The first strike came without warning.
Cael barely twisted aside as a blade whistled past where his neck had been a heartbeat earlier. Steel scraped against the shaft of his spear as he brought it up defensively, the impact numbing his fingers.
Too fast.
The bandits weren't amateurs.
"Alive's preferable," the leader said calmly from behind his men, "but don't break your arms trying."
Two of them pressed in immediately, blades low and coordinated. Cael retreated, steps measured, spear held crosswise as he deflected rather than countered.
Don't escalate.
That was his first instinct.
He redirected strikes, kicked at knees, used the spear's length to keep distance without committing to lethal thrusts. One bandit stumbled after a sharp jab to the ribs, air forced from his lungs.
Another yelped as Cael cracked the shaft against his wrist, sending his knife skidding across the dirt.
"Careful," one of them snarled. "He's trained."
Cael didn't respond.
His heart hammered, but his breathing stayed even. This wasn't like fighting beasts. There was hesitation in their movements—fear, calculation, greed.
Human.
That made it harder.
The third bandit moved in from Cael's blind side.
Cael sensed the shift a fraction too late. A blow slammed into his shoulder, pain blooming as he was driven backward and nearly lost his footing. He rolled, barely avoiding a downward stab that bit deep into the ground where his head had been.
"Enough," the leader said quietly.
He stepped forward.
And everything changed.
Cael felt it immediately—the pressure, subtle but unmistakable. Mana, not wild like a beast's, but focused. Condensed. Controlled.
The man was a conjurer.
Not powerful.
But practiced.
"You're not just some traveler," the leader said, drawing a short blade that shimmered faintly with reinforcement. "You should've run."
Cael rose slowly, spear angled low.
I misjudged this.
The leader closed the distance in a blur, blade flashing. Cael parried—but the impact jolted his arms painfully, the reinforced strike biting deeper than he expected.
The leader smiled.
"Oh," he said. "That reaction tells me everything."
Cael retreated again, boots sliding against dirt and stone. His shoulder throbbed. Blood trickled warm down his arm from a shallow cut he hadn't felt at first.
His body was slowing.
Not enough to be fatal.
Enough to be dangerous.
I can't knock him out.
The realization settled cold in his chest.
The leader pressed, attacks efficient and relentless. Cael deflected one strike only to be forced to twist awkwardly to avoid the next. A kick caught him in the ribs, driving the air from his lungs as he staggered back.
The world narrowed.
And then—
Pain flared behind his eyes.
Sharp. Sudden.
Cael gasped, vision blurring as pressure built in his skull like something trying to force its way out. For an instant, he thought he'd lost focus—that exhaustion had finally caught up to him.
But the sensation didn't fade.
It expanded.
The world sharpened.
The leader's movements slowed—not truly, but in perception. Cael saw the tension in the man's shoulders before each strike, the subtle shift of mana reinforcing muscle and tendon a split second before impact.
Lines formed where none had existed before.
Paths.
Openings.
Cael's breath hitched.
So this is…
The headache intensified, a dull roar that threatened to drown his thoughts. Information flooded in—too much, too fast. He forced himself to narrow it, focus only on what mattered.
The leader lunged again.
This time, Cael didn't retreat.
He stepped inside the strike.
The spear moved as though guided, deflecting the blade just enough while the shaft slammed into the man's throat. Not hard enough to kill—but hard enough to stagger him violently.
The leader stumbled back, coughing, eyes wide.
"What—?"
Cael didn't let him recover.
He struck again, precise and relentless, targeting joints, disrupting mana flow where it condensed too slowly. The leader blocked—but each defense came a fraction too late.
Still—
He didn't fall.
A blade slipped past Cael's guard, slicing into his side. Pain flared hot and immediate, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips as blood soaked into his clothes.
The world wavered.
The pressure behind his eyes spiked.
Too much.
Cael disengaged, breathing hard, forcing himself to blink repeatedly as the sharp clarity threatened to fracture into chaos.
The leader steadied himself, eyes narrowing with grim understanding.
"You're dangerous," he said hoarsely. "More than I thought."
He raised his blade again.
"So am I."
The other bandits hesitated.
Fear had crept into their expressions now.
Cael saw it clearly.
He also saw what would happen if he fell.
There would be no mercy.
No second chance.
Something inside him settled.
Not rage.
Resolve.
The leader charged.
Cael met him head-on.
The clash was brutal—steel ringing, mana flaring in brief, violent bursts. Cael's injuries screamed with every movement, his body protesting the strain.
But his perception held.
Barely.
He saw the opening an instant before it formed.
The leader overextended.
Just slightly.
Cael drove the spear forward.
Not to disable.
To end it.
The tip pierced through reinforced flesh, sliding between ribs with horrifying ease. The leader froze, eyes wide, breath catching in a wet gasp.
Cael felt it.
The resistance.
Then the release.
He pulled the spear free instinctively as the man collapsed, blood darkening the ground beneath him.
Silence followed.
Thick. Absolute.
The remaining bandits stared—then ran.
Cael didn't pursue.
He stood there, trembling, staring at the body at his feet.
His first kill.
In either life.
The pressure behind his eyes faded slowly, leaving behind a dull ache and exhaustion that seeped into his bones. His vision returned to normal, the world losing that terrifying clarity.
He sank to one knee, breathing hard.
"I tried," he whispered—to Orien, to himself, to something long gone.
The road offered no answer.
Only the quiet certainty that something had changed.
And that there would be no going back.