Faldir stood at the village gates, his breath slow and measured beneath his mask. The moonlight cast his shadow long across the ground, a dark specter waiting for the inevitable. Moments passed before the gates creaked open, and a flood of bodies poured out—at least two hundred men, their armor piecemeal and their weapons varied. They were a rabble of outlaws, but together they carried an air of confidence, one born from sheer numbers.
A wiry bandit with a scarred face took the lead, raising his axe high. "It's one man!" he shouted, rallying the others. "A man who used to slaughter whole villages. That was before his clan. Before Thaldren broke him. He's just a story now—nothing more!"
The crowd murmured in agreement, their unease fading slightly as they gripped their weapons tighter. But before the leader could say another word, another bandit's voice rang out.
"Wait, he's—"
The words died in his throat as Faldir moved.
It was as if the wind itself had turned against them. Faldir surged forward with unnatural speed, his blades flashing in the moonlight. The first strike came so quickly that the lead bandit didn't even register the blow until his head hit the ground, his body still standing for a brief moment before crumpling.
Chaos erupted.
The bandits surged forward, trying to surround him, but Faldir was already among them. He became a whirlwind of steel, his blades carving through flesh and bone with horrifying precision. Every movement was calculated, efficient—a dance of death perfected through years of bloodshed.
A bandit screamed as Faldir's sword pierced his chest, lifting him off the ground before being tossed aside like a rag doll. Another tried to flank him, only to find his throat cut with a single, fluid motion.
Fireballs lit the night as the bandits' mages joined the fray, but Faldir's agility made him untouchable. He leaped and twisted through the attacks, closing the distance before driving his blade through a mage's skull. The glow of their magic dimmed as their body collapsed.
The ground grew slick with blood, and the cries of the dying filled the air. Panic overtook the bandits as their numbers dwindled, their confidence shattered by the unstoppable force in their midst.
Within ten minutes, the battlefield was silent. Two hundred men lay dead, their blood pooling in the dirt. The only sound was Faldir's steady breathing as he stood among the carnage, his swords dripping crimson.
At the far side of the village, the heavy wooden doors of the chieftain's house creaked open. Yulmauri stepped outside, his face pale as he took in the devastation. His hands gripped the hair of the woman he had been tormenting, dragging her along like a trophy. Her face was streaked with tears, her body trembling.
"Faldir…" Yulmauri called out, his voice shaking despite the bravado he tried to muster. "You always were a stubborn bastard. You should've stayed dead."
Faldir turned to face him, his cold, glowing eyes locking onto the bandit lord. He took a step forward, his swords lowering slightly as he closed the distance. But then he stopped, his gaze shifting to the woman in Yulmauri's grasp.
For a moment, Faldir hesitated. Memories of his past flickered in his mind—the innocent lives he had taken, the blood on his hands that could never be washed away. He had promised himself that he wouldn't kill those who didn't deserve it, that he would become something more than the monster the world believed him to be.
Yulmauri saw the hesitation and smirked, his grip on the woman tightening. "What's the matter, Death Bringer?" he sneered. "Finally grown a conscience? Don't think you'll save anyone tonight. You can't escape what you are. You're a killer, Faldir—a butcher. So go back to the grave we dug for you. Go back to the deathbed Thaldren left you bleeding on."
Faldir said nothing, his grip on his swords tightening. The air between them grew heavy, the tension palpable. Around them, the village seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see if the Death Bringer would fall back into the shadows—or unleash his wrath once more.