Chapter 14.1: The Journey North - The Days That Have Passed (VII)
Year 0003, Month VIII-X: The Imperium
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Day 38-44: The Blurred Devil Strikes Fear
Their journey had been smooth sailing thus far, a careful blend of adventure and controlled chaos as they encountered the inevitable local banditry and highway robbers who brazenly attempted to extort money from unsuspecting travelers. What these criminals failed to realize, however, was that the Blurred Devil—a name that had already become legend amongst those who mingled with underground organizations—had become acutely aware of their presence.
News had spread like wildfire across the criminal underworld. Tales of the mysterious figure who had single-handedly annihilated the notorious "Grog Bandits" echoed through taverns, black markets, and shadowy meeting places. Though the Grog Bandits had primarily operated outside the Great Forest's sphere of influence, their reputation had been formidable enough to reach even these distant parts of the realm. The catalyst for this spreading legend was none other than their former leader—the broken, half-mad man whom August had deliberately spared and released, his mind shattered but his tongue still capable of spreading the tale that would birth a legend.
The strategy had worked beyond August's wildest expectations. Word of the Blurred Devil's merciless efficiency had significantly reduced banditry throughout the central regions, particularly near the Great Forest's borders. While there remained a few desperate outliers willing to risk their lives for quick coin, the majority had either fled to safer criminal enterprises or abandoned their illicit activities entirely.
But the whispers carried further than anyone could have anticipated. Like seeds on the wind, August's reputation had traveled thousands—no, millions—of kilometers across the continent. His name had become both prayer and curse among the criminal element, a legend amongst the very evil he sought to eradicate. He was spoken of as justice incarnate, a divine messenger who delivered the promise of death to those who committed heinous acts. Even the regional troops who patrolled their assigned territories had begun praising the Blurred Devil's work, though they knew not his true identity.
The economic impact was immediate and profound. Trade along the roads had flourished once again, with merchants traveling with renewed confidence and significantly reduced escort fees. Caravans that had previously required extensive guard details now moved with minimal protection, trusting in the fear that the Blurred Devil's reputation instilled in would-be attackers.
August himself remained blissfully unaware of the far-reaching consequences of his actions. In his mind, he was simply doing what needed to be done—eradicating the pests who dared to threaten or extort his companions. Each encounter was a tactical necessity, not a calculated move in a grander strategy of psychological warfare.
It wasn't until several days into their continued travels that the true scope of his reputation became apparent. Another group of bandits, having recognized the futility of resistance, had surrendered immediately upon realizing who they faced. As they begged for mercy, one particularly talkative criminal began recounting tales he had heard in taverns and criminal dens—stories of the Blurred Devil's supernatural speed, his glowing green eyes that could see through any deception, and his arsenal of weapons that seemed to appear from thin air.
"The stories say you can move faster than the wind itself," the bandit had whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and terror. "They say you've never left a single enemy alive when they chose to fight, but those who surrender... they live to warn others."
Upon learning of his newfound legendary status, August and his companions had made a conscious decision to lean into the reputation. If the mere mention of the Blurred Devil's name could eliminate these lowlifes without bloodshed, they would be providing invaluable assistance to the authorities struggling to deal with the surge of banditry plaguing the region. This was particularly important given the ongoing rebellions in the northern territories of the central subcontinent, which had stretched imperial resources thin.
"Young Sir, it seems your legend has grown considerably," Marcus remarked with a mixture of teasing and genuine admiration as they made camp one evening. "I am indeed thankful to have been among the first to be saved by the Blurred Devil's kind hands. I shall sing tales of your exploits whenever the opportunity arises, you can be certain of that."
Andy, meanwhile, was less surprised by August's growing fame—they had discussed the potential for such developments before. What truly amazed him was the sheer distance the reputation had traveled. "Who would have thought, lad, that your alter ego would be spreading fear into the hearts of these lowlifes across such vast distances? I wager it won't be long before those with darker holdings in criminal enterprises take direct action against you. They'll surely send their best dogs to do the dirty work." His eyes gleamed with anticipation. "You might have a chance to exact revenge on the Corvus Syndicate sooner rather than later."
The prospect excited Andy immensely. After years of enslavement under the Corvus Syndicate's cruel yoke, the opportunity to pay them back tenfold was a dream he had harbored in the darkest corners of his heart.
Sibus observed the conversation with his characteristic stoicism as they settled on the roadside for their evening rest. Currently tasked with preparing their evening meal, he had long since ceased being surprised by the revelations that emerged during their travels together. The past few days had shown him wonders and horrors in equal measure.
Michelle, meanwhile, remained focused on her current project—the banner that August had commissioned from her. The intricate design was coming along beautifully, each thread carefully placed to create a symbol worthy of the legend it would represent. She listened to her companions' banter and praise with half an ear, her attention divided between her needlework and the conversation. Like the others, she was no longer shocked by August's capabilities, having witnessed his extraordinary feats with her own eyes.
Their recent encounters with criminal elements had proven quite profitable. Beyond the psychological impact, there were tangible financial benefits to their activities. They had acquired approximately 500 local gold coins directly from the bandits' coffers, plus an additional 1,200 local gold coins from bounties and ransoms collected by turning in captured criminals to various towns and settlements.
Combined with their previous earnings, their external funds now totaled 1,933 local gold coins, 6 local silver coins, and 143 local copper coins—a substantial sum that they would draw from for their travel expenses, while keeping their trading profits safely stored in August's built-in SYSTEM banking feature.
The sheer volume of coins was becoming unwieldy, so they decided to convert 1,500 local gold coins into imperial currency, yielding 3 imperial silver coins at the next place they would visit. This would make Andy's job as their external fund manager considerably easier.
As the group settled down for the night, they established their watch rotation. August would take the first shift, followed by Andy and Sibus, with Marcus and Michelle bringing up the rear. Tomorrow would bring another day of their established routine, but with their enhanced reputation preceding them, perhaps it would be a more peaceful journey.
**Total distance covered: 1,050 kilometers in seven days, with 450 kilometers remaining until the Regional Capital of Gremory.**
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Day 45.1: Cinders, Black Smoke and Embers
Somewhere along their intended path, still unknown to Maya's Traveling Mercantile, a village had been burning since the previous night. This was no mere bandit raid—these were ruthless raiders who had emerged from the Great River, some thirty kilometers distant from the smoldering ruins. Unlike the land-based criminals they had encountered thus far, these raiders were river-born predators, escapees from a relentless pursuit by imperial authorities.
The Imperial Navy, which patrolled the Great Rivers with unwavering dedication, had been hunting these particular criminals for weeks. Leading the pursuit was a young, ambitious captain from the prestigious House of Croco, whose family had served the Empire's naval interests for generations. The House of Croco was renowned throughout the realm for their mastery of riverine warfare, particularly their employment of massive, specially trained crocodiles capable of crushing even the mightiest warships.
Faced with the inexorable pursuit of such formidable foes, the river raiders had resorted to the most despicable of tactics—taking innocent hostages to force their pursuers to maintain distance. But as they fled deeper into the continental interior, desperation had transformed into something far more sinister. Unable to satisfy themselves with mere hostages, they had chosen to make a statement through wanton destruction.
The village they had chosen for their atrocity was small and defenseless, its inhabitants simple farmers and craftspeople who had never raised arms against anyone. The raiders had descended upon them like a plague, burning homes, stealing everything of value, and committing unspeakable acts of violence against the defenseless population. When they finally departed, they left behind nothing but cinders, black smoke, and the smoldering embers of what had once been a thriving community.
But fortune, it seemed, had not entirely abandoned the village. A handful of residents had managed to escape the carnage, led by a woman named Martha—a determined soul in her forties who had gathered as many children as she could carry. At the desperate urging of parents who had sacrificed themselves to buy their children precious moments of escape, Martha had fled into the forest with thirteen children, two teenagers, and an infant barely old enough to hold its head upright.
Their escape had come at a terrible cost. The screams of the dying still echoed in their ears, and the acrid smell of smoke clung to their clothes like a shroud. Martha knew that their survival depended on maintaining distance from their pursuers, but the children were exhausted, frightened, and struggling to keep pace through the dense undergrowth.
Unfortunately for the survivors, their escape had not gone unnoticed. The raiders, unwilling to leave witnesses to their atrocity, had dispatched a pursuit team to eliminate any who might carry tales of their crimes to imperial authorities.
The main raiding force numbered 150 battle-hardened criminals, led by a grizzled veteran named Grant McCain, who had chosen the life of a raider over that of a law-abiding citizen. McCain commanded respect through fear and proven competence, having successfully evaded imperial justice for the better part of a decade. His crew called themselves the "Raiders of Kirin," a name that struck fear into the hearts of river merchants throughout the region.
The hostages they had originally taken to discourage pursuit had been systematically murdered once they were no longer useful—a cold, calculated decision that spoke to the raiders' complete lack of humanity. Even now, as they attempted to put distance between themselves and the House of Croco's pursuing forces, McCain knew their time was running short. The crocodile-mounted cavalry of House Croco were legendary for their persistence and skill in riverine combat.
In a desperate attempt to confuse their pursuers and buy additional time, McCain had made the decision to split his forces. Thirty of his most trusted raiders, led by his deputy captain Rimsted Burns, were tasked with hunting down and eliminating the village survivors. Meanwhile, McCain would continue inland with the main force, hoping to find refuge in the continental interior where the Imperial Navy's reach was limited.
Burns was a cruel man, even by the standards of his profession. Where McCain killed efficiently and without emotion, Burns took pleasure in the suffering of others. The assignment to hunt down fleeing villagers—including women and children—was exactly the sort of task that brought a gleam to his cold eyes.
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Day 45.2: An Encounter of Fate
Meanwhile, August and his companions had been making steady progress along the Imperial Road, their spirits high despite the weight of their growing reputation. The morning sun filtered through the canopy above, casting dappled shadows across their path as Marcus guided their wagon along the well-maintained thoroughfare.
It was August's supernaturally acute hearing that first detected the signs of trouble. Through the ambient sounds of their journey—the creaking of wagon wheels, the steady clip-clop of hooves, and the gentle conversation of his companions—he caught something else entirely. The sound of multiple feet running through underbrush, accompanied by ragged breathing and barely suppressed sobs.
Without hesitation, August tapped sharply on the wagon's roof—their established signal for an immediate halt. Marcus, recognizing the urgency in the signal, pulled their beasts of burden to a stop while Andy reined in Marcus' six-legged mount.
"What is it, lad? Is something wrong?" Andy called out, his hand instinctively moving to his weapon.
August didn't respond immediately, instead tilting his head to better focus on the distant sounds. After a moment of intense concentration, he donned his distinctive mask and vanished into the forest on their right side, moving with the fluid grace that had earned him his fearsome reputation.
Recognizing the potential danger, Andy quickly ordered the group to move their wagon off the main road, concealing it within a natural clearing some twenty feet from the thoroughfare. Whatever August had detected was serious enough to warrant immediate defensive preparations.
Through their party communication system, Andy reached out to his young companion.
**[Andy: Is everything okay, lad? What's going on? Talk to me.]**
Several tense minutes passed before August responded, his mental voice carrying a note of grim concern.
**[August: Uncle, there's definitely a problem nearby. I can hear ragged breathing and multiple people running through the forest—sounds like they're heading south. I've climbed a tree for a better vantage point, and I can see them now: a group of children and one adult female, clearly fleeing from something. They're terrified and exhausted. Should we intervene and help?]**
**[Andy: That sounds deeply concerning. If you can safely guide them to us, we should offer shelter until we understand what they're running from. But be careful—whatever is chasing them will likely arrive soon looking for tracks.]**
**[August: Understood. I'll bring them back in a minute or two.]**
August descended from his perch with practiced silence, but his sudden appearance still startled the fleeing refugees. One moment they were stumbling through empty forest, and the next, a masked figure clad in black materialized before them. His hooded cape seemed to absorb the dappled sunlight, and behind his mask, green eyes glowed with an otherworldly intensity. The array of weapons visible on his person only added to his intimidating presence.
Realizing his mistake, August quickly removed his mask and raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. "Please, calm yourselves. I'm not here to harm you. I heard the sounds of your flight and came to investigate. My name is August, and I'm traveling with a merchant caravan nearby. Can you tell me what has happened? If you're in danger, we can offer protection."
Martha studied the young man before her, her maternal instincts warring with desperate hope. Something in his manner—the genuine concern in his voice, the respectful way he addressed her—convinced her that he might indeed be their salvation.
"Sir, my name is Martha," she managed between gasping breaths. "We... we escaped from evil men who burned our village. These children's parents... they sacrificed themselves so we could flee. Please, if you can help us..."
"Of course," August replied without hesitation. "I'll guide you to safety immediately. My companions are nearby, and they'll provide food and shelter. As for your pursuers—I'll deal with them personally."
Without another word, August led the group of survivors through the forest toward the Imperial Road. Martha urged the children to stay close, while August moved with careful precision, already planning his next course of action.
When they emerged from the forest, Andy was waiting for them, having prepared the others for their arrival. The sight of the exhausted children and their protector stirred something deep in the older man's chest—memories of his own enslavement and the kindness of strangers from the Village of Maya who had offered help when he and the other slaves needed it most.
"I'll handle our unwelcome guests, Uncle Andy," August said quietly, his mask already back in place. "Give me a signal through the party chat if anything approaches your position."
"Understood, lad. Be careful out there."
August vanished into the forest once more, leaving barely a whisper of displaced air to mark his passage.
Andy immediately set about ensuring the refugees' comfort. The children were wrapped in warm blankets and brought inside the wagon's living quarters, where Sibus—surprisingly gentle with the young ones—helped distribute food and water. Michelle had quickly prepared a warm broth, while Marcus tended to the baby with unexpected skill.
For the first time since their nightmare began, Martha allowed herself to hope that they might actually survive.
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Day 45.3: August's Hunt Begins
Deep in the forest, August moved like a shadow given form, leaping from branch to branch high above the ground to avoid leaving tracks. His enhanced senses painted a detailed picture of his surroundings—every scent, every sound, every subtle shift in the forest's rhythm.
It took nearly thirty minutes of careful tracking before he located his quarry. When he finally spotted them, his jaw tightened beneath his mask. Thirty armed men moved through the forest with the confidence of seasoned killers, their equipment marking them as far more dangerous than common bandits. Blood lust radiated from them like heat from a forge, and their leader—a scarred man with cold, calculating eyes—carried himself with the bearing of someone accustomed to command.
August's analytical mind quickly assessed the threat levels. Most of the raiders registered as comparable to soldier-rank beasts in terms of danger, but their leader approached the threshold of commander-rank. More importantly, these weren't desperate criminals driven by hunger or desperation—these were professional killers who took pleasure in their work.
The element of surprise was August's greatest advantage. Positioning himself in the canopy above their projected path, he drew his bow and began coating his arrows with mana, increasing their penetrative power exponentially. His first volley would need to eliminate as many targets as possible before they could organize a response.
Five arrows left his bow in the span of ten seconds, each one guided by supernatural precision and enhanced by magical energy. Despite their thick armor, the raiders had no defense against mana-enhanced projectiles fired by someone of August's skill level. Five men dropped instantly, their deaths so swift that their companions barely had time to register the attack.
Rimsted Burns, the scarred leader of the pursuit team, recovered from his initial shock with admirable speed. "AMBUSH! SHIELD WALL!" he roared, his voice carrying the authority of command earned through years of violent experience.
Like a well-drilled unit, the surviving raiders immediately formed a defensive formation, shields overlapping to create a barrier against further arrow fire. But August had already moved, his stealth abilities activated as he repositioned for his next attack.
Sixty seconds of oppressive silence followed, the forest itself seeming to hold its breath. Then arrows began falling from an entirely different direction—not from the front where they expected, but from their left flank where their shield wall was weakest.
August's second volley utilized his elemental coating technique, each arrow crackling with [Advance - Class V (Lightning's Edge)]. The electrical energy didn't just pierce armor—it conducted through metal, causing additional damage to anyone in contact with the struck targets. Five more raiders fell dead, while five others were incapacitated by electrical burns and trauma.
Rimsted cursed viciously as he watched his men fall. This wasn't a conventional ambush—they were being hunted by someone with supernatural abilities. "Men, scatter! Whoever's attacking us is mobile and picking off our weak points. Form three-man squads and begin searching. Don't bunch up, and keep your eyes open!"
It was a tactically sound decision, but it played directly into August's strengths. Five small squads were much easier to eliminate than one cohesive unit, and in forest terrain, August's advantages were overwhelming.
The Blurred Devil lived up to his name that day. Moving like a wraith between the trees, August appeared before each squad with lethal precision. Some of the raiders never even saw their deaths coming—one moment they were scanning the forest for threats, the next their bodies were falling in pieces to the forest floor. Others caught glimpses of glowing green eyes and felt the whisper of impossibly sharp blades before darkness claimed them.
When Rimsted heard the first scream from one of his squads, he released his own aura—a skill designed to boost morale and combat effectiveness among his remaining men. The technique worked by inspiring confidence and suppressing fear, but it had never been tested against August's passive ability [Fear the Beast].
As the surviving raiders converged on the last known location of their tormentor, they saw him clearly for the first time. The Blurred Devil stood amid the corpses of their comrades, blood dripping from his weapons as he regarded them with those terrible glowing eyes. To men already stressed by supernatural hunting tactics, August's presence triggered an almost primal terror that overrode Rimsted's morale-boosting technique.
"You FUCKING bastard, I'm going to FUCKING kill you!" Rimsted screamed, hurling his spear with all the strength and skill he could muster.
August sidestepped the projectile with casual ease, watching as it buried itself deep in a tree trunk behind him. As Rimsted and his eight remaining men charged forward, something peculiar happened—the closer they got to August, the more they felt like prey approaching a predator. His presence seemed to expand beyond his physical form, filling the air with the promise of violence and death.
Several of the raiders lost their composure entirely, their desperate charge becoming a frenzied rush toward what they hoped would be a quick death rather than prolonged torment. August met their attacks with devastating efficiency, his arsenal of weapons appearing in his hands as if summoned by thought. Short sword and shield, throwing daggers, spears—each tool was employed with master-level skill, parrying attacks that should have been impossible to see coming and delivering counters that separated limbs from bodies with surgical precision.
When elemental magic joined the dance, the remaining raiders realized they were facing something far beyond their understanding. Wind blades sliced through armor like parchment, while lightning crackled along weapon edges to paralyze opponents at crucial moments. In thirty seconds of brutal combat, seven men lay dead or dying around August's feet.
The eighth man, completely broken by what he had witnessed, fled toward their main force as fast as his trembling legs could carry him. August let him go—as with the Grog Bandits, a witness would spread word of what happened here, potentially deterring future attacks on innocent people.
Rimsted Burns found himself alone, facing an opponent who had just dismantled his entire unit with contemptuous ease. As a veteran of countless battles, he understood his situation perfectly—there would be no negotiation, no mercy, and no escape. His only choice was to make his death count for something.
Drawing upon every magical technique he knew, Rimsted began transforming himself into a weapon of desperation. His muscles expanded beyond their normal limits as enhancement magic flooded his system, while his spear became wreathed in violently swirling water that spoke of years spent perfecting his elemental affinity. The transformation was killing him—blood poured from his eyes, nose, and mouth as his body struggled to contain forces beyond its natural capacity—but it also elevated his combat ability to the commander rank.
August observed the transformation with professional interest, noting the increase in his opponent's threat level without particular concern. Enhanced or not, Rimsted was still fundamentally human, while August had transcended such limitations long ago.
The end came swiftly. August launched a barrage of [Class V - Advance (Wind Blade)] attacks that opened dozens of wounds across Rimsted's enhanced form, severing tendons and leaving him unable to mount any meaningful offense. To finish the encounter, August coated his spear with [Advance - Class V (Lightning's Edge)] and hurled it with devastating force.
The sound of crackling electricity filled the air as the weapon punched through what remained of Rimsted's armor and body, leaving a smoking hole where his chest had been. The deputy captain of the Raiders of Kirin died as he had lived—violently and without dignity.
As August moved among the fallen, delivering mercy to those still clinging to life, he felt nothing but satisfaction at a job well done. These weren't people in his mind—they were rabid animals that needed to be put down for the safety of innocent lives. In a way, calling them animals was an insult to the creatures of the forest, who at least served a purpose in the natural order.
Following Andy's practical advice, August searched the bodies for anything of value. Coins, weapons, documents—all were collected and catalogued for later examination. When he reached Rimsted's corpse, he made a discovery that sent cold anger shooting through his veins.
Among the deputy captain's personal effects were documents bearing the mark of the Corvus Syndicate. These weren't just random raiders—they were affiliated with the criminal organization that had enslaved Andy, that had been responsible for untold suffering across the continent. The same organization that August had sworn to completely eradicate from existence.
With 220 additional local gold coins and potentially valuable intelligence gathered from the corpses, August began his return journey to rejoin his companions. The immediate threat had been eliminated, but larger concerns loomed on the horizon. The main raider force was still at large, innocent refugees needed protection, and their planned schedule would undoubtedly be disrupted by these developments.
As he moved through the forest with practiced silence, August's mind was already working on the next phase of the situation. The fleeing survivor would reach the main raider camp within hours, carrying tales of supernatural slaughter that would either deter further pursuit or bring even greater forces to bear. Either way, Maya's Traveling Mercantile would need to adapt their plans accordingly.
The legend of the Blurred Devil had just gained another chapter, written in blood and carved in fear across the hearts of those who preyed upon the innocent. And somewhere in the distance, the main force of the Raiders of Kirin would soon learn that their deputy captain and his handpicked team had simply vanished from existence, leaving behind only corpses and the whispered promise that justice, when it came, would be swift and absolute.