Chapter Four

Raymond's breath came in slow, measured pulls as he trekked through the rugged terrain, his new sword sheathed across his back. The weight of the steel felt unfamiliar, not the ethereal lightness of his Soul String weapon, but solid and comforting in its own way. As he walked, he took the time to attune his senses, drawing Aether from the world around him. It was more difficult than before, his body not quite used to the strain, but the Aether poured into his form like a second bloodline. It surged through his veins, strengthening his muscles, sharpening his reflexes. Each step was an improvement, each breath a step closer to the power he needed to survive.

But that didn't change the fact that he needed something else—the item. The one that he'd found in a past regression, the one that had saved him many times over his previous lives.

That item would play a role in his survival. He was certain of it.

Just as he pondered this, the air shifted. The soft crackle of fire reached his ears, and the smell of smoke mingled with the scent of wildflowers. Raymond's instincts flared. There was something off. He moved silently, his senses heightened by the Aether flowing through him. As he crept around a bend in the road, he saw the scene unfold before him.

A small caravan, perhaps a dozen people, was encircled by a band of bandits—rough, unshaven men in patchwork armor. The caravan's guards had drawn their weapons, but the odds were against them. They were outnumbered, and the bandits showed no signs of hesitation.

Raymond's gaze fixed on the leader of the bandits—a burly man, towering and brutish, with a cruel smile stretched across his face. He wielded a jagged cleaver, clearly relishing the chaos.

Without hesitation, Raymond's hand went to his sword's hilt. The metal felt cold against his grip, but the blade was steady. He assessed the situation quickly. The bandits were distracted, their attention focused on the caravan. It was a perfect moment for a strike.

He dashed forward, his boots silent on the earth, and closed the distance in an instant. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he drew the sword in a smooth arc, the blade singing through the air. The first bandit fell without a sound, his throat opened by a precise slash.

The others turned, too slow to react. Raymond moved like a shadow, his body enhanced by the Aether coursing through him. He ducked under a wild swing, spinning to deliver a sharp upward strike to another bandit's midsection. The man's armor didn't slow the blade; it cut clean through the metal and bone, the force of the blow lifting him off his feet and sending him crashing to the ground.

He didn't waste time to admire his work. A third bandit lunged at him with a spear, but Raymond's reflexes were quicker. He sidestepped and used the weight of his own momentum to bring the sword down in a powerful overhead strike. The spear splintered, and the bandit stumbled backward, stunned.

Raymond's grip tightened on the hilt as he pressed forward, flowing with the battle. A fourth bandit tried to catch him off guard, but Raymond's blade met the strike with a low, controlled block. The bandit's sword came in from an angle, aiming for his ribs. Raymond used Bind—a technique where two blades are crossed at the point of impact, locking together. By placing his sword across the enemy's blade, he used the leverage to deflect the strike to the side, preventing it from reaching his vital areas. The bandit struggled for a moment, unable to break free, and Raymond took advantage of the position to twist his sword, forcing the man off-balance and delivering a quick thrust to his gut.

The remaining bandits faltered, fear creeping into their eyes. The leader, seeing his men drop like flies, let out a roar of rage and charged. Raymond met his assault head-on, their blades clashing in a shower of sparks. The cleaver was heavier, but Raymond's sword was quicker. He pressed the attack, forcing the bandit leader back with a series of swift, cutting strikes. Raymond used a technique where the sword is held with both hands near the blade itself to strike with a wide, diagonal arc. The bandit leader parried one blow, but the force of Raymond's strike pushed him off-balance.

Raymond wasn't able to capitalize, though. The leader recovered quicker than expected, using his cleaver's heavier weight to knock Raymond's blade aside with a powerful swipe. Before Raymond could reposition, the leader's cleaver came down in a brutal, two-handed overhead strike.

Raymond's mind screamed at him to move, but his body wasn't fast enough. The cleaver slammed into his shoulder with a sickening crunch, the edge of the blade slicing through his armor and biting into flesh. The pain was immediate, searing, and sharp, and for a moment, everything went dark. His grip on his sword faltered, and he stumbled back, barely managing to stay on his feet.

Blood oozed from the wound, dripping onto the dirt as Raymond gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand. The bandit leader grinned, raising his cleaver again, ready to finish the job.

But Raymond wasn't finished yet.

The caravan guards, seeing Raymond falter, rushed forward. One of them—a tall man with a shield—barreled into the bandit leader, knocking him off-balance. The man swung his sword with a grunt, and the leader barely managed to deflect the blow with his cleaver.

Raymond, breath ragged and vision swimming, focused. He drew in a deep breath, pulling more Aether from the surrounding world. The power surged into his limbs, dulling the pain, sharpening his focus. He staggered forward, his blade coming up in a low thrust toward the bandit leader's side. The leader's cleaver swung to intercept, but Raymond's strike was too quick. The sword found its mark, cutting through the man's ribs, piercing deep into his side. The bandit leader let out a howl of pain and crumpled to the ground.

With the leader down, the remaining bandits hesitated. They were already seeing their numbers dwindle, and Raymond's display of strength left them uncertain. The guards quickly rallied, and the bandits, now outmatched, turned and fled.

Raymond stood in the center of the battlefield, his sword dripping with blood, his body trembling from the exertion. His shoulder ached, and the wound throbbed with each heartbeat. He turned toward the caravan, which was now safe but shaken.

The tall guard who had helped him approached cautiously. "You fought well," he said, his voice rough but appreciative. "Better than any mercenary I've seen."

Raymond only nodded, trying to focus through the pain. He didn't want to talk. The blood loss was starting to take its toll.

A woman from the caravan, the noblewoman he had seen earlier, came forward. Her eyes flicked to the wound on Raymond's shoulder, concern flickering across her features. "You're hurt," she said, her voice soft.

Raymond gritted his teeth. "I've had worse."

She didn't seem convinced. "We owe you a debt. Please, allow us to help you." She gestured to the others, who had begun to tend to the fallen. "You've earned more than just our thanks."

Raymond shook his head, though his vision was starting to blur. "I don't need anything from you." But despite his words, his body betrayed him, and he staggered.

The woman placed a hand on his arm to steady him. "Then take this, at least. A token of our gratitude." She handed him a small, intricately carved box. "Inside, you'll find something that may help."

Raymond accepted the box without speaking. As he looked down at it, something about the weight of it felt significant, familiar—almost like he had seen it before. He tucked it away into his pack, turning away from the caravan without another word.

As he left, the woman's gaze followed him, but Raymond didn't look back. His focus was on the road ahead, and on the object now resting in his pack. He couldn't explain why, but he felt like the stone and this new item were tied together somehow, pieces of a puzzle he was starting to unravel.

And with that, Raymond walked off into the night, a little more whole than before but still haunted by the whispers of the curse.