Chapter 58: Megmura - 2
They were definitely bandits. I should have expected it — I was in a generic fantasy novel, after all. Of course the hero’s master would be attacked by a group of low-life thugs, only for them to be utterly defeated by his hands.
The bandit behind Herald didn’t even get the chance to breathe. Before the dagger could press in, Herald slammed his elbow backward with precision, catching the man square in the ribs. There was a wet crack, something sharp and final, and the man folded over like his spine had snapped. The blade fell from his hand, clattering harmlessly to the floor as he dropped to his knees, gasping like a dying fish out of water.
Herald turned, grabbed him by the face with one hand, and drove his skull to the ground with a force that sent a spray of dust and loose rock into the air. The man crumpled and lay still. No final groan, no twitch. Just silence. He died.
Leaves rustled as three more figures stepped out from beneath the trees.
"We don’t want to hurt anyone," one of them said.
"Give us everything you have, and we’ll let you go unharmed," another added.
It was your typical fantasy NovelFire robbery. Some sketchy-looking bandits spot a guy who clearly looks like a warrior, walking alongside a teenage boy, and somehow decide we’re an easy target. Like we’re just strolling around with gold bars in our bags. Seriously, just look at us.
Herald didn’t say a word. He simply gave them a stiff smile.
He was ready for a massacre.
And a massacre it was.
They moved with motive, not panic—like men who had killed before. One held a rusting woodsman’s axe, its edge notched and dark with old stains. Another carried a short spear, its tip wrapped in tattered cloth, likely to disguise the gleam of steel. The last had a pair of iron daggers, each one different, as if stolen from two separate victims. They fanned out, forming a rough half-circle around us, boots crunching softly over twigs. I was behind Herald and my hand was on the dagger at my belt.
The spearman moved first, lunging with a sharp yell. He led with the spearpoint, aiming for Herald’s chest with a long thrust meant to end the fight in one stroke. Herald turned, sidestepped, and caught the shaft mid-thrust, fingers clamping down like a vice. With a yank, he pulled the man off balance, dragging him forward. The bandit stumbled, foot catching on a root, and that was all the opening Herald needed. His sword swung sideways, not with the edge, but the flat of the blade like a steel bat. The impact rang out with a hollow crack, and the spearman flew sideways into a tree trunk. His back hit first. His head followed. He slumped to the ground, unmoving.
Before the body had even settled, the axe-wielder let out a grunt and charged. His swing was wild but powerful, a heavy overhead arc that would’ve cleaved a man from collarbone to navel. But Herald stepped forward into the danger, not away from it. His foot stomped down between the man’s legs, cutting off momentum, and then his knee came up hard into the man’s gut. There was a sickening whoomp as the air was driven out of him. The axe slipped from his hands, useless now. Herald didn’t give him a second to recover. He surged upward, driving his elbow beneath the man’s chin, then flipped the sword and brought the pommel down squarely onto the top of the man’s skull. The bandit dropped like dead weight.