Chapter 3: Ashes of the Battlefield

The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the bloodstained clearing. Golden light touched the twisted bodies of the fallen bandits, their lifeless forms sprawled where they fell. The earth, still damp from the fight, drank in the crimson trails that marked their violent end.

Dikun Silver stood amidst the carnage, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. The saber in his trembling grip was slick with blood, the metal catching the last glint of daylight. His knuckles remained white from the force of his hold, though no more enemies threatened him.

But the tension didn't leave his body.

It was done. Three men lay dead at his feet. Yet, the weight in his chest refused to lift. There were no victory notifications. No triumphant fanfare. Only the suffocating stillness of the aftermath. Every breath carried the sharp tang of blood and sweat. The familiar thrill of conquest that once accompanied his victories in Bannerlord was nowhere to be found.

Because this wasn't a game.

Dikun swallowed hard, his gaze lingering on the face of the bandit leader. The man's expression was frozen in defiance, his eyes wide and lifeless. A smear of dirt clung to his bloodied face, the wound on his temple dark and raw. The final moments played on repeat in Dikun's mind — the clash of steel, the leader's curses, and the brutal weight of his own decisive strike.

He hadn't fought for glory. He had fought to live.

"Three dead," he thought bitterly. "And I'm still standing."

The saber shook in his grasp. His muscles screamed in protest, but he forced himself to move. One step. Then another. He knelt by the leader's body, the stench of sweat and blood stronger now. The heavy axe the man once wielded was embedded in the dirt nearby, the cruel edges still stained.

Dikun's stomach twisted. Every logical thought told him to scavenge, to take whatever he could. Weapons. Armor. Coins. Yet his hands trembled at the thought of rifling through the belongings of the dead.

"You have no choice," a voice in his mind reminded him. "This isn't a game. There's no inventory screen. No shops filled with endless supplies. Everything you need, you take — or you die."

He clenched his jaw. Survival demanded resolve. Hesitation only invited death.

---

A Practical Choice

The first thing Dikun reached for was the bandit leader's chest piece. It was rough leather, worn and patched, but still leagues better than the simple tunic he wore. The weight of it settled against his shoulders as he strapped the armor into place. Each buckle dug into his skin, a constant reminder of the life he had just taken.

Next, the leader's coin pouch. Dikun opened it carefully, the jingle of silver and copper muffled in the silence. Not much — perhaps enough for a few nights of lodging or a modest meal. But in this world, it could mean the difference between life and death. He tucked it away without a second thought.

The axe, however, gave him pause. It was a brutal weapon, heavy and wickedly sharp. Meant to cleave through flesh and bone. In the right hands, it could end battles with a single swing. But for now, Dikun's preference remained with the saber. The curved weapon felt familiar, and its nimbleness suited his fighting style.

Still, he strapped the axe to his back. A backup weapon. Another tool of survival.

The remaining bandits carried little of value — a few rusted knives, torn cloth, and dried strips of salted meat. Dikun didn't hesitate to take the provisions, stuffing them into his pouch. He grimaced at the stale smell, but hunger would demand far worse sacrifices soon enough.

Once he had stripped the battlefield of all it could offer, he stepped away. The corpses lay unburied, their empty eyes staring skyward. In Calradia, the dead were often left for the crows. It was a grim fate, but one Dikun had no means of preventing.

"I'll carry their weight, if nothing else."

---

The Path Forward

The sun was little more than an ember on the horizon when Dikun began his trek. The narrow dirt path stretched into the distance, flanked by swaying fields of golden grass. Beyond the hills, the faint silhouette of mountains loomed, their jagged peaks catching the fading light.

But Dikun's focus remained on the immediate.

"First, find shelter."

Calradia's wilderness was unforgiving. Bandits roamed unchecked, while wolves and other beasts prowled under cover of darkness. With no idea how far the nearest settlement was, traveling by night would be suicidal.

A dense thicket of trees soon came into view — a small pocket of woodland nestled along the roadside. It wasn't much, but it would provide concealment. Dikun approached cautiously, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement.

The woods greeted him with silence. Only the distant chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves accompanied his steps. He chose a spot near the base of an ancient oak, its twisted roots forming a natural barrier. Using the bandit leader's torn cloak, he fashioned a crude bedding, layering it with leaves for minimal comfort.

His saber remained within arm's reach. Even with his exhaustion, he wouldn't make the mistake of sleeping unarmed.

"Never let your guard down."

---

The Soldier's Burden

Night fell quickly. The sky above was a sea of stars, their silver glow illuminating the darkened plains. Dikun sat against the oak tree, his back pressed to its rough bark. The weight of the day lingered heavily on his shoulders.

His thoughts drifted. Memories surfaced — the rhythmic hum of his computer, the glow of the monitor as the banners of Calradia fluttered across the screen. He had led armies, razed cities, and forged empires. Every choice had been calculated. Every battle, a mere simulation.

But now? The consequences were far too real.

The dying faces of the bandits flashed in his mind. The wet, choking gasp of the first man he killed. The frantic, terrified eyes of the rider as he fell. The bandit leader's final words still rang in his ears.

"You think this ends here?"

Dikun shifted uncomfortably, his fingers tightening around the saber's hilt. He didn't regret what he had done. It had been them or him. But that didn't make the guilt any lighter. He had crossed the threshold from player to killer. There was no undoing it.

"Survival," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "That's all that matters now."

But even as the words left his lips, a spark of defiance burned within him. He hadn't come to Calradia to simply scrape by. He still had the knowledge. The tactics. The understanding of how the world worked.

Dikun Silver had once commanded legions. Negotiated alliances. Outwitted monarchs.

And now, he would do it again.

Not as a mere player.

But as a man determined to carve his name into Calradia's history.

With that final resolve, he pulled the bandit cloak tighter around him, the fabric shielding him from the biting night air. His eyes grew heavy, exhaustion finally claiming its due.

As the wind whispered through the trees, Dikun Silver closed his eyes.

And for the first time in Calradia, he dreamed.