They thought I was just a farmer.
"Ahhh! That feels good!" Jeren shouted, drinking another mug of beer. "One more, please, oh waitress!"
I don't even know how we ended up here.
Minutes ago, we were just talking to Old Harvin about the next day's work. Now we're sitting in an alehouse. Didn't even know Newham had one. But here it is. And somehow, it's quiet. Peaceful, even. No rowdy drunks. Just the three of us.
I sat between them. Jeren to my left, red-faced and grinning like a fool. Elric to my right, less loud, but clearly not sober either.
"Ahh! Thank you!" Jeren shouted again, grabbing another mug.
He was puffed up, flushed, leaning back on the edge of his chair like he'd fall backwards any second. That had to be his seventh mug. Elric, meanwhile, had already emptied eight but looked more calm, tired, maybe.
Across us, the bartender wiped a glass quietly. Beside him, a waitress brought out another tray of mugs. Both middle-aged. Brown hair. Similar eyes. Probably siblings.
"Do you really not drink beer? At your age?" Elric asked, glancing at my milk. "Try it. It's fun."
"I don't," I said. "I really don't."
"That's your, what, tenth time asking that, Elric," Jeren mumbled, slamming his empty mug down.
Elric laughed to himself and tapped the rim of his mug with a finger. "Can't blame me for trying."
"You can," I said.
He snorted. "Fair enough."
Then came a silence. Comfortable, for once.
Jeren exhaled hard. "I swear, I'm never drinking again after tonight."
"You said that two nights ago," Elric said.
"And I meant it back then too."
"Same number of beers?"
"Fewer. By one."
We just sat like that a while. Them slowly fading, me watching the candlelight flicker against the walls.
Elric chuckled and leaned back, mug dangling loosely in his hand. "But hey, Eron, I'm just saying. Never met a man who could chop down lots of big trees in a day and still sip on milk like it's sacred wine."
"It is sacred," I replied, taking another slow drink. "You two drink like you're punishing your livers for crimes they didn't commit."
"Exactly," Jeren said, now resting his elbow on the table and pointing vaguely at me. "Punishment. That's the point. My liver knows what it did."
"You two sound like a failed sermon," I muttered.
The waitress refilled Jeren's mug with a tired smile. She'd long since stopped asking questions. Jeren gave her a small bow in return, then turned his attention back to the table.
"You know," he said, face flushed, "this is the life. Work hard, get paid too little, drink anyway."
"And tomorrow?" I asked.
"Regret," Elric said, raising his mug like a toast. "Always regret."
They laughed. Loud, stupid, but honest laughter. It filled the small room like a fireplace that didn't creak.
I didn't laugh. But I wasn't frowning either.
This was bearable.
Across the room, I noticed the bartender glance toward the window. His brow furrowed. He leaned slightly, as if checking the moon's position. Then he muttered under his breath, "It's near midnight."
I heard it, barely. But I ignored it.
Jeren suddenly leaned towards me. "Eron Walden, man of milk and mystery. Tell us, what do you do for fun? Don't tell me you read."
"I sleep," I said.
They both groaned.
"That doesn't count!" Elric said.
"It does to me."
Elric leaned back to me, his head wobbling slightly before he caught himself. "You're a strange man, Eron. Stoic, strong, a woodcutter who drinks milk. Like a bedtime story for confused children."
I shrugged.
The door creaked open briefly, just wind. The lights flickered.
It was still only us inside.
Elric set down his mug and stretched. "Alright, alright. If we keep this up, tomorrow's work is gonna feel like a death sentence."
"Yeah," Jeren said, eyes barely open now. "Let's walk back before I mistake the bartender for a log and try to chop him down."
"You already called him an 'oak with a mustache' earlier," Elric added.
"I stand by it."
They both laughed again.
I stood up, pushing in my chair. "Let's go."
"Wait, I need a minute to find my legs," Jeren said, swaying slightly as he stood.
Elric joined him, and the three of us stepped out into the cold night. Stars hung overhead like distant sparks from a fire long forgotten.
No words. Just boots on dirt and breath in the air.
I was still in the middle, but this time, it didn't feel like I was alone.
I carried these two, with me being in the middle. They were both drunk, especially Jeren. His eyes were shut now, head swaying with each step. Elric, still awake, though barely, kept his hand over my shoulder for balance.
"Is he always like this?" I asked.
"Yes. Always," Elric answered. "Why? Do you want to try how it feels like?"
"No."
"Then why ask? Don't tell me, you're concerned for him."
"Not really."
"Then?"
"It's just weird. Is drinking considered a coping mechanism by some people? Like you two?"
"It is."
"Hmm?"
"It is, yeah," he repeated. His voice was quieter now. Less playful. "But you, I bet you don't even understand where I'm coming from. Or what I'm talking about."
I didn't say anything.
"You never will," Elric said, breathing slowly. "Not unless you've placed your foot on the same ground. Same mud. Same ache."
Jeren mumbled something in his sleep. None of us understood it.
He chuckled to himself, almost bitter. "But maybe that's the whole point, huh?"
I glanced sideways at him.
He wasn't laughing anymore. Just walking, barely, and staring ahead at nothing in particular.
"You work," he said. "You get paid. You drink a bit. You forget some things, remember others. Then drink again, hoping they switch places. But they never do. Not really."
A breeze moved the lantern hanging on the post ahead. The light flickered on the dirt path.
Elric kept talking, his voice slower now. "People think drink makes you forget. But I think it just makes the memory softer. Not gone. Just easier to touch without bleeding."
He took a breath, then looked at me again.
"I don't know what you're carrying. Don't really need to. You're quiet, so maybe you've got your own kind of bottle tucked somewhere, just not one you pour into a mug."
He chuckled again, lighter this time. "Still think milk's a bit dramatic, though."
I didn't answer.
We passed the quiet barns, the resting fields, the flickering lamp near the pond. Just three men in the dark, one carrying the weight of two.
We finally reached Jeren's house. It stood just off the main path, a quiet wooden thing with a small porch and a crooked window frame. Slightly far away from Newham. The moonlight caught the roof tiles, some old, some new.
Elric shifted Jeren's weight on his shoulder, groaning as he reached for the door.
"You sure you've got him?" I asked, standing at the bottom of the steps, arms crossed.
"Yes," Elric replied, panting, "though he's heavier drunk than sober. It's like all the bad decisions turn into lead."
I watched as he nudged the door open with his foot, maneuvering both himself and Jeren through the narrow frame.
"You can head home now," Elric said, his voice coming faintly from inside. "We've still got work tomorrow morning, remember?"
I lingered. "What about you? How will you get home? You're still drunk, aren't you?"
There was a pause.
Then Elric's voice came again, muffled, but sure. "I'll get home fine. Don't worry. I've got a high tolerance when it comes to beer and bad ideas."
A moment passed. I stood there, staring at the door as it slowly creaked shut behind them.
Then I turned back toward the path.
He'll be fine, I told myself. He's done this before. He knows his way back. And besides he doesn't strike me as the type to fall twice in the same direction.
The wind was soft as I walked.
The houses were dark, the trees swayed quietly, and the stars above, faint and scattered, watched without saying a word.
I headed home, alone, carrying nothing this time.
Only the calm.
I walked home alone.
"Not unless you've placed your foot on the same ground. Same mud. Same ache, huh," I muttered to myself.
"I guess he's right, well, in some ways."
Then Berun came to mind.
Right, Berun. That old man could see through me just by looking into my eyes. Still don't know how he does it. Never did ask what he used to be before he grew white and tired.
I paused. Stared up at the moon.
"Eh, does that even matter?" I said aloud.
The wind blew faint and slow. I resumed walking.
Then, from the distance, a sudden rush of sound.
The wheat field far off to the left rustled unnaturally. Not like wind. Sharper. Sudden. Followed by a low, soft snap. A twig, maybe.
Quiet. So quiet, it would've been nothing on any other night. But here, where no chickens stirred, no dogs barked, no people snored, it stood out like a whisper in a chapel.
I stopped. Turned slightly.
My eyes scanned the dark outline of the fields.
Nothing moved.
But something had.
My hand, out of habit, rested on my belt. But there was no sword there.
I waited a few more seconds, squinting into the tall grass. The stalks swayed gently. As if mocking me for noticing. Or warning me not to.
"Who's there?" I asked myself.
Why am I even talking to myself at this time? It's night, for heaven's sake.
I gulped, not out of fear. Not really. Just a strange curiosity about what might happen if I wasn't cautious enough. If I let my guard drop.
If something was actually there.
"Who's there?" I asked again, this time with my voice.
It came out calm. Steady.
But the field gave nothing back.
Just the sound of wheat brushing against itself. As if the world had already moved on and left me behind.
Then suddenly, a loud thud.
I turned.
It was already too late.
A bald man stood in front of me, dressed in worn leather armor, patches of black ink crawling over his arms and neck like vines, tattoos. Old and sun-faded. His eyes held nothing. Just emptiness.
He was already mid-thrust.
The spearhead cut into my left shoulder.
Not deep.
Just shallow enough to wake the rest of me.
My body moved before my thoughts did. Another thrust, I stepped aside, caught it with the flat of my forearm, and backed off immediately, feet sliding over the dirt path.
Then, another thud. But from above.
I looked up.
They were already here. They had always been here. Watching. From the rooftops. From the fields. From the shadows.
One, two, five. . . No.
More than twenty of them.
Bandits.
And this? A raid.
Their eyes gleamed with familiarity. Not with me, but with the act itself. With violence.
And this village? They might've already measured it.
I tightened my jaw, left hand pressing against the shallow wound on my shoulder.
So this was the cost of silence. And now, it begins.
Then, they came at me.
All at once.
No questions.
No names.
No reason.
Just blades and boots and bad timing.
They ambushed me with everything they had, without even knowing who I was. Rude.
Spears came for my ribs, my back, my legs.
I moved.
Dodged, parried, side-stepped.
Steel glanced off my forearms, brushed past my waist. I let my body remember what it used to do. What it still could.
Keep distance.
Stay breathing.
"Who are you? And what's a man doing out here this night, huh? You got a death sentence?!"
Their voices were young. Wild. Not reckless, though. Trained. Not soldiers, but they've fought before.
I said nothing.
There was no need to speak when blood was already drawn. No cry for help. No warning.
Just a choice. Their choice. And now mine.
Another came lunging from the left, I twisted, caught the butt of his spear with my palm, and slammed it sideways into the dirt.
They kept circling.
A second voice barked. "No talking, huh?!"
Still nothing from me.
I closed my eyes for just a breath.
And I thought of them.
Not of comrades long buried, not of cities, kingdoms, and empires I once marched through, but of them.
The village.
Newham.
Jeren. Lenne. Mira. Old Harvin. Rena. Elric. Old Bram. Jaheim.
What would happen if I were to die right now? Would they know? Would they hear my body hit the ground? Would they think I'd left? Vanished? Would they search? Would they care?
Do I even question my morality at this point?
Why? Why do I feel like I'm holding back, even now, even if my instinct is screaming at me to survive? Why does it feel like I'm still weighing choices when there's nothing left to weigh?
What's happening to me?
That's odd. Never in my life has this happened, not like this. Not right before my very eyes.
Then something in me snapped.
Forgive me, whatever happens to these bandits. Eron, just know this. They had a choice. It was never fate. It was never mercy. It was only this. You. Them. And the village. If I die here, now, there would be no militia. No sword left in the wheat.
Militia.
Right. I remembered now. They probably thought Newham was just some dot on the map. An easy target. No walls. No guard. Just farmers, kids, and old men.
But to this day, no.
Because of me.
"How is he dodging us?" one of the bandits muttered.
"Just continue attacking. He'll die sooner or later!"
They kept swinging, stabbing, moving in packs. Sloppy. Predictable.
Then I crouched low.
Slid between one's stance, the mud brushing against my side. He turned, slow, too slow.
I was already behind him.
And then, a quick snap. His neck gave in like stale bread. A thud. Silence followed.
"What the—?!"
They all froze. Just me now, and these men, this night, this decision.
I stood there, not moving. Looking down. A dead man. Near my boots. Still warm.
It's been a while.
But this time, I have a will. A choice. A purpose. An objective. To use violence, only when it's needed. Only when I have no choice but to.
And right now, I have no choice.
They circled me now. Loose, confident. Spears twitching in their hands. One of them chuckled.
"Let's make this fast. I'm getting bored."
Another spat to the side. "Hah. Remember that village near the coast? What was it called again?"
"Trisden," one of them said, grinning.
"Right. Trisden. That woman screamed for an hour straight. Didn't think lungs could stretch like that."
My hands twitched. Not in fear, but in memory. I've heard screams like that. I've caused screams like that. But never once did I laugh afterward.
Laughter.
"I took their priest's rings after I slit his throat. Man was crying for his god."
"Pfft. I pissed on their church. Lit it up after. Whole thing burned like dry leaves."
They speak like animals. No, worse. Even wolves kill with reason. These men, they desecrate, because they enjoy it.
They spoke as if listing chores. As if none of it ever mattered.
"Oh, hey, what about that family in the woods, remember that one?"
"The old man? Yeah. Took his eyes. Just to see if he'd still walk straight."
I clenched my jaw. If I speak now, I'll scream. If I move now, I won't stop. So I listened. Every word they said carved itself into my mind like blade on bone.
Another sneered. "And the boy. He begged. Kept saying, 'Please, sir. Please.'" He mimicked the child's voice with mock sympathy.
They all laughed.
I didn't. My breath stayed quiet. My eyes steady. But something inside me was burning. A familiar kind of fire, the one I buried when I came to Newham. The one I hoped I'd never need again.
"We've taken from everyone," one said. "And no one's stopped us."
"Not a town, not a village. Nothing."
"And this one?" a bandit gestured toward me with his chin. "He's just a farmer."
Farmer, that word again. Like it means fragile. Like it means I can't fight. They have no idea. No idea what I was. What I could still become.
A chorus of low chuckles. Their grips loosened.
They've made a mistake.
That's when one of them lifted his spear and shouted.
A war cry. From them.
To scare me?
Me?
Of all people?
I don't know whether to laugh or pity them.
But I remembered, again, who I was. Not the man who cut wood. Not the one who drinks milk while others drown in ale. I remembered the sound of dying breath at my feet. The weight of steel in my palm. The silence after a storm of arrows.
I remembered Astralon and the years that carved me into what I am.
I am Eron Walden.
Former Commander of the Astralon Line.
Not just versed in strategy. But in war. In killing.
So I gave them a war cry of my own.
"AAAAAURGHHHHH!"
It wasn't to match them. It was to remind myself.
That I still could.
The trees shook. Birds burst from the branches. The bandits flinched.
But I didn't wait.
Twenty.
I lunged at the nearest man and grabbed the head of his spear mid-thrust. One twist. One pull. He stumbled forward. My knee met his chin. His jaw snapped. I grabbed the back of his collar and slammed his skull into the bark of a tree until it cracked like a dry log.
One down.
Nineteen.
Another raised his axe. "Bastard!" he yelled.
I stepped aside and let him overextend. Slipped in. My elbow found his temple. Then my palm crushed his nose. I caught his neck as he fell and wrenched it sideways with one jerk.
His scream died in his throat.
Eighteen.
Two came at once. Spears low. Smart enough to team up. I ducked and grabbed a rock from the dirt, hurled it into the face of the one on the left. He cried out, blinded.
I swept the other's legs, then stomped his throat when he hit the ground. Crunch.
The blind one tried to back away. I pounced, drove my fingers into his eyes, then slammed his head into the ground until he stopped moving.
Sixteen.
Another bandit shouted, "He's just one man! Surround him!"
They tried.
Three more charged in a V-formation. One jabbed, the others waited. I blocked with the dead man's spear. Kicked one in the knee, heard the snap. As he fell screaming, I grabbed his dagger, flung it at the next, hit him in the neck. Artery sliced. Blood sprayed.
Fourteen.
The last one hesitated. I moved first. Tackled him. Drove my fist into his chest over and over until ribs collapsed. Then silence.
Thirteen.
I stood and they finally backed away.
"This, this isn't normal," one of them said. "He's not normal—"
"Just kill him!" another barked.
Twelve.
One came with twin blades. Fancy footwork. Spinning flourishes. He stabbed fast.
I moved faster.
Caught his arm mid-strike, drove my head into his face, shattered his nose. As he reeled, I took one blade and cut his Achilles. He dropped, howling. I ended it with the other blade through his eye.
Eleven.
Someone tried to tackle me from behind.
I flipped him forward over my shoulder, grabbed his leg as he hit the dirt, twisted. It snapped sideways. Then I twisted again. His scream was short.
Ten.
They stopped.
Breathing heavy. Hands trembling.
One turned to run.
"Don't run!" their leader yelled. "He'll chase!"
I wouldn't have. But now I did.
I chased the runner. Caught up in five strides. Grabbed the back of his head. Slammed it into a tree trunk. Blood and bark exploded. He collapsed.
Nine.
I turned back.
"Stop it! Just stop! Please!" one begged.
I didn't.
A spear flew toward me. I side-stepped. It grazed my arm. Pain flared.
Now it was personal.
I found the thrower. Dashed toward him. Dodged a wild swing. Slammed my palm into his nose, shoved upward. Bone tore through his forehead.
Eight.
The rest clumped together.
"Together!" someone yelled.
Fine.
Seven.
I charged again. Elbowed one in the teeth, then turned and kicked another into the firepit. His screams lit the trees. He didn't come out.
Six.
A sword came from the left. I ducked, punched the wielder in the gut, then brought his own blade down across his chest.
Five.
A desperate bandit swung down hard. I let it fall into the dirt, sidestepped, and bit his ear off. While he screamed, I jabbed his throat with three fingers. He gurgled and dropped.
Four.
"Monster!" someone shrieked.
I didn't answer.
Another bandit dropped his weapon and ran.
I let him go.
Three.
One lunged with a dagger. I caught his wrist, twisted, and stabbed him in the gut. Then twisted again as he dropped. Two.
The last two didn't move. Just stared.
"I gave up everything to not fight again," I said, stepping forward. "But if peace means letting wolves walk free, then I'll be the last man standing with a blade."
They broke. Ran screaming into the trees.
I didn't chase. Not this time.
Let them carry the story. Let them tell the others. That Newham is not a place to bleed.
That a farmer once walked alone into the night, and came back covered in blood, but never his own.
Then I stood.
Surrounded by bodies. Twenty broken men. Two fled, but he would speak.
My own breath was calm. My pulse steady.
I looked down at my hands.
Blood-stained fists.
"I chose the axe. You asked for the blade. Eron Walden. That's the name you'll all remember in hell."
Then I looked behind me, searching for a place to bury the dead. The blood hadn't even dried yet.
And there he was. Jaheim. The village chief of Newham. Holding a lantern.
He stood at the edge of the road, eyes wide, frozen. His face flickered in the dim firelight. He looked at me, then at the twenty corpses sprawled around me.
"What have you done?" he said.
I blinked, confused. "They were bandits. Or at least, they were."
But he didn't look at them with fear. He looked at me.
"You shouldn't have done that," he said. Calm as ever. But shaken, clearly.
"Done what? Saved your village? Do you realize what they were planning?"
"No, no, no," he muttered, stepping closer, careful not to touch the blood or the corpses. "You don't understand. These men, they weren't ordinary."
He knelt beside one, pulled back the man's torn collar. A black tattoo.
"They're Grover's. The Black Dogs. You see that ink? That's his brand. His men."
"What are you talking about?"
"You doomed us all, Eron. Grover's not just some bandit. He's a warlord. A plague. You think these twenty men are the end? He'll send forty more. Then eighty. Then two hundred. Asking why some of his men never returned."
I paused. Trying to understand.
"But they were clearly bandits," I said. "They attacked me. I defended myself, this village. That's not wrong."
"You still don't get it. It's not about right or wrong. It's about consequence." He stepped closer. "We might have survived the night. But the village won't survive what comes after."
I clenched my jaw. "Then I'll slaughter them too. One by one. Hundreds of them. It doesn't matter."
"That's not the point!" he snapped. "You still think in blood and steel. But what about my people? The children? You've dragged them into your war and they didn't ask for it."
He looked back at the village.
"Then you should've told me. When I first arrived," I said.
"I didn't know I needed to."
He was right again, but i didn't admit it.
"So I should've just let them do whatever they want? Let them gouge out Jeren's tongue next?"
"No. But you should've let me handle it. Slowly. Carefully."
I shook my head. "And what if there wasn't time? What if tonight they decided to stop asking and just started taking? What if Rena didn't make it to tomorrow?"
My voice rose before I could stop it.
"You talk about careful plans and slow answers like that means anything to men like them. They weren't going to wait. They never do. You think grain and goats keep them quiet forever?"
Jaheim didn't flinch.
"No," he said. "But it keeps us breathing long enough to build something stronger. Long enough to prepare. Long enough to think."
He took a step forward, the lantern swinging gently in his hand.
"You think this is your war. That if you kill fast enough, hard enough, everything will go back to peace. But peace doesn't come from killing. It comes from outlasting the ones who want to take it from you, and keeping others from being dragged into the fight."
He paused. "You didn't even think about it deeply, did you?" Jaheim continued, now calmer, his voice low like the wind before a storm.
That stopped me. Just slightly, but he noticed.
He was right. I didn't think. Not because I refused. But because it never came to me. Not once. Not until now.
I looked down at the corpses. Twenty men. Dead.
I remembered what they said. The fire they threatened. The cities and villages they burned. The men they killed. The women they took. The cries they caused. The dreams they destroyed. The families they scattered. And still, here I stood. Not proud. Not regretful. But rather, confused.
What was I supposed to say?
That I fought for survival? That instinct took over? That I did what I always do when cornered by blades and killers?
But this time, the blood splashed not only on my arms, but on the peace of others.
My steps froze. The dirt beneath me felt heavier, but then I realized.
"Grover. His men. These bandits," I muttered. "You were going to talk with them, weren't you? Why are you up at this hour?"
"To protect my people, yes. Because we have no militia. No fighters. We only have old men and young boys. I give a few sacks of grain, some livestock, and in return, they leave us alone. No fires. No deaths."
"You negotiated with monsters."
Jaheim's eyes narrowed. He looked tired, not angry, just worn.
"They come once a month," he said quietly. "Always at night. Same path. Same terms. They meet me here, at the edge of the road, to talk about the supplies, grain, goats, livestock. I give what I can. In return, they leave us alone."
He glanced around the empty road, the silent trees.
"They only want to see me. That's why our village has a strict curfew, no one is allowed to roam around at midnight. Ever. Do you see anyone else out here right now?"
He let out a slow breath.
"No fires. No screams. Only silence. It was working."
Then he looked at the corpses again.
"I did what I had to do," Jaheim snapped. "Just as you did tonight. Only difference is, my hands stayed clean enough to keep the village breathing."
I clenched my fists.
"The village doesn't know about this, do they?" I asked, the thought sinking in.
He let out a short breath, almost a gasp. "No."
"Right," I said, more to myself. "I can tell."
"So what now?" I asked.
"That's the question I should be asking you, Eron Walden." He stepped closer again, the lantern trembling slightly in his hand. "What now?"
I couldn't answer him. Not yet.
But I know not everything can be resolved with peace. For twenty years I've been on the battlefield, and peace has never always been found by peace alone. Sometimes, violence is the only answer to people, no, wolves, like these.
Killing them isn't about feeding a hunger for blood.
It's about ending the conflict as soon as necessary.
Jaheim said, "As the village's chief, I'll have you bury Grover's men before the sun rises. We'll talk tomorrow. Meet me at my house in the morning. We don't want anyone to see this mess, right?"
"I have work."
He paused. "Oh."
A faint smirk. "You've got an occupation now, huh? Then we'll talk tomorrow evening. Show up."
Jaheim walked in the direction I was staring, toward his house.
I stayed where I was, the smell of blood still in the air. I couldn't help but wonder what would've happened if I hadn't chosen violence tonight. But Jaheim had said he'd been dealing with this problem for a long time. Maybe, this was the only way it could've ended.
"Now, how do I bury these wolves without tools?"
I stood there for a moment, scanning the bodies. My hands itched for a shovel that wasn't there.
Then a thought came.
I remembered something Jeren had said, half-joking as we walked through the village before the sun rises.
The smell. The slope.
I looked toward the west, where the faint outline of fences and sheds sat against the dark. A place already meant for waste. A place where no one would care to look too closely.
A place perfect for wolves.