When the plump wheat ears ripened, glowing golden and swaying gently in a balmy breeze, the Empire entered its most vibrant season. This was the time of year when the God of Fertility, visualized as a goddess with abundant golden hair, truly came to life—a time for reaping.
The manor’s peasants worked tirelessly, boasting of the year’s bounty, celebrating the calm departure of summer and the arrival of a storm-free autumn. The hard labor, for once, was sweetened by the great joy that awaited them, their sweat feeling as refreshing as heavenly nectar.
Carts laden with tribute grain traversed the roads as convoys of merchants bustled with seasonal wares. The streets, busier now than in spring, were also frequented by patrols of security guards from various regions, their spirited, lively hoofbeats ringing out constantly.
However, it was precisely during such seasons that those fools who’d dare push themselves despite the odds never ran out.
On a secondary road branching off the main route from the Imperial Capital—one that seemed to lead nowhere in particular—a group kept watch. Surrounded by gentle hillocks, this shallow valley, with its subtle flat stretches weaving through, was notorious for its many blind spots.
They, this watchful group, were mercenaries.
Now, in this era, a large number of people believed that as long as their misdeeds weren’t discovered, nearly anything was permissible. Therefore, mercenaries often doubled as bandits, as there were rarely survivors to spread the word once a “job” was finished. It was an all-too-common tragedy, year after year, for neglected manors, left destitute during winter and finally crying for help come spring, only to find their cries ignored, with the patrol guards arriving to find nothing but empty shells.
This particular group of over thirty light infantry mercenaries was no different.
Though small, this road led to several manors and towns, so tribute carts regularly passed through. They also believed that in areas suffering from depopulation, transport would be in higher demand, leading to an over-concentration of rare goods like other regions’ delicacies and alcohol—just in time for the Harvest Festival.
Moreover, the patrol teams, by necessity, focused on the main routes and important trade passages between major cities. Therefore, roads that fell in developmental limbo, forgotten or outright abandoned, like this one, rarely saw patrols. That’s why they had successfully pulled off three jobs this autumn alone.
The first had been a convoy of tribute carts. The second, a small trading convoy. Even with the excessive spoils to feed their fewer-than-forty bellies, they still desired more.
The tribute carts carried only rye and fodder oats, which didn’t sit well with their taste buds. The goods transported by the convoy of dried fish from the Inner Southern Sea didn’t much suit them either. The final convoy carried liquor, and while they were pleased with this, the majority of the ale had begun to sour, making it less than satisfactory.
And worse, the absence of women weighed on them. The few women available were magic users who resisted until their dying breath, leaving no “fun” opportunities—a grievous loss.
It was then that a pair of travelers passed along their path.
The small duo, clad simply for travel, rode magnificent steeds that seemed oddly mismatched for them, black warhorses that would make any warrior envious. Even on a gentle autumn breeze, their galloping sweat-drenched journey was impressive, more than what two youngsters—clearly children—should be commanding.
Though, had you asked if such a match was fit for them, the horses themselves might have loudly disagreed by blowing through their nostrils in protest.
Motivated by shallow desires, the mercenaries quickly assumed their practiced formation: some were to charge from the rear ranks to drive the targets into the valley, where the main force would wait in a semi-encirclement to ambush them. Simple and straightforward.
Simplicity, however, often equates to effectiveness. Humanity has always sought to encircle its enemies, developing this strategy continuously since time immemorial.
Eight men, crouched behind rocks, waited until the pair had passed before releasing arrows, careful to wound, not kill, while sparing the valuable horses nearby.
Surely, such a tactic would rattle any ordinary merchant caravan guarded by either adventurers or mercenaries, who’d usually retreat upon direct confrontation. Even if they recognized the trap, turning the carts was impractical due to the gentle yet hindering hills. And, once stopped, the group had ample time to set up makeshift barriers or light flares to recall back-up from the main force.
In the end, it was a slow retreat that provided the perfect opportunity to strike. It was almost too easy.
The mercenaries exulted as each arrow sailed towards its intended location, precisely calibrated to terrify but not harm, just as usual.
But this time, things didn’t go according to plan.
The arrows, for reasons unknown to the mercenaries, halted mid-air. Four of them appeared to have been caught by “something,” frozen in space, while the other four were deflected in wild arcs as if blocked by an invisible wall.
Cursing, the mercenaries remembered how sometimes a sharp-eyed merchant’s sorcerer might deploy these unseen barriers—not referred to formally as obstructions—to thwart initial attacks. It made sense; one of the children was likely a sorcerer who, despite the initial surprise, managed to detect the ambush. However, children were still children, and fear would surely drive them into the trap.
But the mercenaries’ optimism quickly turned to dismay as the pair, instead of falling into the trap, turned their horses and left the path.
What was more alarming was how one of the horses surged boldly up the hill in a mighty gallop, while the other awkwardly galloped backwards with the rider leaning in a peculiar stance. The mercenaries clearly realized they were being targeted.
Cursing again, the de facto deputy commanding the eight men spat in frustration but barked orders to his subordinates. They were in luck if the prey was coming to them. Besides, they only wanted the horses, so knocking off unnecessary burdens would do the job.
A single signal, and seven arrows rained down upon the rider’s reckless, impulsive charge. Cloaked in linen travel clothes and a hooded overcoat, stopping such arrows without any magical barrier seemed impossible. Even an ordinary barrier would be hard pressed to deflect so many arrows fired in a surrounding formation.
That would be the case for an average sorcerer.
A silver sheen emitted from the rider’s waist before deftly slicing through three arrows. The remaining ones hovered momentarily in the air before being sent hurling back. Using techniques beyond the comprehension of most, four men were struck, the arrows piercing their limbs, rendering them incapable of further combat.
In the briefest moment, how many could react?
Amidst the splashing blood, the rider dismounted in a fluid leap, seemingly defying gravity in mid-air before landing precisely before the nearest mercenary and delivering a swift strike. A single, incomprehensibly fast slash severed the man’s thumb along with the bow he had reflexively grasped.
This left two more mercenaries incapacitated, leaving just three standing.
The two remaining mercenaries, worthy of recognition until their descendants for drawing their swords in such bewildering circumstances, were indeed seasoned professionals skilled in battle, ready to slaughter even an unprepared mage.
But their prowess, too, fell short against the rider—now firmly grounded on two feet.
The trajectory of this fighter’s strikes was intricate yet organic, appearing chaotic but actually composed of sharp, direct lines that effortlessly knocked the remaining swords into the air. Screams followed as the swords, in tandem with the warriors’ “thumbs,” painted an unexpected yet elegant arc in the serene blue sky.
Now, only one leader-class mercenary remained. What filled his mind was not shock but pure terror.
What had I gotten myself into?
A hint of something faintly blue glimmered under the rider’s hoody, sending a chill down his spine. Instinctively, tracing the best response honed on the battlefield, he reached for his ever-ready crossbow.
Trustworthy in its weight and deadly in its force, this weapon, known as the “Knight Slayer,” could pierce even a sorcerer’s barrier with ease. Capable of puncturing armor like paper, it was the perfect counter against invisible shields.
Following practiced instincts, the man targeted and released. The bolt, unmatched in initial velocity compared to regular arrows, traveled a minuscule distance so quickly that human reflexes wouldn’t even register it, let alone have the time to escape.
Yet, inexplicably, instead of crumpling as usual, the rider simply swung the sword with grace, using the blade to strike the mercenary’s temple, delivering a strong blow.
As the man’s vision clouded with the shock and pain, he dismissed the bizarre image he was seeing as a hallucination.
The bolt was swallowed and vanished into a fleeting rift of black void…
Aggravated by the lack of warning flares or approaching reinforcements, the head of the mercenary band advanced with over twenty men, following the road, only to find no trace of his squad, save for a lingering scent of blood.
Were they killed? He wondered, but it was unlikely.
Though small in number, the eight-man rear guard were selected for their skills, and his trusted deputy was a ferocious warrior, known to pile up five helmeted opponents. How could such an apparently easy target, two children by all appearances, bring about such a catastrophe?
Despite the incredulity, the reality persisted: his men had not returned. Was something amiss?
Before his mind spiraled into darker thoughts, a flurry of arrows rained upon his group.
Following a mountainous trajectory, many bounced off the helmets’ curvature and armor’s thickness. Unlike depictions in heroic tales, practical combat gear was designed to deflect even gravity-assisted arrows. Otherwise, wearing cumbersome armor into battle would long have faded from practice in favor of greater agility, no matter how effective it may have been.
However, those poorly armored or caught by an arrow through an unarmored gap screamed in panic. Several casualties ensued.
The head acted promptly, ordering defensive positions. Calculating the shooter’s position, he commanded his men to shield and cluster in formation, minimizing damage from the arrows. Time to speculate would come, but preserving life was critical. One cannot solve mysteries if not alive to ask questions.
The leader, calm and collected, assessed the situation. An experienced mercenary, accustomed to battlefield fluidity where expected traps might turn into ambushes, he suspected foul play immediately.
Perhaps the prey was bait. He’d heard of such a trap before. Large patrol squadrons often deployed deceptive baits, appearing weak to lure bandits into an ambush.
Though cynical and cunning, patrol guards often excelled in such tactics. Focused solely on bandit hunting year-round, their skills in search and reveal surpassed even regular soldiers. This made the pursuit increasingly hazardous.
Therefore, a flanking defense order was issued. Anticipating possible ambushes, the leader re-arranged the remaining group into a tight defensive formation. When they cornered the prey, what followed was inevitable battle.
The formation would be disrupted, gaps exploited, escape considered.
At least, those were his plans.
But, once again, reality dashed his expectations. For what rushed towards them was none other than the “prize.”
Yet, the sight before him was utterly bizarre, almost unreal, as though his eyes deceived him.
For circling the galloping warrior with drawn swords were six other swords, floating mid-air, unattended.
The lone figure approached like a shadow, every step radiating menace. The sight of swords with invisible wielders evoked an ominous aura of suppressed power—clearly capable of slaying them.
The seasoned mercenaries, despite being initially stunned, prepared their shields and spears, ready to counter with an age-old strategy designed to stop precisely such threats.
A mere six swords—impossible to match the might of seven determined warriors, seasoned in the art of speartide defense. The strategy, unchanged for millennia, seemed unshakable.
Until the moment came when the lone warrior thrust a bare left hand forward, seemingly a desperate and foolish maneuver to evade spearpoints.
And in the next instant, the world erupted into an overwhelming light, akin to a flash of lightning, splitting the sky with thunderous roar.
The world as they knew it shattered.
【Note】 According to the Laws of the Threefold Realm, if tributes collected under the supervision of the Nobility get “plundered” due to the nobles’ neglect, it’s deemed “properly paid,” and additional taxation is strictly forbidden.
Thus, highwaymen active during harvest seasons often enjoy unforeseen bonuses.
With no flares lit nor any reinforcements in sight, the mercenary leader personally led his more than twenty men along the roadway. Upon arrival at their ambush point, no one remained except an odor of blood in the air.
Had they been eliminated? Concern crossed his mind but seemed implausible.
After all, the rear guard consisted of eight expert bowmen who supplemented their shortcomings with skill. His trusted deputy was a renowned warrior with a proven track record, capable and cunning. Surely such apparent easy prey, especially child-like targets, should not defeat them.
Yet, despite the odds, his men had disappeared. Was this a sign that something had indeed transpired?
Lost in thought, the leader was abruptly startled when arrows rained down upon his company.
The arrows, following a natural curve, mostly bounced off the curved surfaces of helmets and sturdy armor. Unlike fanciful tales, battle-ready gear was deliberately designed to deflect projectiles efficiently. If such equipment could not resist even a basic attack, such gear would’ve been rejected long ago in favor of something lighter.
The cries of the injured, however, soon broke the silence—victims were those unlucky ones whose armor was pierced, whether through weak points or the lack thereof.
The leader, without hesitation and with practiced expertise, issued a command to take defensive formations, analyzing the attack points while deploying shields to protect against further arrows. Though puzzled by the situation, survival tactics embedded deep within took precedence. The dead cannot solve mysteries, after all.
The leader’s calm demeanor was the hallmark of an experienced battlefield survivor. In war, unexpected traps could turn into ambushes—something he had faced before.
He first questioned if the target had been bait intended to lure them into a trap. The old tactic was familiar; larger patrol groups often employed false victims to entice bandits and ambush them when they least expected it.
Such patrol guards, though seemingly straightforward, were cunning in their deception. In matters of search and ambush operations, their skills rivaled that of any regular soldier due to year-round focus on bandit hunting—a skill that left their prey uneasy.
Realizing the possibility, he promptly ordered his remaining men to prepare for possible cross attacks. If their prey had been immobilized by the ambushers, the next move was obvious: a direct assault.
With that in mind, his group prepared for disruption, planning to exploit any gaps and escape encirclement if necessary.
But yet again, the reality contradicted his expectations, for the attacking force was still the “bait” they had initially targeted.
However, what unfolded before his eyes was too surreal to be believed, challenging his perception to the brink.
There, galloping aggressively with a sword drawn, the lone figure was surrounded by six more swords, floating unaided in the air, creating an unsettling aura as if each blade had an invisible wielder, radiating lethal intent.
To the seasoned mercenaries seasoned with blood-soaked experience, these weren’t for show. They recognized the floating swords as lethal threats capable of delivering fatal blows.
Despite initial confusion, having already fortified their defenses against impending attacks, they prepared their shields in tight formation, aligning their spearheads to counter the threat.
Surely, such ominous but ultimately “mere swords” could not overcome the millennia-old, tried-and-tested strategy of a spearphalanx. How could any individual, no matter how skilled, breach such a robust defense?
But then, just as the spearheads were moments away from striking, the lone warrior thrust an open left hand forward—a gesture misinterpreted by the mercenaries as futile and vulnerable, an attempt to evade the pointed spears.
In the next instant, the world transformed into a blinding radiance, resembling a thunderous flash of lightning, splitting apart with an all-encompassing roar.
The world shattered into chaos.
【Note】Magic operates both within and against the laws of physics, capable of imposing “absolute direction” onto phenomena whether it be heat, vibration, or even light.
