Then he lunged.

His sword came fast, faster than his men's clumsy swings, a straight thrust aimed at my chest with the precision of someone who'd killed before.

I twisted sideways, the blade passing inches from my ribs, and countered with a slash toward his neck.

He parried, steel screaming against steel, and immediately riposted with a cut at my shoulder.

I blocked, the impact jarring my arms, and disengaged, putting space between us.

He's good.

We circled each other, boots scraping against dirt, both looking for openings.

He attacked again, a high slash followed immediately by a low sweep, trying to catch me off-guard with the rhythm change.

I read the pattern, parried the high strike, and jumped back from the sweep. Before he could recover, I lunged forward, driving my blade toward his midsection.

He twisted, my sword catching only cloth and drawing a thin line of blood across his side.

But not deep enough.

He snarled and came at me harder, abandoning technique for aggression.

Overhead strike, diagonal slash, thrust, each one powerful enough to break bone if it connected.

I gave ground, parrying each blow, my arms burning from the constant impacts.

He's stronger. More experienced.

But he's also getting desperate.

His next swing came wide, overextended, and I saw my opening.

I sidestepped, let his blade pass, and drove my sword up under his guard, through the gap in his armor, between his ribs, straight into his heart.

His eyes went wide. The sword fell from his hand, clattering onto the road.

I pulled my blade free and stepped back.

He swayed for a moment, hands clutching at the wound, blood spilling between his fingers.

Then his knees buckled, and he dropped to the ground with a heavy thud, face-down in the dirt.

Dead.

I stood there for a moment, breathing hard, my sword still raised.

Six men dead... And I barely felt anything.

Then I lowered the blade, flicked it once to shed the blood, and wiped the remaining red from my face with the back of my hand.

I turned back toward the carriage.

The driver and the students were watching me, eyes wide, expressions caught between awe and something that looked uncomfortably close to fear.

The girl with the wand had her hand pressed to her mouth. The boy with the short sword still gripped his weapon, knuckles white, but he was staring at me like I was something dangerous.

I didn't say anything. Just sheathed my sword, walked past them, and climbed back into the carriage.

My body protested as I settled into my seat, cuts on my arm and shoulder, which I didn't noticed earlier, were burning, muscles aching from the exertion. Nothing serious. Just the usual aftermath of a fight.

I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes, letting out a slow breath.

Why does this keep happening to me?

Outside, I heard the driver moving, boots scuffing against dirt, the sound of someone checking bodies, making sure they were actually dead.

"They're... they're all gone," he said, his voice shaky. "All dead."

A pause.

Then he cleared his throat, forcing strength into his tone. "Come on, everyone. Back in the carriage. We need to keep moving before more show up."

There was shuffling, bags being grabbed, students climbing back in with hesitant movements.

The driver took his seat up front, the reins creaking as he gathered them in his weathered hands.

"Let's go," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

The carriage lurched forward, wheels rolling over the dirt road, leaving the bodies behind.

I kept my eyes closed, feeling the rhythm of movement, the familiar rocking motion.

Nobody spoke.

And honestly?

I was fine with that.

*****

{The Forest...}

The forest was quiet again.

The carriage had disappeared down the road minutes ago, its wheels fading into the distance, leaving only bodies and blood-soaked dirt behind.

Then... a figure stepped out from between the trees.

He'd been there the entire time, watching from the shadows, far enough to remain unnoticed.

He moved with practiced silence, boots barely disturbing the fallen leaves as he approached the carnage.

Six bodies. All dead.

He crouched beside the first one, one of the bandits Jin had killed early in the fight.

The wound was clean, precise. A thrust between the ribs, angled upward. The kind of strike that came from someone who knew exactly where to put a blade.

Efficient.

He stood and moved to the next body. Throat cut. Quick, minimal wasted movement.

Then the next. And the next.

Each kill told the same story: no hesitation, no excess, no flourish. Just cold, calculated lethality.

The man's gaze shifted to the bandit leader, face-down in the dirt, blood pooled beneath him.

He nudged the body with his boot, rolling it onto its back.

The killing wound was clear, straight through the ribcage.

"No form," he muttered to himself, his voice low and thoughtful. "No noble house technique."

He straightened, scanning the scene with the practiced eye of someone who'd seen countless battlefields.

"Just... practical."

His eyes narrowed.

Most Academy students fought with the arrogance of their training, structured forms, flashy techniques meant to showcase skill and lineage. They moved like duelists.

This boy had moved like someone who fought to survive.

Like someone who'd killed before.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small crystalline device, no larger than a pocket watch.

Intricate runes glowed faintly along its surface as he channeled a thread of mana into it.

The crystal pulsed once, twice, then stabilized into a steady blue glow.

"Vivienne," he said, his voice clear and measured. "It's Kael. I've got something you'll want to hear."

His smirk widened.

"I'm heading back now. We should talk about this in person."

The crystal's glow faded as he cut the connection and slipped it back into his coat.

Kael took one last look at the carnage, his expression thoughtful, then turned and disappeared into the forest, his footsteps silent against the earth.

Behind him, the bodies lay still.

And the road remained empty.

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