chapter 21.4

As Alcard rode through the dense forest of Middle Earth on his return journey, an unsettling sensation began to creep over him. The night air felt heavier than usual, charged with a tension that seemed almost tangible. The rhythmic rustling of leaves and the familiar sounds of the nocturnal wilderness were absent. No distant hoots of owls, no scampering of small creatures through the underbrush—only an unnatural silence that made his instincts scream in warning.

Slowing his horse, he let his senses sharpen, his eyes scanning the thick foliage around him. The towering trees cast long shadows under the dim moonlight, their trunks and branches forming dark silhouettes that seemed to conceal more than just the natural world. His hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his sword as he stopped completely, allowing the stillness to settle.

And then, without warning, figures emerged from the darkness.

First, just a few. Then, more and more, until over two dozen heavily armed warriors stood encircling him in the gloom. Their movements were disciplined, precise—this was no ragtag group of bandits. Their weapons gleamed under the moonlight, and their armor was not the makeshift scraps of common thieves but the polished steel of trained mercenaries.

One among them, clearly their leader, stepped forward. He was clad in a dark cloak with light armor beneath, his face partially obscured by a deep hood. In his grip was a longsword, its blade well-worn from battle. When he spoke, his voice was cold, devoid of hesitation.

"Hand it over."

His words carried weight, his intent unmistakable. There was no bluff, no theatrics—only the certainty of violence should Alcard refuse.

Still atop his horse, Alcard remained composed, his crimson eyes scanning every inch of his would-be assailants. He did not answer immediately, allowing the tension to linger for just a moment longer. Then, his voice, low and calm, cut through the silence.

"You're not just ordinary mercenaries," he observed, his gaze shifting to each of them. "Who sent you? Tharvin? Or someone with more reach than a greedy Dwarf?"

The leader did not reply, his expression unreadable beneath his hood. Instead, he simply lifted his hand, a silent command for his men to prepare themselves.

"The artifact does not belong to you, Outcast."

The mere mention of it—the acknowledgment of what they were after—ignited a cold fury within Alcard. His grip tightened around his sword, his face hardening into an expression of quiet wrath. Slowly, deliberately, he dismounted, his movements deliberate and unhurried, as though their numbers did not concern him in the slightest. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of his greatsword, the steel catching a sliver of moonlight as he drew it from its sheath.

"You all came here…" he muttered, his tone dipping into something darker, something that sent an instinctive chill through the gathered warriors. "Just to become the outlet for my anger. A shameful fate."

And then he moved.

With a burst of speed that defied his size and the weight of his weapon, Alcard lunged forward, striking the first soldier before he even had time to raise his shield. The force of the blow was overwhelming—armor shattered, flesh split, and blood sprayed into the cold night air as the body crumpled lifelessly to the ground.

Chaos erupted.

The mercenaries attempted to close in, but Alcard was already among them, a relentless storm of steel and fury. Every swing of his greatsword cleaved through their defenses, every step he took was calculated to dismantle their formation. His movements were methodical yet vicious, his strikes aimed to kill, not merely wound.

"You are nothing but pawns in the games of the powerful," he snarled as he drove his blade through another man's chest, kicking the lifeless body away. "And you don't even know who you're fighting for."

One by one, his enemies fell. Those who dared rush him were met with swift, brutal retribution. Some tried to flank him, but Alcard had already anticipated their strategy. Spinning on his heel, he deflected a strike meant for his back, severing the attacker's arm before driving his knee into their stomach, sending them crashing to the ground.

The mercenary leader, realizing his men were losing morale, barked an order. "Hold your ground!" he shouted, but fear had already taken root in them.

Alcard's eyes snapped to him.

He moved without hesitation, charging the leader with an almost inhuman force. Their weapons clashed—Alcard's greatsword colliding with the man's shield, sending shockwaves through the air. But Alcard did not let up. Twisting his wrist, he redirected his force downward, shattering the wooden shield into useless fragments. The leader stumbled back, stunned.

Alcard wasted no time.

He pressed his blade against the man's throat, pinning him to the ground. His voice was like ice, his words slow and deliberate.

"Who sent you?" he demanded. "Tell me, and I might let you live."

The man, despite his position, gave a bloody grin, his breath ragged. "You can't outrun this shadow, Outcast," he murmured, his voice carrying an ominous weight.

Then, before Alcard could react, the man's hand darted to his belt, drawing a hidden dagger and slashing his own throat in one swift motion.

Blood pooled around the corpse, staining the forest floor.

Alcard remained still, his grip tightening on his sword as he exhaled slowly. His mind raced. Who was behind this? How far would they go to seize the fragment?

Rising to his feet, he surveyed the battlefield—bodies littered the ground, lifeless and motionless beneath the dim glow of the moon. The silence that followed was suffocating.

He turned away, wiping the blood from his blade before sheathing it. Mounting his horse once more, he cast one last look at the fallen warriors.

"If this was a warning," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, "then I'll be waiting for your next move."

Without another glance, he spurred his horse forward, galloping through the trees. The Wall lay ahead, standing as the final refuge for those who had been cast aside.

But he knew—this was just the beginning.

The enemy had revealed their hand.

And Alcard would be ready.