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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
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It was a deeply dark night, draped in a thick shadow that seemed to seep into the very skin.
The new moon cast a faint light on the forest, which held the crisp, clean scent of the air just before a downpour.
Within this humid, oppressive darkness, a sound echoed.
–Scrape, scrape.
The distinct noise of a whetstone against a blade, growing sharper with each stroke.
At the heart of the sound was a campfire.
Smoke curled upwards from the flickering flames, and before it, a man sat perched on a fallen log, his hands moving busily.
He meticulously sharpened his sword, then picked up a water-filled leather pouch, pouring the liquid over the blade to clean it.
Metal shavings and grime washed away, scattering onto the ground.
A subtle thoughtfulness played across the man’s face as he worked.
He had been employed by a mercenary band in a battle that raged across a plain known as Nechagni.
The pay had been decent, and he’d even managed to acquire some spoils of war, yet he felt no joy.
In the end, he had still killed people. The vague understanding that this was a sensation he would never truly grow accustomed to drifted through his mind.
Yet, to survive, he had no choice.
He gripped the newly cleaned sword, lifting it to examine it – a trophy from the recent battle.
The blade gleamed in the dim moonlight, reflecting in his teal eyes.
Aslan studied the cold, menacing glint of the blade before lowering it.
–Crack.
A sound broke the silence.
The snap of a dry twig underfoot.
Aslan’s expression hardened as he turned his head towards the source of the noise.
Something was approaching from beyond the pool of light that reached the edge of the trees’ shadows.
The rustle of movement. The scrape of a weapon being drawn. The creak of a bowstring being pulled back. The unmistakable click of a crossbow being aimed.
These ominous sounds, emanating from various points within the forest, prompted Aslan to tighten his grip on the sword he had been about to set down.
He knew who they were and why they had come.
Though such things didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, he had to ask.
He picked up a full leather pouch from where it rested against the log and stood.
As he rose, he picked up a crude round shield lying at his feet, quickly fastening its strap to his arm.
At that moment, more than twenty figures moved in unison from beyond the trees’ shadows.
The hurried sounds of footsteps, rustling fabric, creaking leather, and the clinking of weaponry filled the air.
The distinct noises of crossbows being aimed, spear shafts being adjusted, swords being drawn – a cacophony of sounds arose from multiple directions.
They were no longer trying to conceal their presence, openly preparing to attack.
Their confidence stemmed from the certainty that even if discovered, they could easily overwhelm him.
Aslan’s eyes scanned the darkness from which the sounds originated.
“…What do you want?”
His voice, weary and rough, carried through the forest.
His tired tone and worn leather armor seemed to invite derision.
Four low chuckles and one reply came from almost directly in front of him.
Aslan committed the direction to memory as he loosened his grip on the leather pouch.
“Don’t you know? The War God put a bounty on your head. A hefty one. They say whoever brings you in will be made a priest.”
Aslan sighed. The reason was as he’d expected.
“There are more than twenty of us. We have a mage too. We’re not going to eat you so just come quietly…”
Instead of replying, Aslan swung his left arm.
The leather pouch left his hand, arcing through the air.
The mercenary, surprised by the accuracy of the throw, swung his axe at the projectile as it sailed towards him within the darkness.
–Thwack!
A sound similar to tearing flesh echoed as the pouch burst open, spraying its contents outwards.
The mercenary who had struck it was instantly drenched in the liquid.
He didn’t need to see it to know what it was; the pungent odor that assaulted his nostrils, the nauseating stench and texture, made him curse.
“What the…”
Before the mercenary could realize that the liquid was oil mixed with resin, Aslan pointed a finger at him.
“Ignite.”
A pop sounded as something shot from his fingertip, striking the oil-soaked mercenary.
It was a spark.
On its own, it wouldn’t cause any real harm, perhaps a minor localized burn at most.
But it was enough to ignite the oil.
The moment the spark landed, flames erupted.
A pillar of fire roared to life, consuming the mercenary in an instant.
The sudden blaze sent a hot gust of wind through the forest, rustling leaves in its wake.
The sight of their comrade spontaneously combusting startled the crossbowmen, their aim wavering.
Before they could recover, Aslan moved, kicking over the pot hanging above the campfire, and muttered a single word.
The pot overturned with a clang, extinguishing the fire and plunging the surroundings into darkness.
“Shoot! Shoot!”
–Thwick! Thwick!
Crossbow bolts flew through the air, but no screams followed. They had missed.
As the crossbowmen frantically reloaded in the sudden darkness, the mercenaries took stock of their situation.
It was a moonless night, offering no illumination.
Their burning comrade had revealed their positions while Aslan had vanished.
And now, a chilling moniker followed him.
‘The Master of Battle.’
Sensing their faltering morale, one of the mercenaries tried to rally his companions.
“Shields u–”
The mercenary’s head flew into the air. A moment later, his head and body tumbled to the ground.
Standing beside the corpse was Aslan. He stood there, his eyes cold, surveying the mercenaries.
The last of the flames consuming the first mercenary died down, plunging the forest into complete darkness.
The mercenaries stared into the inky blackness, their faces etched with bewilderment.
A group.
A group inevitably needs to communicate.
The moment one of them opened their mouths to speak, to coordinate their actions, Aslan struck.
As the next-in-command began to give an order, Aslan lunged, thrusting his sword forward.
The sharp blade pierced the mercenary’s throat, tearing through it like a lion sinking its teeth into its prey.
A precise, ruthless attack.
With a spurt of blood, Aslan pulled his sword free and retreated.
He swung his sword as he moved back, catching another mercenary in the chest, splitting him open. The man collapsed.
Despite the obvious presence of a lethal enemy amongst them, the mercenaries hesitated.
They hadn’t worn armor, prioritizing stealth for the ambush. This left them vulnerable.
Their quilted jackets offered little protection against a master swordsman.
And if they carelessly attacked, they risked hitting their own comrades in the darkness.
Such friendly fire would quickly descend into panicked, indiscriminate attacks, turning them against each other.
The mercenaries, experienced in skirmishes, realized this and held back.
Aslan, on the other hand, could kill with reckless abandon yet fought with precise, calculated strikes of his well-honed blade.
Their hesitation became their weakness. A momentary lapse, but enough.
Aslan lunged again, the tip of his sword finding its mark. A mercenary gasped, clutching his heart, and collapsed.
As their numbers dwindled, the mage among the mercenaries gritted his teeth.
When the first mercenary had caught fire, he had considered using it for illumination, but the opportunity had vanished as quickly as it appeared.
Aslan had used the brief light to kill swiftly, crushing their morale before the flames died out.
He had no choice. He would lose the advantage of surprise and become a target, but if he did nothing, they would all die.
The mage raised his hand, drawing magical power from within and projecting it upwards.
A glowing white orb appeared in the air, illuminating the shadowed forest.
As the darkness receded, it revealed the drastically reduced number of mercenaries. Only five remained, including the mage. Fifteen of the original twenty lay scattered on the ground, slaughtered.
Aslan charged towards the remaining five.
“Ignite.”
Aslan muttered, pointing a finger at the mage as he ran.
A spark shot from his forearm, trailing light. The heat, which would normally only cause a burn, flew straight towards the mage’s wide-open eyes, accustomed to the darkness.
The mage’s scream mingled with the enraged cries of his comrades.
“Shit! Kill him! Kill him!”
“Bastard!”
While the mage clutched his eyes and doubled over, Aslan and the four remaining mercenaries clashed.
Aslan threw his shield at the oncoming mercenaries.
–Clang!
“Ugh!”
One mercenary hastily raised his axe to block the incoming shield. Before the shield clattered to the ground, Aslan was upon him, his sword flashing.
–Swish!
The blade sliced cleanly across the mercenary’s throat. The mercenary stumbled, clutching his throat.
Aslan stepped on the mercenary’s foot and shoved him forward with his shoulder.
“Uh…!”
The mercenary behind him, still charging, let out a startled cry as his dying comrade was propelled towards him.
As he caught the falling body, Aslan’s sword descended from above, cleaving his skull.
–Thwack!
Two more bodies hit the ground. The mercenary with the spear hesitated, his path blocked by the corpses.
But he died without a sound, a sword piercing through his eye socket.
As warm blood splattered the ground, the last mercenary realized that he would die if he didn’t attack, corpses or not.
But Aslan was faster. He kicked one of the bodies, sending it tumbling onto the charging mercenary.
“Shit! Shit!”
The mercenary lost his grip on his sword as he fell under the weight of the twitching corpse.
–Thud!
The sword plunged into his head. Four corpses in the span of a few breaths.
The mage, who had been clutching his eyes, finally looked up.
Blood streamed down his face as he gasped for air.
Twenty men they had been. Though unarmored for the ambush, they had come fully equipped, many carrying crossbows.
Yet, they now lay dead, strewn across the forest floor.
The mage, bewildered by the carnage, drew the mace from his belt.
Aslan stood unscathed, despite having killed twenty men.
There were scrapes on his armor and shield, but nothing that could be called a wound.
He was simply catching his breath, showing no signs of exhaustion.
This sight filled the mage with despair.
He trembled, his grip tightening on his mace.
He was only a novice mage, barely past the basics of the School of Manifestation.
Facing a veteran warrior without armor offered little chance of victory.
But there was no other option. The mage charged, mace raised.
He was a Manifestation mage, capable of weaving magic by manipulating the elements and the unknown forces of the world.
Though his skill was rudimentary, it had always been a significant advantage in close combat.
It would be the same this time. Clinging to this last shred of hope, the mage extended his hand.
His hand, thrust forward from his low stance, flashed as if gathering the surrounding light.
A simple, minor spell, requiring no hand signs or incantations. ‘Flash.’
–Flash!
A burst of light erupted from his palm, momentarily illuminating the night. The mage braced himself, picturing his victory.
Flash was a spell that detonated the moment the will to manifest it took hold.
Staring directly into it could blind a person, leaving them no time to react to a follow-up attack.
If Aslan was blinded, he couldn’t dodge the mace. The mage swung his weapon, putting all his strength into the blow. The angled steel hummed with lethal intent as it sliced through the air.
–Whoosh
But it didn’t connect. Aslan sidestepped, easily avoiding the blow.
The mage’s triumphant smirk faltered. He stared ahead with his one good eye.
Aslan stood there, clad in worn leather armor and a cloak, his chipped sword in hand.
The man’s eyes were closed, his sword raised high.
A subtle magical energy emanated from him, a tell-tale sign that even a novice mage could recognize.
‘Scent-based vision magic…?!’
The mercenary band and the mage, lightly armored for their ambush, had traversed the forest to reach Aslan’s camp.
The distance they had covered meant they were inevitably coated in sweat. There was no way to conceal their scent.
‘But since when?’
When they surrounded him, Aslan’s eyes had been open.
If he had used magic then, they would have noticed the incantation or hand signs.
Unless he’d anticipated their arrival and cast the spell beforehand, before they even reached this location.
‘He anticipated it from the start…’
The mage’s thought trailed off. The raised sword descended.
–Thwack!
A downward swing aimed at the head. It split the mage’s skull in two.
The mage’s body shuddered, then went limp. Aslan pushed the corpse to the ground.
–Thump.
With the mage dead, the light he’d conjured began to fade.
As darkness crept back in like a rising tide, Aslan picked up the mage’s mace and tucked it into his belt, his expression grim.
He had planned to stay in the forest for another day, but that no longer seemed possible.
“There’s noise over there.”
In the distance, he heard the sounds of the main mercenary force approaching. Aslan looked in the direction of the noise, gathered a few weapons from the corpses, and vanished into the shadows.
To survive.
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