Reynauld did not evade; he charged forward to meet the brigand leader. The sound that erupted from their clash was enough to terrify the surrounding men. Though he looked battered, the leader, with the help of two of his men, had successfully tied down the Crusader. The rest of the brigands swarmed towards Lance.
"Kill! Kill! Kill!"
"Cut him down!"
"Slit his throat!"
Lance showed not a flicker of panic. He raised his crossbow and fired, and another unlucky soul was struck down. At this range, it was nearly impossible to miss. But the rest of them charged on. Such were these desperate men; if they sensed a chance at victory, the death of a comrade would not frighten them. On the contrary, it would only drive them into a greater frenzy.
But Barristan, who stood guard at Lance's side, was no mere decoration. Facing the onrushing horde, he met the first with a shield bash. The man's face made contact with the steel shield. His momentum stopped, his brain seemingly losing control of his body. Before he could react, a mace swung out, and his head burst like a watermelon. Blood and gore splattered everywhere; a few of his teeth were knocked from his mouth.
"Such is the fate of villains!" Barristan roared, like an aged lion whose majesty was undiminished. The power that radiated from him was no less than Reynauld's.
The other brigands were stunned by the sight. They were frenzied, but not fearless. But their bloodlust quickly returned. They saw that Barristan's reach was short. Two of them moved to engage him, while a third broke off to deal with Lance.
Lance, in the rear, knew he had no more time to reload. As the man came for him, a killing intent began to rise in his heart. A sword that does not drink blood can never adapt to this world. Without a moment's hesitation, he drew his shortsword and charged forward.
"Kill!"
The brigand was momentarily confused. When a crossbowman is closed in on, he is supposed to run, not draw a sword and charge. What the hell? Are you a crossbowman or a swordsman? But against a marksman who had abandoned his ranged weapon, the brigand saw no reason to retreat. He rushed forward, looking as if he wanted to cleave Lance in two.
Lance felt a sliver of tension. He had no real experience in close-quarters combat. All his movements were conservative, focused only on defending against the brigand's attacks. But after a few exchanges, he found that although his enemy was vicious, he was not particularly strong. The way he swung his sword was full of openings, and the force that was transmitted to Lance's own hand was not overwhelming.
"Are you gonna take all day?!" another brigand shouted, seeing his comrade's lack of progress. We're about to be hammered to death over here, and you're just playing around?
The brigand, already puzzled as to why his attacks were having no effect, grew angry at his comrade's taunt. With a strange cry, his attacks became more frantic. Lance had been wary that the man was feigning weakness, but after a few more probes, he realized he was just... bad.
And so, his defensive style suddenly became ferociously aggressive. For a moment, it was the brigand who was struggling to cope, his own rhythm thrown into chaos. Their swords clashed, and the brigand's shortsword was sent flying from his hand. Lance's own movement did not stop. With a swift and powerful motion, his blade swept across, and the brigand fell.
Another brigand, seeing this, abandoned his attack on Barristan and charged Lance with a hand axe. But in Lance's eyes, his movements were too slow. He sidestepped the blow and thrust his own shortsword forward. The brigand felt a warmth on his neck and instinctively reached up to touch it. The skin of his throat parted, opening into a great wound, and blood sprayed forth. His carotid artery had been severed. He was as good as dead.
A great weapon needs no wielder.
Lance stood with his sword held ready. The feeling of melee was a world apart from ranged combat. If he had not experienced this bloodshed for himself, he would never have understood what the rank of [Apprentice] truly meant. Lance, who had previously been content to cower in the back and shoot from the shadows, now felt a strange new sensation for close combat.
Just one word—exhilarating!
With his confidence now established, and solidified by the blood of his enemies, Lance became aggressive. He set his sights on the man attacking Barristan and charged in.
Meanwhile, Reynauld, who had been single-handedly fighting the leader and his two men, had already sent the two underlings to their graves. Only the leader was left, desperately holding on. But when he saw the "crossbowman" slaughtering his men, he knew that to continue fighting was a death sentence. He made a feint and tried to run.
"Argh!"
At that moment, a shortsword suddenly emerged from behind him and plunged into his lower back. The leader's escape came to an abrupt halt. He looked back, his face a mask of shock. When...? Before he could think further, Reynauld's sword swept down, cutting him down and ending his life of sin.
Dismas, who had been unseen until now, appeared. He had been hiding among the grunts, lurking near the leader the whole time.
On the other side, Lance and Barristan had also finished off their brigand, though they had left him alive. He needed information to perfect his plan.
"Check the perimeter. Be wary of ambushes."
At that moment, Lance picked up a torch that had fallen to the ground and relit it. The flame flared to life, illuminating the entire stronghold. The ground was littered with severed limbs and splattered with blood. A few who were not yet dead let out agonized groans. The thick smell of blood had even covered the sour stench of the place. He hadn't felt it in the heat of the moment, but looking at the shocking scene now, Lance felt a wave of revulsion. I am a civilized man. Why must you force my hand?
But in the next second, he sent the lingering souls on their way with his shortsword and then [Sacrificed] their bodies. Motes of light that only he could see emerged from the void and flowed into him, replenishing the [Boon] that had been so heavily consumed in the past few days.
"My lord, look at this."
At Dismas's voice, Lance brought the torch over to a corner. He saw there was a side room here. He had thought perhaps they had found some treasure, but instead, he saw a person, huddled in the corner.
It was a naked woman, covered in filth. She did not look very old. On her exposed skin, he could see all kinds of scars and bruises. She must have been taken from the town by the brigands. What had happened to her here was not hard to imagine. The joy of their victory was instantly washed away, replaced by a heavy, somber mood.
"These damned brigands!"
"Evil must be purged!"
"The poor child..."
Lance was silent. He picked up a piece of cloth that was relatively free of blood, knelt down, and draped it over her shoulders. "It's alright," he said softly. "You have been saved."
She had not reacted strongly to the loud commotion of the battle, not even screaming. But Lance's words seemed to make a flicker of light return to her vacant eyes.
"Saved..."
In the next second, without any warning, the woman began to cry.