The air reeked with the stench of rotting flesh. Remnants of torn paper wards littered the war beaten ground. There were several buildings left untouched in the distance, but they were eerily silent. The only sound that could be heard throughout the village was the slight whistling of the wind.

“This is as far as I can take you,” said the wagon driver, bead of sweat slowly trickling down his wrinkled cheek. “You follow the path through here and you’ll reach the next town in two, three hours. Should still be standin’.”

The rider nodded his appreciation and handed the wagon driver several coins. As soon as the rider descended with his pack slung over his shoulder, the wagon driver turned his horses around and urged them on with a quick flick of his whip.

When the trundling of the wagon’s wooden wheels faded into the distance, the rider was left alone with nothing but the wind. He surveyed his surroundings briefly before continuing down the dirt path through the abandoned village.

The village wasn’t any different from the rest. Most of the buildings had been burnt to the ground and blood had stained the ground a reddish brown. The bodies lying in the open had already been picked clean by the vultures while those hidden in the shadows lay silently, decaying into nonexistence. The rider’s dull brown eyes glanced over the scene nonchalantly. His shock of seeing the dead had long passed.

A loud laugh echoed in the distance and the rider halted in the middle of a step. Survivors? Or had he just been imagining things?

Another loud laugh this time followed by a whimper of pain. The voices were near. Probably just behind one of the few standing buildings ahead.

The rider made his way around the building and peeked around the corner. Nothing but a heap of dead bodies. He frowned and rubbed his ears with his hand. He must’ve been hearing things. Nothing living would be in a place like this.

Another sharp cry of pain interrupted the rider’s thoughts. It was coming from beyond the wall of the house. Was there someone still alive inside?

The rider hurried back around to the front of the house and placed his hand on the handle of the door, ready to slide it open.

“Stay still little girly!” bellowed a loud voice from inside the house. “It ain’t fun for none of us if you keep doin’ that!”

The rider slowly took his hand off the handle of the door. It sounded like some bandits had ambushed a poor woman on her way through town. There was nothing he could do about this situation. The rider turned and got ready to go.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a freak!” shouted the same voice.

The rider froze.

“Must be one o’ those demons they’re always talkin’ about,” replied another man. “They ain’t as scary as everyone thinks!”

“Ha!” said the first voice. “Bunch of cowards I tell you!”

There was some scuffling inside followed by some loud thuds. Before the rider could really comprehend what he was doing, he slid the door open and barged into the house.

The four burly men whirled around to face the rider as he entered the room. A small figure lay slumped on the floor between them, bruised and beaten.

“Who the heck are you?” one of the men barked.

Now that he had actually entered the room, the rider realized that he had probably made a very big mistake. These men were twice his size and each of them bore scars on their faces and along their arms. They weren’t simpletons looking to loot a devastated town. They had fought many times before and had lived to tell the tale.

“Uh…” said the rider, taking a step back. “Sorry.”

“Who said you were goin’ anywhere?” one of the men growled, stepping forward and giving the rider a shove in the chest.

The rider stumbled backwards and crashed into the wall. His pack slipped off his shoulder and onto the ground. Several sheets of paper slipped out of his pack, followed by several bottles of ink.

“A writer?” one of the bandits asked, face splitting open into a sneer. “What else do you have in those pockets of yours?”

The rider stood still as the bandits rummaged through the pockets of his cloak. To their dismay, they found nothing but lint and a purse holding only three coins.

“What is this?” said one of the bandits, brow furrowing with confusion and anger. “How d’you have less money than we do?”

“He’s tryin’ to play funny with us!” growled one of the other bandits. “Maybe if we rough ‘im up a bit he’ll start talkin’!”

Before the rider could make a move, one of the bandits dealt him a blow to his stomach, dropping him to his knees. The rider gasped for air while he tried to keep himself from retching. One of the bandits grabbed him by a handful of his hair and hauled him back up to his feet.

“Where’s your money?” the bandit asked, the stench of his voice making the rider wrinkle his nose.

“You have it all,” said the rider. “That’s all the money I have.”

“Liar!” said the bandit, smacking the rider across the face. The rider crumpled to the ground once more. He could feel blood trickling down the corner of his mouth from where his lip had been punctured by his teeth.

“Boss,” said one of the bandits. “It’s gettin’ late. We should head back before it gets dark.”

“Hmph,” said the boss. He gave the rider a final kick to the midsection and beckoned to his men. “Bring that girly with us. We ain’t done with ‘er yet.”

“But she’s one of them!” one of the bandits hissed.

“Do I look like I give half a damn?” said the boss.

“Yes, boss,” said the bandit hurriedly. The bandits moved towards the little girl who still lay crumpled on the floor. The rider watched as one of the bandits lifted her and slung her over his shoulder. It was a pity. He had hoped that his intrusion would’ve bought enough time for her to get away.

But as the bandit carrying the girl passed by the rider, the little girl raised her head briefly, glancing down at the rider. The rider’s heart skipped a beat.

“Aona?” the rider whispered. For some reason, his body felt hot, almost as if it was on fire. His vision had grown slightly blurry and his breathing was rapid and uncontrollable. The stump that had once been his right arm exploded with pain.

“What did you say?” said the bandit, turning around.

The rider clambered back to his feet, hand clenching into a fist.

“What’s this?” asked the boss, chuckling. “You ain’t a hero, boy.”

“Give me my sister back,” the rider whispered.

“What?”

“GIVE ME MY SISTER BACK!” the rider roared, leaping forward.

The rider drove his fist into the face of the bandit holding the girl, feeling the man’s nose crunch underneath his knuckles. The bandit tumbled backwards and tripped over a fallen chair and collapsed the ground.

The other three bandits leapt at the rider, bellowing their own battle cries. Reflexes that had long been shut away took over the rider’s body. A quick step back evaded the first messy attack. A duck to avoid the first thrown by the next bandit. Finally, a parry of the last bandit’s fist using his forearm.

Now it was his turn to attack.

The rider whirled around and knocked one of the bandit’s off of his feet using a leg. He used his left arm to bash the next bandit across the face and his right arm to block the oncoming attack from the last bandit. Right arm?

The last bandit’s blow sailed through the rider’s nonexistent right arm and smashed him in the face. The rider’s vision flashed red and he blinked rapidly, trying to see the next attack.

The attack caught him square in the temple and everything went black.