than a small, isolated band of a dozen men. Which only made their actions more inexplicable. If they were truly a desperate, outnumbered force, they should have charged recklessly, fighting to the last man. This calm, measured approach—it was as if they thought they were here for a duel and afternoon tea.
Daros was not the only one confused.
"My lord—why have we stopped attacking?"
Ofalil huddled behind the black-armored warriors, her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles turned white. When Black had ordered the initial assault, she'd assumed they would follow the same blitzkrieg strategy as before. With the Pale Eagles hot on their heels, speed was of the essence—she'd understood that. But what she couldn't fathom was why, at this critical juncture, Black had ordered the warriors to halt… and sent Judy out alone to face the enemy. What was he thinking?
"Even in the most desperate of times, one must remain calm, Miss Ofalil," Black replied with a smile, his voice low enough for only her to hear.
"It is true we are short on time—but acting rashly out of impatience will only lead to defeat. Watch closely. We will win this battle according to plan."
Ofalil blinked, holding her breath. Her greatest fear was not the lack of time, nor the prospect of failure—it was for the lone warrior standing on the battlefield. That was Judy, the spirit warrior who had carried her through the forest these past few days. At Black's command, she had stepped forward without hesitation, facing the bandits all alone.
"You're going to let Miss Judy face so many enemies by herself, my lord?"
"Fear not. That old brute will not dare to lift a finger—unless he wants to throw away all his pride, that is," Black said, his expression as relaxed as if he were out for a leisurely stroll in the countryside.
"As for the others… even if they all attack together, they stand no chance against Judy. Fighting one against many is about far more than just brute strength."
It seemed he had overheard her conversation with Judy the night before.
Just as Black had predicted, Daros—unsure of the enemy's intentions—did not lead his men in a reckless charge. He took two cautious steps back, his eyes narrowing as he studied Judy carefully. Since the enemy had sent only one warrior, it would be unseemly for him to overwhelm her with numbers. Even bandits had their pride. To gang up on a single Mid-Tier Swordsman would be a stain on his honor as a High-Tier Swordsman.
If Daros had still been the seasoned, pragmatic soldier he once was, he would have made a different choice. Soldiers cared only about results—not about honor or dignity. But now, he was nothing more than a bandit. A bandit and nothing else.
Fame and power had clouded his judgment.
Daros loosened his grip on his sword hilt, then made a sharp hand gesture. At his signal, the five bandits—who had been waiting eagerly for the order—exploded into motion, charging toward Judy as one.
What greeted them was a flash of brilliant, bone-chilling silver light.
The greatsword in Judy's hand was no longer the rusted, dented blade it had been at the start of their journey. Compared to its previous utilitarian design, the two-handed sword was now sharper, larger—nearly a third wider than before, though its thickness had been reduced to compensate, making it lighter and more agile. The once-crude crossguard had transformed, blooming like a flower, with layers of interlocking metal plates protecting her hands. Along the broad, slender blade, several hidden, eerie grooves glowed faintly with a deep crimson light in the sunlight—almost invisible to the untrained eye.
But the changes were not merely superficial.
Greatswords were known for their raw destructive power and wide attack range—but they were also slow, unwieldy, and full of openings. But none of these flaws applied to Judy. Facing the five bandits' coordinated assault, she did not retreat. Instead, she charged forward, and at the exact moment the five swordsmen entered her attack range, she abruptly changed direction, swinging her greatsword toward the warrior on the far right of the group.
The battle had begun.