The sound was faint, barely discernible in the symphony of the forest. A short, stifled female scream, instantly cut off by a brutal blow. An ordinary person, even fifty meters away, would have heard nothing over the wind and rustling leaves. But Izayoi was two kilometers away, and for him, that sound was like a starter pistol shot.
He froze, tilting his head to his shoulder.
"Twenty-three targets," flashed through his mind as he analyzed the acoustic picture. "Nineteen male heartbeats. Steady, excited, aggressive. Four female. Three of them huddled together, pulses racing with panic. The fourth... the fourth source is slightly further away, and it's fading. Loss of consciousness."
The picture was clear. He didn't need to be a detective to put two and two together. Wilderness, a group of armed men, captives. A classic, sickeningly banal scenario for a world where justice is determined by the length of a sword.
Izayoi moved toward the sound. He didn't run, didn't hide in the shadows. He walked straight, breaking through the brush, with the frightening confidence of a predator who knows: in this forest, and indeed in this world, he is not the one who should be afraid.
The landscape began to change. The ground became uneven, rocky outcrops covered in moss appeared. The cave entrance was chosen wisely—a natural rift in the rock, concealed by hanging roots of an ancient pine and dense thorny bushes. It was impossible to spot from the road. An ideal rat hole.
Two men were guarding the entrance. Burly guys in leather jerkins, they sat on boulders, lazily tossing dice, their spears leaning against the wall.
"Hey, hear that?" one of them tensed, looking into the bushes.
"Probably a boar," the second waved it off. "Who'd be walking here? Especially on this side."
At that moment, the bushes parted.
A man stepped into the clearing. Stripped to the waist, his torso was covered in a crust of drying black blood and shreds of flesh. On his shoulder, he casually held a dirty sack dripping something dark and viscous.
The bandits were taken aback. This sight was so wild, primal, and alien that their brains froze for a second. Who is this? A mad druid? Possessed?
"Halt!" the first one finally barked, grabbing his spear, but a tremor sounded in his voice. "Who the hell..."
He didn't finish.
Izayoi didn't waste time charging. He simply threw a stone he had picked up along the way. Not a boulder, but an ordinary pebble the size of a coin.
The whistle of sliced air.
The pebble hit the bandit in the forehead with the force of a cannonball. His head snapped back, feet lifted off the ground, and his body crashed into the bushes like a sack. The skull simply couldn't withstand the kinetic energy of the throw.
The second guard, mouth agape, tried to scream, to raise the alarm, but Izayoi was already there. His left hand, free from the sack, shot forward. Fingers closed on the brigand's throat, crushing the windpipe. The scream turned into a gurgling wheeze.
"Shh," Izayoi put a finger to his lips, looking into the bandit's terror-widened eyes with cold mockery. "Don't spoil the surprise."
The head bash against the rock was short and hollow. The body went limp.
Izayoi grabbed both by the scruff of the neck with his left hand, as if they were rag dolls. Their feet dragged on the ground, leaving trails, but to him, the weight was imperceptible. Adjusting the sack on his right shoulder, he stepped into the darkness of the passage.
Inside, it smelled of dampness, unwashed bodies, cheap tobacco, and the sickening metallic stench of blood and lust. The cave widened, opening into a spacious grotto lit by several fires and oil lamps.
An atmosphere of dirty revelry reigned here. The bandits—a motley rabble in stolen armor and rags—sat on crates, drinking, laughing loudly, discussing the "haul."
In the corner, tied to rings driven into the stone, sat three girls. Their clothes were torn, faces bruised. They huddled together, flinching at every burst of laughter, their eyes empty with terror.
Izayoi stepped into the firelight and tossed his burden—the two guards—right into the center, at the feet of the feasters.
The dull, wet thud of bodies hitting the stone floor caused the music and laughter to cut off instantly.
Twenty pairs of eyes stared at the newcomer. At his bloodied torso. At the calm, haughty face expressing the utmost degree of disgust.
"You dropped something," Izayoi's voice cut through the silence.
"What the hell..." one of the bandits began, grabbing the handle of an axe.
At that moment, a heavy curtain deep in the cave, separating the leader's "private quarters," was yanked open. A tall, wiry man with a scar across his cheek walked out. He was buckling his belt as he walked. Behind him, in the gloom of the niche, the motionless body of the fourth girl could be seen.
"What's the noise? I said not to disturb me while I..."
He cut himself off upon seeing Izayoi.
The leader was more experienced than his subordinates. He had been through war, deserted, formed a gang. His instincts, honed by years of survival, screamed. Before him stood not just a traveler.
The blood on the guy's body wasn't human. It was black, thick. Ogre blood or something worse. And it was fresh.
"Warrior?" a guess flashed in the leader's mind.
In this world, there was a clear hierarchy of power. Mages bent reality, priests healed, and Warriors... Warriors were living battering rams. The leader had heard of ones like Eisen. People whose skin was harder than steel, and whose muscles could crush stone. A mountain of physical might, devoid of magic, but capable of surviving a fall from a mountain.
The guy in front of him looked like a prime specimen of the "Warrior" class who had just crawled out of a meat grinder and hadn't even noticed.
"Who are you?" The leader put a hand on the hilt of his sword, trying to speak calmly, testing the waters. "Do you even understand where you've wandered, Warrior? We don't want trouble with the Guild or the Crown. We're just free men. But if you think you can barge in here and dictate terms..."
Izayoi slowly, demonstratively carefully lowered the sack of crystals to the ground so as not to damage the contents. Then he looked up. In his violet eyes, there was neither anger nor the rage of a hero. Only icy, annihilating boredom.
"You talk too much," he cut him off.
"We can make a deal," the leader tensed, his men beginning to slowly surround the guest. "A third of the loot is yours. Or do you want a girl? Take any, those three over there are still fresh..."
Izayoi looked at him like an insect crawling on an expensive carpet.
"Make a deal?" he repeated with genuine surprise. "You seem to be confused. Humans don't make deals with mold."
There was so much arrogance in his voice, so much disparaging superiority, that the leader's nerves snapped. His pride, inflated by impunity, couldn't take it.
"Get him!" he yelled, jumping back. "He's alone! Chop his legs! Bring him down!"
The mob roared. Fear was replaced by the rage of cornered rats. The bandits grabbed weapons—swords, axes, clubs—and rushed at Izayoi from all sides.
Izayoi didn't even take a stance. He stood relaxed, arms down.
The first bandit, a huge hulk with a two-handed axe, put all his weight into the blow. The blade whistled down onto the youth's unprotected shoulder.
CLANG.
The sound was as if the axe had struck granite rock. The blade chipped, and the recoil that went through the attacker's arms was so strong he dropped the weapon. Not even a white mark remained on Izayoi's skin.
"You tried..." Izayoi commented.
A lazy, almost casual movement of his hand. The back of his palm slammed into the hulk's face. The skull crunched, the neck bent unnaturally, and the bandit flew aside like a knocked-down bowling pin, taking out his comrades.
"Next."
Three piled on from the side, trying to stab him with swords. Blades bent, slid off skin, tore trouser fabric, but couldn't draw a single drop of blood.
Izayoi yawned. Literally yawned in the middle of the fight.
He grabbed two by the heads and smashed their foreheads together with a hollow thud. The bodies went limp. He kicked the third in the stomach. The blow was measured—not to kill, but to turn the insides into mush. The bandit flew deep into the cave, slamming into the wall and leaving a bloody smear.
It wasn't a battle. It was a giant beating babies.
Izayoi moved with the grace of a dancer, dodging blows with minimal amplitude. A step to the left—a sword passes a millimeter away. A tilt of the head—an arrow embeds itself in the wall behind his ear.
"You are pathetic," he threw out, breaking another attacker's arm. The crunch of bone sounded sickeningly loud. "Just cattle."
The leader, standing by the entrance to his quarters, turned blue-pale. His sword trembled in his hand. He had seen a lot. But he had never seen a human who was absolutely invulnerable to physical damage.
"Demon..." he whispered with dry lips. "Monster..."
Izayoi caught a knife thrown at him with two fingers right by his eye. Twirled it, assessing the balance, and sent it back with a flick of his wrist. The knife entered the thrower's thigh up to the hilt.
"Demon?" Izayoi stepped over a writhing body. "Don't flatter yourself. To meet a demon, you need to grow up. You're just dirt underfoot."
Seeing Izayoi break his best fighter's spine with a single kick, the leader realized: this was the end. Logic had left the chat. Before him was a creature beyond human understanding.
He dropped his sword, turned, and stumbling, rushed to run deeper into the cave, hoping for a secret exit in the old mine shaft. To hell with the loot. Life was more precious.
The hall went quiet.
The last bandit still standing looked at Izayoi, then at his trembling hands, squeaked, and fainted from fear.
Izayoi slowly turned his head to the corner where the girls sat.
They froze, stopped even breathing. In their eyes, this guy, covered in black and red blood, standing amidst a mountain of broken bodies, looked scarier than any bandit. He was the embodiment of violence.
Izayoi took a step toward them. The girls pressed into the wall, one closed her eyes, preparing for death.
And then something strange happened.
The aura of overwhelming arrogance and cold cruelty vanished as if switched off. Izayoi slouched slightly, removing the threatening posture. His face softened.
"Well, that's that," his voice became unexpectedly soft, almost mundane. No steel, no threat. "It's all over, the bad guys are defeated."
He crouched down at a respectful distance, not trying to get close.
"Breathe," he said calmly, looking not at them but slightly to the side so as not to pressure them with his gaze. "You are safe now. No one will touch you again."
Making sure they heard him and the hysteria receded slightly, he stood up. The cold glint returned to his eyes, but now it was directed into the darkness of the corridor.
"And now, excuse me, ladies. I have one unfinished rat running around."
He moved deeper into the cave, to where the leader had disappeared. His gait became lazy and dangerous again.
"Going far?" he shouted into the darkness, and the echo carried his voice, full of mockery.