The bandit's confidence evaporated the moment Aeon charged.
This wasn't the desperate stumbling of a terrified slave—this was the calculated aggression of something that had learned to kill and found it satisfying. The spear point drove toward the bandit's chest with precision born from recent, bloody experience.
Marcus Redhand barely managed to deflect the thrust with his sword, the steel ringing against the spear shaft as he stepped back in surprise.
"Fast little rat," he muttered, his casual demeanor shifting to something more serious. "But speed won't save you."
The bandit's free hand gestured sharply, and the air around Aeon suddenly became thick and oppressive. Wind gathered with unnatural force, creating pressure that made breathing difficult and movement sluggish.
Air attribute. He's trying to suffocate me or crush me.
But Aeon had learned to fight through worse conditions than this. The dungeon's smoke-filled caverns had been far more hostile than whatever atmospheric manipulation the bandit could manage. He pressed forward through the thickened air, using the spear's reach to keep his opponent at a distance.
The next few exchanges were a brutal education in the difference between dungeon monsters and trained killers.
Marcus fought with decades of experience, his sword work efficient and deadly. He used his wind powers not as a primary weapon but as support—deflecting Aeon's thrusts with sudden air currents, creating pressure that threw off his balance, making it nearly impossible to predict where attacks would land.
But Aeon had advantages the bandit hadn't expected. His small size made him a difficult target, and his recent experience with goblin combat had taught him to fight dirty. When Marcus committed to a sword thrust, Aeon dropped low and swept the man's legs with the spear shaft.
The bandit stumbled but didn't fall, his wind magic helping him maintain balance. His counter-attack was vicious—a pommel strike that caught Aeon across the temple, sending stars exploding across his vision.
Stay up. Stay moving. Give ground but don't break.
Aeon rolled away from the follow-up sword stroke, the blade sparking against stone where his head had been. He came up in a crouch, spear ready, but the bandit was already pressing his advantage.
Marcus raised his hand, and the wind around Aeon suddenly shifted. Instead of the oppressive thickness, it became a howling gale that lifted him off his feet and slammed him against a tree trunk. The impact drove the air from his lungs and sent fresh waves of agony through his collection of injuries.
The spear flew from his grip, clattering away into the underbrush.
"There we go," Marcus said, walking forward with renewed confidence. "Back to being a helpless little slave. Did you really think you could fight someone with real power?"
Aeon tried to stand, but the bandit's wind magic pressed him against the tree like an invisible hand. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe properly, couldn't do anything but watch as Marcus approached with his sword raised.
This is how it ends. Killed by the first real opponent I face.
But even as despair threatened to overwhelm him, the analytical part of his mind continued working. The bandit's magic required concentration and gesture. His sword arm was extended for a killing thrust. His stance was confident but not perfectly balanced.
One chance. One moment when his attention shifts.
Marcus drew back his sword for the final strike, and Aeon did the only thing desperation allowed. He spat blood directly into the bandit's face.
It wasn't much—barely more than a distraction—but it was enough to make Marcus flinch and close his eyes for just an instant. The wind pressure faltered, and Aeon threw himself sideways with every ounce of strength he possessed.
The sword blade missed his heart by inches, instead opening a gash across his ribs that sent blood streaming down his side. But he was free of the tree, free to move, and close enough to attempt something suicidal.
Aeon's broken fist, still swollen and mangled from his fight with the goblin chief, drove upward into Marcus's groin with all the force his small body could generate.
The bandit's scream of agony echoed through the forest as he doubled over, his sword falling from nerveless fingers. For a moment, his magic failed entirely as pain overwhelmed concentration.
Now. While he's down.
Aeon grabbed the fallen sword and raised it above his head, aiming for the bandit's exposed neck. One clean stroke would end this fight and remove the threat permanently.
But Marcus recovered faster than expected.
"You little bastard!" he roared, straightening despite the pain. His hands moved in a complex gesture, and the wind around them began to howl with supernatural fury. "I'll tear you apart slowly!"
The air itself became a weapon. Invisible force struck Aeon like hammer blows, lifting him off the ground and slamming him against trees with bone-crushing impact. The stolen sword spun away into darkness as he lost all control over his movements.
He's going to kill me. Slowly and painfully.
Marcus's face was twisted with rage and humiliation. The casual confidence was gone, replaced by the fury of a predator who had been wounded by what should have been helpless prey.
"Thirty years I've been killing slaves," the bandit snarled, his magic building to a crescendo that made the very air scream. "Thirty years, and never once has a piece of property drawn my blood. Time to remind you what happens when you forget your place."
The wind gathered into a focused spear of compressed air, aimed directly at Aeon's chest. It would punch through him like a ballista bolt, leaving a hole large enough to put a fist through.
Marcus drew back his hand for the killing blow.
"Die, you miserable—"
Everything stopped.
The howling wind ceased in an instant, leaving absolute silence. The compressed air spear dissolved into nothing. Marcus's hand froze mid-gesture, his eyes wide with sudden terror.
Even the forest seemed to hold its breath.
Aeon, suspended in mid-air by forces that were no longer present, dropped to the ground. But instead of the crushing impact he expected, he landed softly, as if the very earth had risen to cushion his fall.
The world had become utterly, impossibly still.
Not quiet—still. As if time itself had paused to witness whatever was about to happen.
And in that silence, Aeon felt something stirring deep within his chest. Something that had been dormant since the moment of his transmigration, waiting for the proper catalyst to awaken.
Power. Raw, untapped, and entirely his own.
His Awakening had finally come.