The forest reeked of sweat and iron, the air thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and freshly sharpened steel. Torchlight flickered across the bandit camp, casting jagged shadows on the gnarled trees. Thirty men, maybe more, sprawled across the clearing, their laughter coarse and guttural, like dogs snapping at scraps.
Blades glinted in the firelight, axes and swords laid out on tattered blankets, while a few D-rank mages muttered over crude runes scratched into the dirt. At the camp's heart stood a cloaked figure, their presence a void that sucked the noise from the air. The Leader. The Boss. No one dared speak his name, if they even knew it.
His hood obscured his face, but his eyes burned like twin embers, and when he moved, the air crackled with unspoken power.
"Quiet, you fucking dogs," snarled Ruk, the lieutenant, a wiry D-rank mage with a scar splitting his lip. He stood near the Boss, his staff glowing faintly, a cheap imitation of the Leader's aura. The bandits hushed, their eyes darting to the cloaked figure. Ruk spat into the fire, the sizzle punctuating his words. "The Boss is talking. Listen, or I'll burn your damn tongues out."
The Leader raised a gloved hand, and the camp fell silent. His voice was low, smooth, laced with a menace that made the hairs on every neck stand up. "The village is weak. No guards, no mages worth a damn. We hit at noon, fast and hard. Burn the outskirts, slaughter anyone who resists. Take everything—gold, grain, women, whatever's left. Leave nothing standing."
A cheer erupted, fists pounding chests, blades raised high. The bandits were a pack of wolves, bloodthirsty and vile, their greed a bottomless pit. They didn't care about the village's name or its people.
It was just another target, another chance to fill their pockets and sate their hunger for violence. They'd raided hamlets before, left bodies in the dirt, and laughed over tankards of stolen ale. This was no different, except for the Boss.
He was new, joined a month ago, and under him, their raids had grown bolder, bloodier, richer. He promised wealth beyond their dreams, and they followed like moths to a flame.
A young bandit, barely sixteen, shifted uneasily near the back. Tobin, they called him, a scrawny kid with trembling hands and a stolen dagger at his belt. His first raid. He'd joined to escape starvation, but the Boss's words churned his stomach. Slaughter. Burn. He glanced at the veteran beside him, a grizzled C-rank warrior named Gorran, whose face was a map of scars and missing teeth.
"This village got anything worth taking?" Gorran muttered, scratching his beard. "Last one was a bust. Barely enough coin to buy a decent whore."
Tobin swallowed, his voice a whisper. "The Boss says it's rich. Says there's... something special there."
Gorran snorted, his axe resting on his shoulder. "Special, my ass. Probably another pile of shit and mud. But if the Boss wants it, we'll take it. Man's got a knack for finding gold."
The Leader's gaze swept the camp, silencing their murmurs. He stepped forward, his cloak billowing despite the still air, and the fire dimmed as if cowering. "This isn't just a raid," he said, his voice cutting through the night. "This village hides something. A power. A relic. I want it. You get me that, and you'll have more gold than you can carry. Fuck it up, and I'll leave your corpses for the crows."
The bandits nodded, some grinning, others pale. They didn't know what the relic was, didn't care. Gold was enough. Blood was better. They were monsters in human skin, driven by greed and the thrill of the kill. The village was just a lamb to slaughter, and they were the butchers.
Ruk barked orders, splitting the men into groups. "You lot, take the east flank. Hit the farms first, torch the barns. You, west side, block the roads. No one escapes. Mages, with me. We'll back the Boss when he moves in."
Tobin's group was assigned the east, led by Gorran. The kid clutched his dagger, his palms slick with sweat. He wanted to run, to vanish into the woods, but the Boss's eyes seemed to follow him, rooting him in place. A month ago, Tobin had tried to flee after a raid, sickened by the blood on his hands.
The Boss had found him, a shadow in the night, and burned a glyph into the ground that boiled the earth. "Run again," the Boss had whispered, "and I'll burn your soul." Tobin hadn't slept right since.
Gorran nudged him, smirking. "Don't piss yourself, kid. Stick close, swing that knife, and you'll be fine. Village folk don't fight back. Too busy screaming."
Tobin forced a nod, his throat tight. "What's the Boss want with this relic thing?"
Gorran shrugged, spitting into the dirt. "Fuck if I know. Man's got his own plans. I heard him talking to Ruk last night, something about a 'divine spark' or some shit. Doesn't matter. We get paid, we get drunk, we move on."
The camp bustled as the bandits armed themselves. Swords were sheathed, axes strapped to backs, and mages tested their spells, sending sparks into the air. The Boss stood apart, his staff-sword hybrid planted in the ground, its blade etched with runes that pulsed like heartbeats.
He didn't join the chatter, didn't laugh or drink. He watched, his presence a blade at every throat. The bandits feared him, revered him, hated him. He was no ordinary leader. His magic was A-rank, his strength unmatched. They'd seen him kill a B-rank mercenary with a single spell, the man's body reduced to ash before he could scream.
A scout returned, breathless, his face pale. "Boss, the woods... they're rigged. Tripwires, pits with stakes. Someone's expecting us."
The bandits muttered, unease rippling through the camp. Ruk cursed, slamming his staff into the ground. "Fucking villagers? They're farmers, not warriors!"
The Leader's eyes narrowed, the air around him shimmering with heat. "Not villagers," he said softly. "Someone else. Someone with skill." He turned to the scout, his voice cold. "Show me."
The scout led them to the eastern path, where a tripwire lay snapped, a rock dangling from a vine. The Leader knelt, his gloved fingers tracing the ground. A faint hum of mana lingered, too subtle for the bandits to notice, but not for him. "Divine energy," he murmured, his voice almost reverent. "Interesting."
Gorran scratched his head. "Divine? Like, gods and shit?"
The Leader stood, his cloak snapping in a sudden gust. "Change of plan. We flank from the river. The woods are a trap. Let them think they're clever. We'll hit from behind, crush them before they know we're there."
Ruk grinned, his scar twisting. "Smart, Boss. They won't see it coming."
The Leader's gaze drifted to the village, its rooftops barely visible through the trees. "No mistakes," he said. "This isn't just about gold. This village... it's personal."
The bandits exchanged glances, confused. Personal? The Boss never spoke of himself, never shared why he led them. But Ruk nodded, his loyalty absolute. "Whatever you say, Boss. We'll bleed this place dry."
The Leader turned away, his voice a whisper meant only for himself. "You took everything from me, Father. Your precious village, your legacy... I'll burn it all. And your little hero? I'll break him."
No one heard the words, but Ruk sensed the shift in the Boss's aura, a rage that made his skin crawl. He didn't ask questions. No one did. The Boss was a storm, and they were caught in its path.
The bandits moved out, their steps muffled by the forest floor. The river flanked the village's north side, its banks wide and shallow, perfect for a silent approach. The mages cast cloaking spells, thin veils of mana to hide their advance.
Tobin stumbled, his dagger slipping from his belt, but Gorran caught his arm, cursing under his breath. "Clumsy little bitch. Keep up, or I'll leave you for the wolves."
Tobin nodded, his heart pounding. He didn't want to kill, didn't want to burn. But the Boss's threat echoed in his mind, and he followed, a lamb among predators.
The Leader led the way, his staff-sword glowing faintly, its runes casting eerie light on the water. He moved like a predator, each step deliberate, his cloak untouched by the mud that caked the bandits' boots. His magic hummed, a low thrum that set their teeth on edge. A bandit whispered he'd seen the Boss split a boulder with a single swing, the blade's fire melting stone to slag. No one doubted it.
As they neared the river's edge, the village came into view, its homes quiet, smoke curling from chimneys. The bandits grinned, their greed a living thing. They saw gold, blood, power. The Leader saw something else—a past he loathed, a father he despised, a brother he'd never known. Lord Vayren's shadow hung over this place, and he'd tear it down, brick by brick.
"Spread out," the Leader ordered, his voice a blade. "Mages, ready your spells. When I give the signal, we strike. No mercy."
Ruk raised his staff, sparks dancing at its tip. "You heard the Boss. Let's fuck this place up."
The bandits fanned out, their weapons ready, their eyes gleaming with hunger. The village slept, unaware of the storm gathering at its edge. The Leader stood still, his staff-sword raised, its runes flaring bright.
A single spell, a burst of fire that lit the forest like a second sun, would signal the attack. His lips curled into a smile, cold and cruel. This was more than a raid. It was vengeance.