The Old Road encounter：Fight
The brigand leader crouched behind the barricade, eyes fixed on the dim flickering light beyond. His grip on the worn hilt of his pistol tightened, knuckles cracking as he watched the silhouettes move closer. The trap was set.
All it would take was a single shot.
The moment those fools hesitated, his marksman would fire, dropping one in an instant. Then his men would charge in, cutting down the rest like lambs to the slaughter. A clean ambush. Quick, efficient. By sunrise, he'd be counting coin.
But then—
"Bang!"
A gunshot split the night, shattering the silence like glass.
A strangled cry followed, gurgling and weak.
The leader's eyes darted to the side, only to see his marksman crumple like a discarded rag, chest exploding in a dark spray of blood.
Gone. Just like that.
His pulse spiked. Damn it! That wasn't supposed to happen. They were the hunters, not the prey!
His face twisted in fury. Teeth clenched, he snarled, "Go! Two thousand gold for each kill!"
At the promise of riches, the hesitation in his men's eyes vanished.
"Two thousand?! I'm taking that one!"
"That money's mine, bastard!"
Four figures burst from the treeline, their boots crushing damp leaves, greed and bloodlust drowning out any lingering fear.
Leading the charge were three brigands clad in battered leather armor, rusted blades gleaming in the firelight. They sprinted forward, shouting curses and threats, already seeing their spoils in their heads.
Bringing up the rear was the hulking brigand leader, a whip coiled in one hand, a flintlock pistol tucked at his hip. He moved deliberately, slower than the others. His mind worked differently—he wasn't here to throw himself into the fray.
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Dismas barely waited to confirm his shot. The instant he pulled the trigger, he was already moving, slipping into the shadows, vanishing into the treeline.
The moment his boots found solid footing, he glanced up—three brigands closing in, blades raised, screaming like starved dogs.
He scoffed, slipping his pistol back into its holster, fingers finding the hilt of his short sword instead. A fight, then.
Reynauld, on the other hand, wasted no time.
"For the Light!"
The battle cry rang through the night as the crusader charged forward, steel gleaming in both hands.
The first brigand barely had time to react.
Steel flashed. Blood sprayed.
A single downward strike, and the man's head was cleaved clean from his shoulders.
His body staggered a step forward before crumpling, lifeblood spilling onto the dirt.
Reynauld did not stop. He took another step forward and threw his elbow into the second brigand's chest, sending him reeling sideways into the underbrush with a strangled grunt.
By then, the third brigand had already leaped, blade raised, slashing downward—
Only for his strike to be met mid-air by a short sword.
Dismas.
A flash of silver, a flick of the wrist, and the highwayman had intercepted the attack, eyes gleaming with sharp amusement.
The brigand had no time to react before Dismas's left hand flashed to his waist, drawing his second flintlock in one fluid motion.
Bang!
The gun roared at point-blank range.
The bullet slammed into the brigand's shoulder, sending him stumbling back with a scream, blood gushing down his arm.
Caedmic could only watch, heart hammering against his ribs.
Everything was happening so fast. Too fast.
One moment, Reynauld was cutting a man down, the next, Dismas had fired a shot point-blank.
And then—
"Bang!"
A second gunshot tore through the air.
Reynauld jerked back, a sharp grunt escaping his lips.
Dismas's gaze snapped toward the brigand leader, his expression darkening.
They had been waiting for that shot. And yet, even knowing it was coming—
"Damn it!"
Reynauld took a steadying breath, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his greatsword. The shot hadn't pierced his armor, but the impact rattled his bones, pain blooming across his left shoulder. His arm burned. Weak. Sluggish. His swings would be slower.
Dismas clicked his tongue. "Well. That's annoying."
His hand dropped toward his belt, but his fingers brushed an empty holster.
He had fired both pistols.
He needed time to reload. Time they did not have.
And then—
"Crack!"
The brigand leader's whip lashed through the air, a blur of motion.
Dismas barely twisted aside in time.
The tip of the whip snapped against a wooden beam, splitting it clean in two.
Dismas's gaze sharpened. That wasn't some flimsy strip of leather. That was steel-threaded cord.
If that thing wrapped around him, he'd be torn apart.
He rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly. "Yeah. This is gonna be a pain."
"Severin! Get down!"
Dismas's voice cut through the chaos.
Caedmic hesitated for a fraction of a second before instinct took over—he threw himself aside, rolling behind the wrecked carriage.
Yet, just as he landed, he heard rapid footsteps crunch against the dirt—fast. Too fast. Too close.
A shadow loomed over him.
The brigand Reynauld had knocked aside had risen, his face twisted with fury, charging straight at him.
The blade was already raised.
The strike was already falling.
Caedmic froze. His mind went blank. His breath hitched.
He couldn't dodge. He wouldn't make it in time.
His lips parted in shock—but before he could cry out—
Something flashed.
Not firelight. Not from the carriage. Something else.
Something inside.
Deep within his being, within the recesses of his soul, something stirred.
It was not a voice. Not a conscious thought. But an instinct.
A sensation, distant yet familiar—like a long-buried ember suddenly catching flame.
The Iron Crown flickered.
For an instant, Caedmic's body moved on its own.
His arms tensed. His hands gripped the sword. Steel met steel.
"Clang!"
The force of the impact sent a numbing vibration down his arms.
But he had blocked it.
He had blocked it!
Shock flooded his mind. He had barely processed what had happened before—
The brigand snarled. His eyes burned with unrelenting rage. His muscles tensed—he was already preparing the next strike!
Caedmic saw it.
He saw the shift in weight. The tightening grip. The subtle rotation of the wrist.
Everything slowed.
Or rather—he could see it all more clearly.
He understood it.
A deep breath. A single moment of clarity.
Then—
He moved.
A step sideways. A slight tilt of the sword.
And then—a counterstrike.
The blade cut deep.
A line of crimson splattered across the dirt.
The brigand staggered back, eyes widening in shock. A strangled gasp left his throat as he clutched his wounded side, crimson spilling between his fingers.
Caedmic held his breath. His heart pounded wildly, his grip tightening around the bloodied blade in his hands.
He had landed a hit.
Not just a desperate flail. Not just a blind struggle. A true, solid strike.
The realization came like a crashing wave. His first real counterattack—he had wounded his enemy.
But his opponent had no intention of falling so easily.
The brigand sucked in a shuddering breath, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. Pain twisted into rage.
"You little—bastard!"
His voice was hoarse, laced with raw hatred. Blood dripped steadily from his side, staining his tattered leather, but instead of backing down, he lunged forward.
The rusted blade flashed in the firelight as it arced toward Caedmic's skull—a wild, brutal overhead slash.
Caedmic's instincts screamed at him. He needed to move. Now.
His breath caught in his throat. His body tensed.
And then—
He saw it.
The descending strike, the angle of the blade, the slight shift in the brigand's stance—every detail sharpened before his eyes.
Not because the brigand had slowed.
But because Caedmic could see it faster.
The Iron Crown glimmered faintly within him.
A newfound clarity spread through his mind, a preternatural awareness guiding his every move.
He could read the attack.
Resilient Mark.
Caedmic inhaled sharply. He twisted his body at the last moment, the blade whistling past his cheek, missing by mere inches.
And in that instant—
He pushed off the ground, shifting his weight.
His sword shot forward.
The brigand had committed too hard to his strike—his momentum thrown off, his body exposed.
A fatal mistake.
Steel plunged deep into his chest.
The brigand let out a strangled gasp. His fingers twitched, his lips parting as if to curse, to spit defiance—
But only blood gurgled forth.
He staggered back, eyes frozen wide in disbelief.
Then, with a lifeless thud—he collapsed.
Caedmic exhaled shakily, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. His pulse hammered against his ribs.
He had won.
His first real fight.
He had survived.
But before he could even process it—
"Bang!"
Another gunshot ripped through the night.
Dismas, having reloaded in mere seconds, raised his smoking pistol.
The bullet found its mark.
The brigand he had wounded earlier let out a piercing scream as his knee exploded in pain.
He collapsed to the ground, howling, his blade clattering from his grasp.
Writhing in the dirt, he clutched his shattered knee, his body curling in on itself.
No longer a threat.
Caedmic's breath hitched as the echo of the shot faded into the night. He snapped his head toward Dismas—
The highwayman hadn't even lowered his gun yet.
His sharp eyes had already locked onto the final opponent—the brigand leader.
Dismas did not relax. The real danger remained.
And in the next heartbeat—
Crack!
A whip sliced through the air, snapping with a force that sent a shiver down Caedmic's spine.
Dismas barely dodged in time. He rolled aside, the barbed tip of the whip shredding a strip of leather from his coat's sleeve.
Had he been a fraction slower, his wrist would have been shattered.
Landing in a crouch, Dismas flicked his arm, testing for any lingering pain, before slowly straightening.
His golden eyes burned coldly.
That whip was no mere weapon—it was a killing tool.
The brigand leader stood tall, his shadow stretching long across the blood-soaked ground. His jaws clenched so tightly his teeth ground together.
He had bet everything on his men overwhelming these strangers. Now, in less than a minute, they were dead or crippled.
His gaze flickered across the battlefield, lips pulling into a sneer of pure, unrestrained fury.
"Pathetic."
He spat the word like poison.
His subordinates had failed him. But he would not fail himself.
With slow, deliberate movements, he began coiling his whip once more, letting the leather slide over his fingers.
His stance shifted.
His expression darkened.
"So I'll just have to kill you myself."
A heavy silence fell over the road, save for the distant crackling of burning oil.
Caedmic tightened his grip on his sword, his knuckles turning white.
The brigand leader slowly exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he assessed the battlefield.
His men were either dead or writhing in agony.
Useless. All of them.
Now, only he remained.
His grip on the whip tightened, the leather creaking under the strain. But his eyes did not waver.
He wasn't afraid.
He wasn't running.
Instead, he smirked.
"So, this is how it is, huh?" His voice was low, measured, yet laced with a quiet, simmering fury.
His boots shifted in the dirt, steady and sure.
Caedmic's fingers trembled around the hilt of his sword. His body was still reeling from the fight, from the rush of combat, from the realization that he had actually survived.
But now, facing this man—
This was different.
There was no hesitation in the brigand leader's posture. No fear.
Only cold, calculated violence.
Dismas took a slow step to the side, his gaze locked on the brigand's stance.
"He's not some back-alley thug," he muttered. "This bastard knows how to fight."
Reynauld adjusted his grip on his greatsword, his injured shoulder twitching slightly. He didn't speak, but the tension in his stance spoke volumes.
They couldn't underestimate him.
The brigand leader let out a breath—and then he moved.
His arm flicked out, the whip snapping forward with blinding speed.
Crack!
The sound split the air, sharp and deafening.
Dismas had already begun to dodge, his body twisting to the side, but the whip was faster than before—
It lashed across his coat, tearing through the thick leather and slicing into his side.
"Gh—!"
Dismas stumbled back a step, gritting his teeth against the sting.
It wasn't a deep wound, but it burned like fire.
The brigand leader didn't pause.
The whip snapped again, this time arcing toward Reynauld.
Crack!
Reynauld barely managed to raise his greatsword in time, the steel catching the brunt of the blow. But the impact sent a vicious tremor through his already-injured arm.
His breath hissed through clenched teeth. His left shoulder throbbed—his grip on the sword faltered for a split second.
A split second was all the brigand needed.
He lunged.
With his right hand, he drew a flintlock pistol from his belt and leveled it at Caedmic.
Caedmic's breath hitched.
Too close.
Too fast.
"Bang!"
The muzzle flashed.
Instinct took over.
Caedmic threw himself sideways, rolling across the dirt.
The bullet whizzed past his shoulder, slamming into the ground where he had stood just moments before.
Too close.
Way too close.
The brigand leader was already closing the distance.
The moment Caedmic's roll ended, he felt a heavy boot slam into his side.
Pain exploded through his ribs.
He choked on a breath as his body was sent sprawling. The sword nearly flew from his grip.
His lungs seized.
"Get up."
The Iron Crown stirred.
"Get up!"
Caedmic gritted his teeth and pushed against the pain, scrambling back to his feet.
The brigand leader was already on him, knife flashing downward.
Caedmic raised his sword—
"Clang!"
Steel met steel.
The impact sent a jarring tremor up Caedmic's arm, but he held firm.
The brigand leader's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Not bad," he muttered, before suddenly pulling back and striking again—faster.
Caedmic barely caught the next blow, then the next.
The knife moved in swift, precise arcs.
It was relentless.
It was overwhelming.
And Caedmic was barely keeping up.
His heart pounded. He could already feel himself slowing.
The brigand leader wasn't just attacking—he was testing him.
And the moment he saw an opening—
He would kill him.
Reynauld took a sharp breath, steadying his stance. His left arm still throbbed from the earlier shot, but he forced it aside.
They couldn't let the bastard press the advantage.
He raised his sword, ready to move—
Crack!
The whip lashed out again—this time aimed directly at him.
Reynauld ducked aside, but the moment he moved, the brigand leader's grip on the whip shifted.
He pulled.
Reynauld felt the force yank at his armor, dragging him slightly forward.
That was all the opening the brigand needed.
He pivoted—knife flashing—intending to drive it straight into Caedmic's ribs.
But—
"Bang!"
The gunshot was deafening at this range.
The brigand leader jerked violently, stumbling back.
Dismas stood several feet away, lowering his still-smoking pistol.
His gaze was sharp. Cold.
The brigand gritted his teeth. Blood dripped down his side, but he still wasn't finished.
He snarled and lunged at Reynauld instead.
A fatal mistake.
Reynauld had already raised his sword.
The brigand leader's eyes widened as the steel came down.
He tried to retreat, to evade—
But it was too late.
The blade bit deep—through muscle, through bone.
His body convulsed and fingers twitched.
A choking sound left his lips, but no words followed.
The weight of the strike forced him to his knees.
For a second, he stared blankly at the three warriors standing before him.
Then—
He crumpled.
Motionless.
The battle was over.