Fight II
Rashan approached the peacock with Cassia in tow, the sand whispering beneath his feet, his grip loose around the haft of his training sword.
He spoke without turning. "Stand watch over the fallen guards and the nobles. I want clear footing and do not wished to be attacked from behind."
Cassia peeled off with a nod, already moving toward the bodies scattered in the dust and blood. She didn't glance at him, didn't ask questions.
She followed orders. Sharp and silent. That was enough.
The peacock stood ahead, whip still limp in his hand, eyes flicking from Rashan to the guard in front of him and back again. His shoulders tensed but didn't settle. The distance between him and his guard stayed open, a space wide enough to show everything that mattered. He should have closed the distance with the guards and attacked together.
He hadn't stepped in.
Rashan knew the type—born soft, raised to feel powerful, never tested hard enough to bleed for it. The kind of boy who imagined power came from command, not consequence.
The guards advanced.
His boots hit heavy. Shoulders squared. Sword already raised.
Rashan didn't raise his blade. His posture didn't shift. He waited.
The strikes came fast—a full swing aimed for center mass.
The blades struck flesh, one on his abdomen the other on his side.
Vitality surged. The muscles along Rashan's side and abdomen clenched to absorb the blow, skin braced under the weight of the hit. His breath hissed through his teeth, but he held position.
The guard's blades clanged off solid resistance. The shock ran back up through their wrists. Both of their eyes widened.
He stepped back half a foot, breath sharp.
He felt it. That unnatural stillness beneath the impact. That weight. That presence.
This, Rashan thought, was what enemies felt like in the game. The ones who took twenty-seven strikes just to flinch.
His health gauge still sat strong- 60%. Pain flickered like heat—sharp, controlled, focused, but it was minor compared to the pain of his last life.
Weak Will, Rashan thought. Could've been worse. Should've been, these guards were pathetic. Cheap.
The guard's strike had committed too much. Too forward. Too wide.
Rashan stepped in.
For the first guard the edge of the training sword slammed into the man's ribs. A hard horizontal blow—flat wood against bone. The impact rippled through the man's torso like a hammer to wet timber. He grunted, body twisting from the hit.
Rashan's foot pivoted, and he brought his leg around with surgical precision—
His boot crashed into the side of the guard's knee.
Pop.
The joint gave way with a crack that echoed over sand. The guard collapsed, one leg buckling, hands grasping for control that had already left him.
The second guard attacked Rashan dodged avoiding the strike, the guard put to much effort into the attack and lost his footing.
Rashan like a baseball player swung for the fences and made contact with his face- crunch the guard went flying his jaw hanging at an odd angle, he didn't get back up.
Exhilaration surged. It burned up through Rashan's limbs, hot and electric.
It had been decades since he'd felt it—a real fight. Not sparring. Not drills. The kind of fight where the body moved on instinct and training clicked into place like clockwork. Every strike a lesson. Every breath a purpose.
All the time. All the hours. All the pain.
This was the reason.
He could've led armies. Could've sat behind war tables, barked commands, marched legions toward Alduin in Skyrim. That path always existed- an easy path to follow with foreknowledge.
But that version of him held no weight.
He didn't want tactics. He wanted the moment—the clash. He wanted to feel the World-Eater's breath scorch the stone and meet it head-on.
Man against dragon.
His knee snapped upward and crushed into the man's jaw as he fell forward.
Crunch.
Blood burst across Rashan's vest. Teeth scattered over the sand. The guard dropped, eyes rolled, arms twitching.
Rashan stood tall, chest rising with the rhythm of a man still warming up.
Across from him, the peacock shifted.
His lips moved without sound. One foot edged behind other like it might leave the ground like he might flee-
Then—he squared up, he obviously didn't want to, probably thought about the social ramifications of being a little bitch.
Rashan stopped short.
Breathing steady. Sword down. Head tilted as he started at the peacock.
Rashan stepped forward in silence, sword still in hand, boots shifting through the sand with quiet, deliberate rhythm.
The peacock stiffened, shoulders twitching as Rashan began to move.
He didn't come straight at him.
He circled.
A wide, slow arc—just out of reach, like a predator letting the prey feel its own heartbeat.
The peacock turned with him, awkward, feet dragging through the grit. His weapon stayed low. His posture changed every few seconds—first squared, then sideways, then hunched as if unsure where to hold his own weight.
He was afraid to make the first move.
Rashan said nothing.
He just kept walking—calm, controlled—watching.
The silence pressed in like smoke.
"You… we can forget this, yes?" the peacock stammered, voice high and breathless. "I'll forget your servant struck me. A noble. For no reason…"
Rashan didn't answer.
He kept walking.
The peacock turned with him, lips moving, voice cracking through a jumble of excuses. Sweat streaked down his brow. His grip fidgeted.
Rashan watched every twitch.
Fear. Raw and growing.
Maybe he'd piss himself, Rashan thought, like a few men did in his last life—right before the pain.
The peacock's mouth moved faster, words bleeding into each other.
"We're in the same clan. You hear me? This is—this is assault. I—"
Rashan struck.
A blur of motion—precise, surgical. He stepped in hard and clean, training sword knocking the blade from the peacock's grasp with a sharp snap of force.
The disarm was clean. Controlled. No broken fingers. No cracked ribs.
Not yet.
The peacock stumbled backward, legs failing to catch up, and dropped straight into the sand. He landed hard on his backside, robes twisted, mouth still moving—though now no words came.
Rashan resumed circling.
Quiet.
Measured.
Just… watching.
The peacock mumbled from the sand, his hands shifting like they wanted to rise, but couldn't decide how.
Rashan began to circle the peacock, each step deliberate, his gaze unwavering. He didn't need to speak. His presence pressed in heavier than words, heavier than threat. The sand shifted under his boots in a slow, grinding rhythm. The space between them tightened with every pass, like a noose drawn by silence.
The boy was pathetic.
Redguards carried a legacy of steel and fire—warriors who crossed seas with blades in hand, who carved out honor with sweat and blood. Their ancestors fought on sun-scorched fields, not snowy peaks. Sword-saints, raiders, defenders of pride and clan.
But even in Hammerfell, rot could grow.
This boy—his silks, his posture, his trembling fingers—belonged to the lineage of cowardice. Born to power but molded by fear. Rashan had seen his kind before. Polished in court, polished in name, but never tested where it counted. Never put to the grindstone that made warriors.
Maintaining his steady pace, Rashan watched the boy's breath shorten. His shoulders tensed, then hunched. The corners of his mouth twitched.
The seventeen-year-old's voice finally broke through the stillness—high, shrill, and unraveling.
"I'll tell my father… the judge… the Tribunal will—"
Rashan took a single step toward him.
The peacock flinched like he'd been struck. His arms jerked halfway up before he realized what he'd done. His bravado crumbled like wet parchment.
Rashan stepped in, now close enough to feel the heat of the boy's panic.
Despite being a head taller, the peacock seemed smaller now—shrunken in spirit, not stature. His presence buckled beneath Rashan's gaze.
The boy opened his mouth to speak.
Rashan's hand came across with cold precision—an open-handed slap, clean and full of weight. The crack echoed like a war drum, and a red mark bloomed instantly across the boy's cheek.
He tried to protest.
Slap.
The next strike carried a hint of Will. Barely more than a push. Just enough to sting deep and settle in the nerves.
He tried again.
Slap.
Again.
Slap.
Each motion mirrored the last. Measured. Calm. A rhythm. A lesson. Not rage. Just enforcement.
Slap.
Slap.
Slap.
Finally, the boy stayed silent.
His mouth hung half-open, lips swollen, one eye starting to puff. The tension in his spine gave way, and he slumped an inch lower into the sand.
Rashan stood over him, saying nothing.
The silence stretched long. Not awkward. Not empty.
Heavy.
The wind dragged faint trails of dust across the stone in the distance. The sun pressed down. A gull cried somewhere along the coast. The only thing that moved was the boy's breathing—quick, shaky, uneven.
Rashan's chest rose slowly, arms still loose at his sides, expression unreadable.
The peacock's face flushed crimson. Swelling gathered across both cheeks now. His eyes stayed low, avoiding Rashan's gaze, blinking back water that hadn't yet fallen.
Rashan finally spoke.
His voice was steady. Measured. Each word carried weight, like stone set into place.
"We both know why you did what you did."
He didn't linger on it. No explanation. No need.
"I honestly don't have the patience to deal with your bullshit, so this will be very simple."
He took a slow step closer, his shadow falling across the boy's knees.
"For striking my man," Rashan said, "you have two options."
"Option one—You break the arm you used to whip him."
The peacock opened his mouth.
Slap.
Rashan didn't raise his voice. His palm fell clean, same as before. Just enough Will behind it to make the boy's teeth rattle.
"Do not interrupt me."
The boy whimpered and held still.
"Option two," Rashan continued, tone unchanged, "I break both arms and both legs, and you get dragged to a healer."
He gave the boy a long look.
"You won't walk out. Not on your own."
He let that settle.
Option one was cruel—but deliberate. In Redguard honor culture, to harm your own body as a form of reparation was humiliating. Self-mutilation meant guilt. Shame made public. Breaking your own limb in front of a crowd? That shame lingered far longer than bruises. Some nobles recovered slower from reputation than from wounds.
Option two? Brutal. Painful. But it implied the punishment came from outside. Less dishonor. Just defeat.
Only cowards chose neither.
Rashan said nothing else. He just waited.
Eyes forward. Face unreadable.
he peacock's face burned red, puffed and blotched from the slaps. His eyes stayed wide, bouncing between Rashan's face and the sand, mouth trembling.
Rashan didn't speak again.
He just stared.
Then, softly, he began to count.
"Ten…"
The word cut the air clean.
"Nine…"
The peacock flinched. His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but no sound came.
"Eight…"
His voice came in a breathy panic. "My father—he'll—there's payment, I didn't mean—"
"Seven."
The counting didn't stop.
"Six…"
The boy kept rambling. Words came fast and confused. Something about apology. About misunderstanding. He reached for excuses like a drowning man reaching for dry stone.
"Five…"
"Four…"
"Three…"
Rashan didn't blink.
"Two—"
The peacock lurched forward in a last-ditch effort, trying to tackle him.
Rashan sidestepped smoothly, pivoted, and brought the edge of his training sword down across the back of the boy's head—a sharp, bracing strike to the base of the skull.
Thump.
The boy hit the ground face-first, his body sprawled awkwardly in the sand, limbs splayed like a broken doll.
Rashan dropped his sword beside him.
He stepped over the peacock, planted a knee in the center of his chest, and began to pound his fists into the boy's face.
Ground and pound. Measured. Controlled. Unrelenting.
His knuckles cracked against cheekbone. Blood splattered across the peacock's silks. The skin split with wet snaps. One of the boy's teeth went flying into the sand. His lip peeled, and a wheezing moan escaped between gasps of blood.
Rashan kept going.
Fist to brow.
Fist to nose.
Fist to jaw.
He timed the hits with his breath. No rage. Just a lesson delivered through cartilage and bone.
He didn't break anything vital. Didn't disfigure. But the swelling would last for days, the pain longer.
The peacock's arms curled over his face, and he started to beg.
"I'm sorry—I'm sorry please—please I was wrong—"
Rashan stood up, breathing calmly, eyes cold.
He dragged the boy by the collar toward a low boulder near the edge of the path.
The boy whimpered, legs dragging behind him, blood streaking down from his mouth, tears mixing into the dirt on his face.
Rashan knelt beside him and grabbed the boy's right arm—the one that held the whip.
He positioned the wrist over the edge of the boulder, braced it with his knee.
Then brought down a rock.
Crack.
The bone gave with a wet, sharp snap. The peacock screamed.
Crack.
Another fracture. The hand twisted unnaturally now. Fingers limp.
Crack.
Crack.
His howling broke into broken sobs, then silence. He passed out somewhere between the third and fourth break.
Rashan didn't stop.
He moved to the second arm. Then the legs.
Each limb broke the same way—measured, clinical, inevitable.
When it was done, the peacock lay still in the dirt, unconscious, limbs crooked and twitching with residual nerve shock.
Rashan stood tall, chest rising with quiet breath. He rolled his shoulders once and exhaled.
He felt… satisfied.
There would be consequences, of course. He knew that. But three teenagers—himself, Jalil, and Cassia—had just beaten four guards and three nobles older than them. It would be embarrassing if word spread.
And they were all of the same clan.
This would stay internal.
Footsteps approached behind him.
Adrien's voice came easy, grinning.
"Well. Taught him a lesson, didn't you?"
Rashan turned slightly. His teacher's staff was slung casually over his shoulder, eyes scanning the wreckage with no particular urgency.
Rashan signed, ready to walk away.
Adrien lingered a moment longer.
"I almost want to say this wasn't the first time you've hurt someone like this," he said casually, still looking at the broken noble in the dirt.
Rashan looked at him.
Adrien didn't explain. He just turned and walked away, humming quietly to himself, the way he always did when something interesting confirmed a theory in his head.
Rashan sighed. His teacher's instincts struck again.
And he was right.
This wasn't the first time.
And if anyone ever laid hands on his people again—his men, his women—
It wouldn't be the last.
He turned toward the hill where Jalil leaned against a crate, Cassia already crouched beside him, helping him to his feet with quiet steadiness.
Rashan walked to them. The wind at his back. The weight behind him left in the sand.