The Sunken Village was aptly named, nestled in a deep, wooded valley. As Arden crested the ridge overlooking it, he saw the situation was worse than feared. The Bone Crows weren't just raiding; they were besieging. They had the villagers—men, women, and children—corralled in the central square, surrounded by a ring of torches and leering bandits. Their leader, a hulking brute with a crow's skull mounted on his shoulder, was demanding their winter food stores and any young women "for the march south."
Arden didn't charge. He became a predator assessing his terrain. He left his horse and moved through the treeline with the silence of the void itself, his violet-streaked aura completely suppressed. He counted. Forty-seven. Not fifty, but near enough.
He didn't have the power to unleash a wave of annihilation without killing the villagers. This required precision. This required the sword.
He started at the perimeter. Two bandits stood guard at the treeline, joking about their spoils. They died without a sound, Arden's plain longsword finding the gaps in their leather armor with clinical efficiency. He dragged their bodies into the brush.
He moved like a ghost through their camp, a scythe through ripe wheat. A sentry on a rock, a man relieving himself against a tree, two more guarding the looted supply carts. One by one, they fell. He was a craftsman of death, and the night was his workshop. The bandits' numbers dwindled, their confidence turning to confusion, then to fear as they realized their comrades were vanishing.
"Wraith!" one finally screamed, pointing a shaking finger at Arden's form as he emerged from the shadows, his sword dripping black in the torchlight. "There's a wraith in the woods!"
The hulking leader turned, his face a mask of fury. "It's one man! Kill him!"
The remaining thirty bandits surged towards him, a disorganized but deadly mob. This was no duel. This was a melee. Arden planted his feet at the village entrance, the narrow path funneling them towards him. He became a whirlwind of steel. He parried a cleaver, reversed his grip, and buried his sword in the wielder's neck. He ducked under a wild axe swing and hamstrung the attacker. He used their numbers against them, shoving one into the path of another's strike.
But they were many, and he was one. A spear tore through his side. A club smashed into his shoulder. He fought on, a machine of pain and purpose, his golden and violet aura flickering with each impact. For every wound he took, he dealt five deaths. The cobblestones grew slick with blood.
The bandit leader saw his men falling and roared, charging forward with a massive two-handed maul. Arden, wounded and bleeding, met the charge. As the maul descended, he didn't try to block it. He sidestepped, his movements fueled by void-given speed, and his left hand shot out, palm striking the maul's head.
A small, focused pulse of violet energy shot through the weapon. The solid iron head didn't dissolve; it shattered into a thousand rusted fragments, as if it had aged a thousand years in an instant. The leader stared in dumb shock at the useless haft in his hands. Arden's sword ended his confusion, and his life.
The remaining dozen bandits broke. They fled into the dark woods, their courage shattered. Silence returned to the Sunken Village, broken only by the moans of the wounded and the crackle of torches.
The villagers stared at the blood-drenched, wounded stranger who had saved them. His aura was now visible, a flickering, wounded light of gold and violet. They didn't see a saint or a monster. They saw their savior.
As the village elder thanked him with tears in his eyes, he pressed a small, ancient-looking stone token into Arden's hand. "We have no gold to reward you, stranger. But the old stories say a hero who defends the helpless without seeking reward is worthy of the Sentinel's Trial. This token is the key. The temple lies in the high valley to the east. Perhaps you will find a weapon there worthy of your strength."
Arden looked at the token. It was cool to the touch, etched with a symbol of a balanced scale. He had come for information, but fate had offered him something else. A chance to be whole again. He nodded his thanks, and as the villagers tended to their wounded, he turned his horse towards the mountains.