The older woman and the teenager, who looked like her child, rushed at him, daggers flashing in the dim afternoon light. The ringing of metal smashing metal stabbed Snakard’s ears. His claymore dwarfed the size of their daggers, but their footwork was light and their bodies blurred as they hopped and dashed and shot their daggers at him. Each block was close enough to rattle his heart.

As they crouched to dodge a slash, he saw the letter ‘N’ branded on their napes. His assumption was correct; they were prisoners of war who somehow escaped enslavement.

The teenager’s skills surprised him; she barely looked thirteen, but he remembered norians trained their soldiers from a much earlier age than was usual in Galladria. Snakard fought at sixteen because he needed the money, but her mother or her culture probably forced this norian girl to fight in the Holy Wars a few years ago, and was imprisoned because of it. He felt sorry for-

Blood burst from his cheek as the girl flicked her dagger at his face, and dashed past him, sliding across the dirt to spin and plunge at his back. The seven bandits loomed over him, running at him. A bandit leapt at him, devouring Snakard's figure with his shadow, swinging a hammer down at hi-

Chips of wood sprinkled on Snakard’s head as he sliced the war hammer’s shaft in half and sliced the tip of his claymore across the bandit’s neck. Blood burst from his throat and dribbled across his leather cuirass. He stumbled and toppled to the grass, pooling blood onto the dirt.

The young girl leapt over his corpse and zoomed towards Snakard. Her hands and daggers blurred as she pounced on-

Snakard’s sword twirled, slamming away the daggers, and splashing sparks throughout the air. He spun and flung his boot at her hand. She winced, yelled, and her dagger fell to the grass. Snakard swung his blade at her neck whilst she grimaced and groaned in agony. He could already see her head roll in the air, a spiral of blood spinning from her severed thro-

The blade edge froze against her neck. Only wisps of her short, black bangs fluttered to the ground. He couldn’t kill a child. She didn’t deserve to die. All the surrounding bandits were adults; they had the freedom to choose to fight or not. They forced the young girl to fight in a war that she had nothing to do with-

Footsteps boomed behind him. He spun and blocked the slashing of a poleaxe that wobbled his blade, shook his arms, and rattled his body. As he recoiled from the impact, the girl he refused to kill blurred and rushed at him. She was too fast to dodge, and the axe rattled him too much to parry, so the dagger point zoomed at his ne-

A dagger hurtled at hers and bounced off it to spin to the grass and sink in the dirt, swerving her dagger to the side of his neck.

Snakard pivoted, dashed away, and let her stumble past him. Wincing, he noticed a wound spread across his shoulder, and blood dripped down his arm. Even after a dagger hitting hers, she still managed to cut him. Snakard snorted; she impressed him. He glanced up to where the dagger that saved him came from. Obichard sprinted and plunged past the bandits that surrounded Snakard, pressed his back to him, and wagged his claymore at their enemies.

“Bro, what’s wrong with you!?” Obichard shouted, jabbing Snakard’s back with his elbow. “You need to focus! She’s trying to kill you and your blade freezes in front of her neck!? Never hesitate. They trained and brought a child here for a reason; to prey on naïve idiots. We’re not prey, right? We’re predators.”

Why did Snakard nod? He didn’t entirely agree with Obichard. The girl probably didn’t deserve to die. However, those thoughts weakly emerged in his mind. There was hesitation there. Especially when he felt the sharp pain that spread across his shoulder and the blood that stampeded down his arm. Maybe he should’ve ki-

No, he refused to kill her.

Dragging him out of his rumination, four bandits ran at Obichard and four rushed at Snakard, two of them being the young girl and her mother.

A middle-aged bandit with a scraggly brown beard battered Snakard’s blade with a war hammer, wobbling it. Chips of metal spat in the air.

A female bandit with long blonde hair and piercing amethyst eyes lunged at him. Snakard swung his sword at her neck, but his blade only billowed her blonde hair as it flew over her head, because she crouched, dashed, slid across the dirt, and swung her claymore at hi-

He slammed her face with the sole of his boot, sending a shudder down her spine, throughout her body, and splattering blood and teeth out of her mouth. Her blade slowed and his blade blurred to block her swing. His claymore’s crossguard pressed against her neck as he rammed the blade through her throat. The sword peeked out from her nape, dripping blood and pink flesh onto the dirt road.

Three left.

Raising his blade out of her neck, Snakard swung his claymore at the air in front of the bandits. His sword hit nothing, but the blood and flesh that previously clung to the blade splattered onto their faces. They cringed, spat, and recoiled as blood, ripped skin, and torn muscle dappled their faces. Rushing at the bearded bandit, Snakard’s blade blurred and splashed dirt as it scraped across the grass to then rise and fling at his enemy’s fa-

The bandit blindly flailed his war hammer at Snakard and managed to slam his claymore, shattering it. Steel shards exploded from the broken blade and showered the dirt road. Snakard groaned, thinking about how much it costed, and threw it at the bearded bandit’s face.

Swerving his head to the side, blood splattered the bandit’s cheek as the broken blade hurtled past him and stabbed into the dirt. He winced and dashed at Snakard.

The young girl and her mother wiped their faces and dashed along with him. A whirlpool of slashes, thrusts, and slices rushed around Snakard, sparks flashing all around him.

Shovelling up dirt with his war hammer, the bearded bandit stuck it in the dirt and flicked it up at Snakard, showering his face with soil and grass. Fluttering his lashes, he ripped two short swords out of their scabbards and flailed his blades in front of him as he tried to get his vision back.

The dirt and grass left his eyes to tumble across his cheeks. When they finally fled his vision, the bearded bandit was upon him. Snakard blinked and the norian bandit’s war hammer blurred and shot at his hea-

Snakard crouched, let the hammer zoom over and rustle his short black hair, scissored the war hammer’s shaft, and sliced it in half. Wood rained on his face and afterwards blood when his two short swords spread apart and then slammed together in the middle of the man’s spine. Yanking the blades out of his torso, intestines wriggled, flesh oozed, and blood gushed onto the grass.

Two left.

Slapping away their daggers with his two swords, he pressured them backwards. The older woman pivoted past a vertical slice, spun, rushed at Snakard, and shoved her daggers at his tors-

Snakard slammed both daggers to the side with one sword. Slicing at her with the other, she crouch-

He whacked her in the face with a boot. She spun in a pirouette and crashed on the grass in a puff of dirt.

The young girl scowled, yelled, and dashed at him. Consumed with rage, she leapt and flailed her daggers at him. It wasn’t hard to step to the side of her petulant flurry of slashes, watch her slide and stumble across the dirt, and swing his blades at her nap-

He froze.

His blade hovered next to her neck. Why couldn’t he kill someone who wanted to kill him? Her knees trembled; he scared her. He hit her mother in the face and was about to kill her; she was angry. She probably saw hundreds of Galladrians like him take pleasure in slaughtering norian child soldiers who could've been friends. Of course, she wanted to kill him. She had a good reason. He didn’t, so he couldn’t kill her. Pulling his swords away from her nape, he rammed the pommels at the back of her he-

She ducked, spun, and plunged towards him. He parried her daggers whilst her mother rose. The girl’s mother flung her daggers to the dirt, grabbed the bearded bandit’s war hammer, and ran at Snakard. He spun to parry her slams, but they hit harder and flung faster than the bandit who held it before. Chips of steel fluttered in the air, flickered in the sunlight, and showered their heads. He had to end the fight fast.

So Snakard slammed the hammer to the side, spun, and surged the momentum of his spin into the swinging of both of his swords, blurring towards the mother’s-

The blades froze as they scraped against her messy black bun. Glancing at the young girl’s skin-wrinkling scowl and glistening eyes, images of her crying over her mother’s corpse burst through his mind.

Snakard grimaced; he couldn’t kill her.

So he twirled his swords and thrust the pommels at her head. Ripping the bobble off her bun, the pommels spun her head and battered her into a stumble. However, she spat blood, shook her head, and scowled up at Snakard, war hammer twirling in her hands. That’s what the fruits of kindness looked like.

So Snakard ran at her, tapping aside the swinging of a war hammer and thrust his blades at her to-

She pivoted and glanced at the blades plunging past her abdomen. Strangling the shaft of her war hammer, she swung it at his face. He parri-

Shards of steel cut across his cheeks and forehead; one of his swords shattered.

Only the other managed to slam the hammer to the side. He dashed backwards, throwing the ruined sword at her. She twirled her war hammer, swiping it aside. It sunk in dirt.

Strangling the hilt of his last remaining sword with both hands, he ran and leapt at the mother. She vertically swung the hammer down at his head, but he scissored the shaft and squeezed the two blades together, hissing across it.

Wood showered his face, but the shaft didn’t snap, just slid across the edges of his sword, pushing it away. She swung the hammer down at him again and before she did; he spun and didn’t hesitate; he thrust the pommels at her temple. He knew he wouldn’t kill her, so why even bother trying?

She shook, stumbled and tumbled to the dirt, blood splattering the road.

He spun and swung the pommels at his back; he knew the girl’s daggers would be plunging at his nape. So he whacked her in the face as she leapt mid-air, and spun her to the grass where she crashed, tumbled, and rolled across it.

Bouncing across the ground, she somehow hit her palms on the dirt and pushed herself to her feet. She shook her head, presumably shaking off the daze, and ran at him again. How did such a young girl recover from such a strike so easily? What did the norians do to train their children?

Ignoring those thoughts, he struggled to parry her daggers. Footsteps pounded behind him and Snakard clicked his tongue. He hoped his attack knocked the mother out unconscious. That’s why warriors used swords and not staffs; only murder put away enemies. But would the girl always be an enemy? She wasn’t even culpab-

Parrying the mother’s war hammer, shards of steel splashed in the air. She damaged his sword, but it didn’t break. But a few fingers did after she flung her boot at his hands, kicked his sword out of his grasp, and up in the air where it spun and stabbed into a canopy, disturbing crows till they flapped away along with the fluttering sliced leaves.

The hammer didn’t stop; she whipped it back at him just at the same time as the girl’s dagger plunged towards him. His hands zoomed to his belt, and yanked daggers out of them. He parried the girl’s daggers and slammed away the hammer at the shaft. Sweat stampeded across his skin as he def-

The mother whacked him in the face with the pommel of her hammer. Stumbling backwards, blood splashed into the air and onto his face. Ducking to dodge the thrust of a dagger, the girl whipped her foot at his temple. He spun to the floor and scraped across the dirt, smearing across his face and mixing with the blood.

The two bandit women rushed at him, weapons blurring. Snakard dragged himself to his feet. The mother’s hammer vertically plunged down at his hea-

He dashed to the side and slid across the dirt. The hammer smashed into the ground and splashed soil. Snakard lunged at her and thrust the pommels of his daggers at her head.

She pivoted, but his hands followed and his pommels rammed into her temple, anyway. Wounds spread across her head and more blood dribbled out of her mouth to drip across her chin. She stumbled, but she slammed her foot on the ground; she kept standing.

Snakard had enough.

So he leapt at her, rammed his shoulder into her torso, and tackled her to the ground. She swung her hammer, but it was too long to hit his body. All he had to do was shift his leg to the side to dodge the hammer. Whilst she slid her hands further up the hammer’s shaft, Snakard battered her face repeatedly with the pommel of his daggers. Blood splashed across Snakard’s face and clothes.

Her daughter yelled behind him, pounding the dirt as she ran at his back. Snakard pressed his fingers against the mother’s eyes and pried them open; she was unconscious.

One left.

He spun. The girl pounced on him, crouched over him, strangled her daggers and shot them at h-

Snakard bashed his head against hers. She recoiled and stumbled around like a drunkard. His own head felt hazy as he staggered to his feet, but he was older, and his brother always used to say he was hard-headed.

So he dropped his daggers, snatched the war hammer from the woman’s unconscious grasp, and rushed at the girl, thrusting the pommel at her torso.

The girl screeched as he smashed the pommel against her ribs. She clenched the tunic against her chest. Tears dripped down her cheeks. Snakard shook his head. All he had to do was get her unconscious.

Snakard glanced behind him, hoping Obichard could help him incapacitate this girl. He dealt with the mother, but he panted, sweat and his knees trembled, and despite her wincing, the girl seemed anxious and energized, but she mostly scowled and clenched her daggers, desperate to see him writhing on the floor in a pool of blood, desiring vengeance for him hurting her mother. He needed help.

All the bandits Obichard fought laid on the dirt road; headless. Only one bandit remained standing and he plunged his battleaxe past Obichard’s blade and hooked the crossguard. He yanked the sword out of his grasp, and stared into Obichard’s eyes to see a bloodthirsty scowl. His eyes were widened and wild like those of a starving bear. The bandit gaped at the dead bandits on the ground, spun, and ran away into the thickets of the forest.

Snakard turned back to the girl and smiled when he saw her drop her daggers to the ground. She was about to run away. It seemed like she had some sense, after all.

His hopes, however, shattered when she reached into her pocket and pulled out a bundle of damp cloth. Something sharp poked through it. She ripped the cloth away to reveal a dagger. Some kind of clear liquid oozed across it and dripped off it.

Was it poison?

Her body blurred as she rushed at him. Dirt splashed away from her footsteps. She leapt at him and thrust the da-

Pivoting, he spun and whacked her in the face with the pommel of the war hammer. She stumbled and tripped, but her foot slammed on and slid across the dirt. She stood. Plunging at him, she dodged under a second swing of the hammer’s pommel and thrust the dagger at his ne-

He swerved his head to the si-

She whacked him in the face with her spare hand. Pain surged across cheek and temple. His vision blurred. Spinning, her blurred form whipped a foot at his head. He stumbled and tripped, but he stood. The world didn’t; wobbled and twirled. He couldn’t see anything except her hazy silhouette approach him. All he could see was the wet glint of her dagger. All he could see was death. Too dazed to move, he watched the dagger thrust at his ne-

Something pushed him.

He flew into the air, crashed into the dirt, and rolled across it. Obichard’s yelling shanked Snakard’s ears.

What happened to his brother?

Snakard slammed the dirt, splashed soil, and dragged himself to his feet. The world spun. The ground slapped his forehead. The girl screeched as well, but the sound of gurgling replaced it. Snakard recognized that sound; the gurgling of blood. Obichard must’ve killed her.

Why was he screaming?

Staggering back to his feet and failing repeatedly, Snakard listened to Obichard groan. He should stop that. If everything was fine, he should’ve been laughing, not groaning. Snakard eventually got to his feet. The world rippled and swayed, but he could at least see. He stumbled over to Obichard.

Next to the girl’s corpse that laid motionless in a pool of blood, Obichard writhed on the ground.

Snakard approached him and crouched. His hands trembled as they traced over his blood smothered body and reached the dagger embedded in him. A clear liquid dripped down the dagger.

Snakard’s heart battered his sternum.

He yanked the dagger out and tore his shirt off. In his rush, he ripped the shirt into tiny pieces and pressed it against the wound. Eyes stinging, he hauled him onto his shoulders and rushed back up the hill and towards their horses.