Chapter 8: The Shadow of Bandits

The sky hung heavy with the colors of twilight, a deepening mix of lavender and gray. Kageno's muscles strained as he hefted another sack of grain onto the farmer's cart, the familiar weight offering a momentary distraction from the tension crawling through the air. The barn was dim and quiet, save for the sound of rustling grain and the creak of wooden planks underfoot, but something felt off.

Outside, through the cracked barn doors, whispers drifted like faint echoes. Low voices—sharp with unease—floated across the air.

"...burned it all. The farm… gone."

"Two leagues east. Raiders took the cattle, torched the sheds."

Kageno paused, the sack still resting on his shoulder. He turned his head slightly, his ear straining to catch more without drawing attention. The voices came from a cluster of villagers gathered near the well. A middle-aged woman wrung her hands as two men spoke, their dusty boots and grim expressions marking them as travelers who'd seen too much.

"If they're that close," the woman said, her voice trembling, "they'll come here next."

The older of the two men—a broad-shouldered figure with a weathered face—nodded. "Aye. They always do. Weak defenses, fertile fields… It's what they look for."

The words struck Kageno like a stone dropping into a still pond, sending ripples of unease through him. He turned back to the cart, sliding the sack into place with a practiced motion. Bandits. He'd heard the word before, spoken in fear or anger by villagers. Brutal men who swept in like storms, leaving nothing but ash and grief in their wake.

Beside him, the farmer worked in silence, though his knuckles whitened around the rope he'd been tying. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and strained.

"If those rumors are true," he muttered, "we'll need to act fast. We've got a militia, but it's just men with tools… no real fighters."

Kageno glanced at him. The farmer's face was set, but his eyes betrayed the fear gnawing at him. "We rely on goodwill here, not weapons. If they come, we're as good as lost."

The thought twisted in Kageno's chest. The villagers of Karstal had been nothing but kind to him. They offered him food when he arrived, confused and half-starved, and they taught him their ways without asking for much in return. Their kindness deserved better than to be trampled under raiders' boots.

"Boy," the farmer said suddenly, meeting Kageno's gaze. "If trouble stirs, don't run. You're quick. Smart. We'll need every hand to defend this place."

Kageno nodded, though he said nothing. Inside, doubt gnawed at him. How? He had no weapon skills, no great strength to offer. Yet something stirred in him—a flicker of instinct, sharp and certain, buried deep where his memories frayed. If the bandits came, he wouldn't stand idle. He couldn't.

~!~

The mood in Karstal shifted as dusk deepened. Lanterns flickered to life along the narrow streets, their warm glow unable to chase away the growing unease. Villagers gathered in clusters, their voices hushed and urgent. Rumors spread like fire: smoke seen to the east, travelers bringing word of devastation.

At the village square, the makeshift militia began to gather. Farmers, blacksmiths, and traders stood awkwardly in a loose formation, clutching spears and pitchforks with hands better suited to plows and hammers. Their faces were pale, their movements uncertain.

Kageno stood among them, his hands clenched at his sides. He had no weapon, no armor, but he joined anyway, hoping—foolishly, perhaps—that numbers alone might keep the bandits at bay. The militia captain, a burly man with gray streaks in his beard, barked orders as though shouting them loud enough would make his men brave.

"Hold the line by the main road! Spears forward! Any man who drops his weapon gets left for the dogs!"

Kageno swallowed hard as he glanced around. The villagers beside him gripped their makeshift weapons with white-knuckled determination. It wasn't enough. He could see it in their eyes—they were terrified. So was he.

Then it began.

The low rumble of hooves echoed from the road, growing louder with each heartbeat. A flicker of torchlight appeared in the dark, then another, until a dozen flames bobbed like malevolent stars. The bandits rode into view, their shadows stretching long and jagged against the earth.

The lead rider, a scarred brute with a torch held high, grinned down at the gathered militia.

"Karstal!" he bellowed. "Give us your grain, your coin, and your cattle, and maybe we'll leave a roof or two standing. Refuse, and we'll take it all by fire and blade!"

The militia captain stepped forward, spear in hand, his voice shaking as he shouted back, "This is our village! You'll take nothing!"

The bandits laughed—a sound as cruel as it was inevitable. Then the lead rider's grin vanished. He thrust his torch forward, and the bandits charged.

The militia broke almost immediately. The front line wavered under the first wave, spears knocked aside as raiders barreled through on horseback. Screams erupted as villagers fell, some scrambling back in terror, others desperately trying to hold their ground.

Kageno stood frozen, his breath caught in his chest as chaos exploded around him. A raider swung wide, his torch striking a nearby hut and igniting the thatched roof. Flames roared to life, casting the scene in fiery light.

It's over, a voice whispered in Kageno's mind.

But something inside him rebelled. As the militia fell back, he slipped away—quiet and unnoticed—vanishing into the smoke and darkness. His feet carried him to the grove at the village edge, to the place where he'd hidden his old tools.

Kageno dropped to his knees, fingers digging through loose earth until they found the bundle. He unwrapped it with trembling hands: the battered black cloak, the collapsible baton, the crowbar. He didn't hesitate. The cloak settled over his shoulders like a shadow come alive, its fabric drinking in the firelight. He grabbed a torn strip of cloth from the bundle's wrapping and tied it hastily across his mouth. It wasn't perfect, but it would do.

The baton snapped open with a satisfying hiss as he tested its weight. He wasn't a soldier. He didn't need to be. The bandits fought with brute force, but he could fight differently—with cunning, speed, and the darkness that now surrounded him.

"You think you're the only ones who own the night," he murmured under his breath, his voice muffled by the mask. "Let's see how you like it."

Kageno—no, Shadow—rose and melted into the chaos, his tools ready to strike.

~!~

The bandits had gathered near the center of the ruined village, their arrogance as thick in the air as the smell of smoke and blood. A handful of them, grinning and drunk on cruelty, had cornered a small family against a toppled wagon. They took perverse pleasure in their work, pressing daggers to trembling throats, demanding valuables and laughing mockingly at the villagers' pleas. One brute, broad-shouldered with a scarred cheek, had just smashed a clay pot over an old man's head, chortling at the crumpled form as though it were the punchline to a bad joke. Another bandit, spindly and with a rat-like smirk, threatened a weeping mother and her child, savoring each whimper as if it were fine music.

Then came the sound—barely more than a whisper at first—a scuff of a heel, the quiet scrape of steel against stone. Slowly, it captured their attention, drawing their sneering faces away from their victims. At the far edge of the square, emerging from the tangled shadows of a collapsed barn, stepped a figure clad in black. Kageno moved without a word, his posture calm and eerily steady. In one hand he gripped a battered baton with a handle wrapped in rough leather, in the other, a heavy crowbar that caught the firelight in stark, lethal gleams. A coil of rope was slung over his shoulder. The bandits hesitated, glancing at one another and scoffing. One spat at the ground. They had weapons. They had numbers.

This stranger was just a man, wasn't he?

They learned the truth the hard way.

Two of the brigands—hulking men who had bullied their way through a dozen raids—charged first, blades raised high. Kageno met the assault head-on. The baton hammered into the first man's forearm with a sound like snapping kindling. He cried out, dropping his sword, only to have the crowbar's hooked end catch him under the jaw. The brute's head snapped back, and he toppled like a felled tree. His partner tried to pivot away, but Kageno's rope lashed out, wrapping around the bandit's ankles. A sharp tug pulled him off balance, and before he could scramble upright, the baton crashed into his ribs—once, twice, three times—until he lay wheezing in the dust, as helpless as any villager he had terrorized moments before.

The bandits' sneers began to falter, replaced by uncertainty and a creeping sense of dread. They had enjoyed torturing defenseless peasants, but this was different. This one fought back with a deliberate, predatory calm that suggested he was more than just a bystander. He was an apex predator who had found his prey.

Another gaggle of raiders tried to encircle Kageno, their laughter now forced and high-pitched. They drew their weapons—axes, hammers, cracked spears—and moved in. Kageno let them come, shifting his grip on the crowbar. When the first swung a club, Kageno ducked low, slamming the crowbar into the man's kneecap. Bone crunched. The bandit dropped with a scream that cut through the night air like a razor. The next assailant, eyes wide, thrust a spear forward. Kageno twisted, caught the shaft against the baton, and yanked it free. He answered with a downward strike from the crowbar's blunt end, crushing the collarbone and leaving the bandit shrieking in agony.

The final bandit of that trio, desperate now, raised his arms in a shaky surrender, stammering, "W-Wait—!" before he could manage another word, Kageno's rope lashed out again, this time wrapping around the man's neck. A swift pull forced him to his knees, choking, face reddening as the baton nudged his temple in silent warning. Overhead, the smoke-shrouded moon bore silent witness.

Scattered across the village, more of the militia—beaten and bloodied, but alive—witnessed the transformation. They saw in Kageno not just a rescuer, but a dark retribution made flesh. Murmurs spread among them and the villagers still hiding behind charred beams: This stranger had turned the tables. He was not here to reason, not here to plead. He was here to punish. The villagers, once cowering, began to feel a flicker of hope. The taste of fear in their mouths became something else: bitterness and anger that they could unleash, now that fate had shifted in their favor.

Seeing the sudden turn, the militia rallied. With a war cry that sounded like distant thunder, they surged forward. One militiaman seized a wounded bandit from behind, twisting his arm until the blade clattered uselessly away. Another villager—a housewife with torn sleeves and a face streaked with soot—picked up a discarded pitchfork and jabbed at a bandit trying to climb out a window. The marauders found themselves caught between two relentless forces: the renewed fury of the villagers and the cold, brutal efficiency of the one they would come to know as the Shadow.

Some of the bandits still tried to hold onto their sadistic bravado, hurling curses and vile threats. But the bravado crumbled before Kageno's relentless assault. He smashed an axe wielder's weapon aside with his baton and followed with a crowbar hook to the ribs, savoring the gasp of shock and pain. He coiled rope around another's wrists and forced him to kneel, ignoring the man's pleas for mercy. Each takedown was methodical, final, a dark lesson delivered to those who had taken pleasure in another's suffering.

The chaos amplified with each passing heartbeat. Those bandits who attempted to escape found the militia closing ranks, capturing them in a vise of fury. Those who dared strike at Kageno found only agony. Gone were their mocking catcalls, their twisted laughter. Now their screams and pleas echoed through broken alleys, punctured only by the crack of wood against bone and the wet snap of yielding flesh.

The villagers looked on, some weeping quietly—not from sorrow this time, but with the overwhelming release of pent-up terror. They saw the bandits, once so confident, now reduced to sniveling wretches. The tension that had coiled in every spine slowly eased. Though their homes still smoldered and their loved ones lay injured or worse, at least tonight they had found their champion. A figure who wielded darkness like a weapon and met brutality with brutality. He had come armed not with shining steel or noble heraldry, but with a scavenged baton, a cold iron crowbar, and a simple coil of rope—implements turned instruments of vengeance.

As the fighting waned and the final pockets of resistance were stomped out, the villagers gathered around the battered remnants of the bandits. Some offered timid thanks, others simply bowed their heads, too overwhelmed to speak. The militia, their chests heaving with exertion and relief, began binding the captured raiders hand and foot, intent on making them answer for their crimes.

And amidst it all, Kageno said nothing. He stood at the edge of the lamplight, bloodied baton resting against his shoulder, crowbar dangling at his side. He watched as the survivors reclaimed their dignity, rallying behind the fury he had summoned in them. Tonight, the cruel laughter of marauders had met a silent, unbreakable force. In the hissing wind and flickering embers, the Shadow vanished once more, leaving behind only the memory of relentless justice dealt by a quiet stranger, armed with common tools and unyielding will.

~!~

Morning light filtered through the high windows of the Baronial hall, illuminating ancient tapestries and the still air carrying faint traces of incense and polish. Baron Kagenou stood by the broad oak table, hands clasped behind him, staring down at a map pinned in place by a silver dagger. His reflection shimmered across polished armor stands and gilded shields, but he seemed barely aware of his surroundings. Though his eyes were fixed on the parchment, his thoughts were elsewhere—some distant place that left him standing stiff and silent.

A messenger had just relayed the grim news: the village of Karstal, one of the Baron's own holdings, had been set upon by a band of raiders. Homes burned, people slain or driven to panic. This was not just a challenge to his authority; it was an insult that stained the heraldry of his line and threatened the stability of his lands.

Across the hall, Claire waited for her father's command. At thirteen, she was small and slight, but her posture was straight, her face composed. She was a prodigy with a sword, training since she could walk, and had a keen mind for tactics. Normally, when delivering orders, Baron Kagenou would meet her eyes, perhaps share a faint smile of encouragement. But this morning, he had barely acknowledged her arrival—a polite nod, a single tilt of the chin. He had changed one day, without explanation, growing colder in his manner. He spoke no less to her, but something in his gaze, once warm and proud, had withdrawn behind a wall of ice. Claire sensed it, but she did not dare ask why. Her duty was to obey and to learn.

"Karstal has been hit hard," the Baron said, at last breaking the silence. His voice was steady and measured, neither kind nor cruel. He tapped the map where the village's name was inked in curling script. "The bandits are scattered, but that hardly matters now. The damage is done." He looked up, not quite meeting Claire's eyes, but rather surveying her as he might a soldier at review. "I will send you with a company of my knights, carpenters, and masons, along with wagons of supplies. Grain, timber, tools—everything needed to help them rebuild."

"Yes, Father," Claire answered, bowing her head slightly. She wanted to say more—ask if he was troubled, if there was some deeper cause to his cool demeanor. But none of that would be proper. Instead, she focused on her assignment. "I will ensure Karstal's defenses are reinforced and that the people have what they need to recover."

The Baron's jaw tightened, and he nodded once. "You will also see to it that order is maintained. Any remaining bandits, any rabble who dare to interfere—deal with them swiftly." He paused, then added, "But remember, Claire, these are our people. Show them what it means to be under my protection."

For the briefest moment, Claire saw a flicker of something in his eyes, a memory of warmth, the father who once offered her pointers on swordplay with a gentle hand on her shoulder. Now he gave orders as if reciting lines from a ledger. She schooled her face into a mask of calm acceptance, determined not to betray her own uncertainty. "I understand," she said.

The Baron gestured, and a steward stepped forward, detailing the assembled forces and resources. Two dozen soldiers, craftsmen who would help rebuild huts and fences, seeds and livestock to replenish what was lost. Claire listened intently, her mind already devising a plan: how to distribute the supplies, where to set the watch posts, how to speak to the villagers who had just witnessed horror descend upon their homes.

Shortly after, in the courtyard, knights strapped on armor and servants loaded wagons. Stout draft horses stamped impatiently as carpenters lashed crates of nails and saws to the carts. The soldiers wore the Baron's colors, and Claire knew that in their eyes, she was both a symbol of noble authority and a curiosity—a young heir given command in times of crisis.

Above them, on a stone balcony, the Baron stood with arms folded. He watched them preparing to depart, giving no parting wave or farewell. Claire glanced up, catching only the stern angle of his jaw and the distant set of his gaze. He had changed. She remembered a time he had carried her on his shoulders through these very halls, explaining the lineage of their house. Now he was as calm and still as a statue, a guardian who had stepped back behind an invisible boundary.

Claire exhaled softly and turned to her task. If her father had grown colder, she would not let that deter her from the responsibilities he entrusted to her. She would show him that she could lead—administering aid, organizing the reconstruction, and restoring courage to the villagers of Karstal. For them, at least, she could try to be a reassuring presence, a steady hand in uncertain times.

Mounting her horse, Claire gave the order to move out. The retinue began its slow, purposeful march from the fortress, down the winding road that led to Karstal. She pictured the ruined fields and charred timbers that awaited her, and her heart tightened. These people had suffered greatly. They needed more than a warrior; they needed someone who understood their pain and could guide them toward a better future.

As the caravan's wheels rattled over stones and hooves struck dirt, Claire resolved to do her duty without question or complaint. Whatever weighed on her father's mind, whatever had reshaped his warmth into distant formality, she would not fail him. More importantly, she would not fail the people of Karstal. She carried her father's name, and one day, she might carry these lands and all their burdens on her own shoulders.

The sun climbed higher, and the column disappeared over the first ridge, bound for the scarred village below. In the quiet that followed, the Baron turned away from the balcony, hands clasped behind his back, and walked slowly back into the hall. The echoes of his footsteps faded into the stone corridors, as distant and inscrutable as his heart.

~!~

The afternoon sun hovered just above the crooked rooftops as Claire and her retinue rode into Karstal. Horses snorted and tossed their heads, weary from the journey, while carts full of supplies rumbled over uneven ground. At first glance, the village bore every scar of the recent attack: charred timbers, shattered doors, and half-burned carts strewn about. Children peered from behind soot-blackened walls, clutching at skirts and aprons, frightened and curious in equal measure. A hush fell as the villagers took in the sight—two dozen soldiers clad in Baronial colors, and Claire herself, astride a dappled mare, her eyes keen and solemn.

The moment the Village Elder recognized the Baron's crest upon the soldiers' tabbards, he hurried forward, half-limping with age and exhaustion. Deep lines etched his face, and grime smudged his once-fine tunic. Still, there was fierce relief and gratitude shining in his rheumy eyes. He offered a shaky bow, and Claire dismounted, returning the gesture with a respectful dip of her head.

"My Lady Claire," he greeted, voice trembling. "You've come—you've truly come. We feared we'd been abandoned, after… after all that's happened."

Claire stepped closer, placing a steadying hand on the elder's arm. "You are not abandoned, Elder," she said softly. "My father sends his aid. We've brought supplies and craftsmen who will help rebuild. We will see Karstal whole again."

A hush of disbelief rippled through the villagers who had gathered. Some wept openly, tears streaking faces already dirty from ash and grief. Others breathed the kind of deep, relieved sighs that came after long-held anxiety. The elder straightened, lifting his voice to rally his people. "You heard her, all of you! We have what we need to mend our homes, to plant new fields! Set to it—fetch the hammers and saws we've kept safe. Bring the planks and beams. We'll raise our roofs again!" The villagers scattered like seeds in the wind, calling to one another, already forming work crews to patch up walls and prop up sagging roofs.

Claire's soldiers began to unload wagons: sacks of grain and flour, crates of tools, coils of rope, and bolts of cloth. A pair of carpenters picked through piles of warped boards, selecting usable pieces. A mason knelt beside a crumbling stone wall, measuring the damage and shouting orders for mortar and fresh stones. The hum of renewed purpose swelled through Karstal's ruined lanes, an undercurrent of hope returning to a place that had known only terror days before.

Satisfied that the reconstruction was under way, Claire turned to her sergeant, a stout man with a square jaw and a steady, patient demeanor. "Sergeant, form a group of your best soldiers and begin drilling the villagers who will serve as militia. Teach them proper stances, how to hold their spears and shields. Show them how to watch each other's flanks and maintain discipline, even when frightened."

The sergeant saluted briskly. "Yes, my Lady." He beckoned several soldiers forward—hardened men and women who had seen their share of skirmishes—and started gathering a small crowd of nervous villagers. Claire watched as he began speaking in a calm, encouraging tone, showing them how to stand firm and look to their neighbors for support. Here and there, older farmers and stable hands tried to mimic the soldiers' stances. She noted a young boy, barely able to hold a spear, biting his lip in determination. This training would not turn them into knights overnight, but it would give them a fighting chance if danger ever returned.

With that task set in motion, Claire moved towards a large barn that had been hastily converted into a makeshift holding cell. She pushed open the heavy doors, the creak of old hinges echoing inside. The space smelled of straw, sweat, and fear. Dim lantern light revealed a row of bound prisoners, the surviving bandits who had been captured during the night of terror. They were a sorry lot—some bruised and nursing broken limbs, others glaring defiantly. A few lowered their eyes when they caught sight of the Baron's heir.

The guards standing watch straightened at her entrance. Claire spoke quietly, her voice low enough that only the nearest captives would hear. "Have they said anything? Names, origins, why they chose to strike Karstal?" Her words were measured, devoid of malice, but not gentle. She approached a stubbly-faced bandit who flinched under her stare.

A guard stepped forward, shaking his head. "Not much yet, my Lady. They're frightened, mostly. Some claim they were ordered to come here. Others just spit and say nothing. We've been waiting for your instructions."

Claire examined the prisoners, noting the way one clutched his bandaged arm, another stared at his feet. She could feel the tension that clung to them like old sweat. She was not here to torture or threaten without purpose, but these men would face justice in some form. "See that they're fed and their wounds cared for—no matter what they've done, we must not stoop to cruelty," she said at last. "But set a guard day and night. I want every word they speak carefully noted. We may learn something of their leaders or their methods. It could help prevent future attacks."

The guards nodded, and Claire turned from the prisoners, her boots grinding softly in the straw. She paused at the threshold, looking back. The bandits said nothing, only watched her leave with wary eyes. Outside, the sounds of reconstruction rang out—hammer blows, shouted instructions, the scrape of wood against stone. The sun had climbed higher, bathing Karstal's wounded landscape in a hopeful glow.

Claire inhaled, the scent of sawdust and new beginnings filling her lungs. Today was a turning point. Under her command, Karstal would rise from its ashes, its people stronger and more prepared than before. And though she did not fully understand the cold distance in her father's eyes, she knew her duty: to heal, to strengthen, and to protect. In doing so, she hoped to earn the warmth that had once defined his gaze.

Leaving the barn behind, Claire stepped into the heart of Karstal's rebirth, resolved that the village would not only recover, but remember this day as a moment when fear gave way to resolve, and despair to determined action.

~!~

Claire followed the Village Elder through the winding lanes, stepping over broken beams and uneven ground as she took in the slow but steady progress of reconstruction. The villagers had already formed teams: one group clearing away scorched debris, another taking measurements for new supports, a third hammering fresh boards into place. The crisp rhythm of hammer-blows rang out as if heralding a new beginning, and the smell of fresh-sawn lumber mingled with lingering smoke. It was not perfect, not yet, but it was movement in the right direction. Hope had returned to Karstal's stooped shoulders, lifting them a little straighter.

The Elder leaned on his walking stick, guiding Claire carefully around a pile of rubble. "This way, my Lady," he said. "I'd like you to see how we've started stabilizing these older buildings. We've got the carpenters from your retinue working hand-in-hand with our own folk."

Claire noted how the villagers and soldiers communicated—some by words, others by pointing and nodding, but always with a shared understanding. Here and there, a villager would offer a mug of water to a soldier, or a soldier would pause to show a young man the proper way to hold a saw. Barriers were breaking down as everyone focused on a common purpose.

As they approached the smithy—a stone building that had fared better than the rest thanks to its sturdy construction—the Elder paused. A tall woman wearing a leather apron worked the bellows, while a broad-shouldered man aligned red-hot iron on the anvil. Beyond them, a few shopkeepers—faces grim but determined—discussed what materials they still had in stock. All turned momentarily to greet Claire with respectful nods, their eyes brighter than before.

"Many of the village's leaders gather here now," the Elder explained. "The blacksmith and the general store's owner—she's the lady working the bellows—along with the baker and a few others. They've always helped guide Karstal, but they've taken on new importance since the attack. We're all working together to pool resources and labor."

Claire offered a polite greeting, acknowledging their roles without distracting them from their tasks. A half-finished horseshoe hissed in a water bucket, and the blacksmith wiped sweat from his brow, looking pleased to have proper direction once more.

It was then that Claire's gaze fell upon a figure at the edge of the group, a young man helping to unload a cart of timbers. He was young, of average height, clad in dark attire that was practical rather than flashy. He moved with an ease and quiet efficiency that caught Claire's eye. He was not dressed like a soldier, nor did he carry himself like a craftsman. Yet the villagers welcomed him with nods and faint smiles. When he paused, a shopkeeper patted his shoulder in gratitude. The young man (boy?) bowed his head humbly in return.

"Who is that?" Claire asked, turning to the Elder.

The Elder followed her gaze. "Ah, that would be Kageno, my Lady. A newcomer to Karstal—arrived only a short while ago, really, but he has proven invaluable. When the bandits struck, he fought bravely to save many lives. We consider ourselves quite fortunate that he ended up in our village. He's… different, quieter than most, but trustworthy. The blacksmith and the shopkeepers, even I, hold him in high regard."

Claire narrowed her eyes slightly. There was something unassuming about this Kageno, and yet he radiated a calm competence. "He fought off bandits?"

"He did," confirmed the Elder. "Not alone, mind you, but he turned the tide in our darkest hour, giving supplies to our brave militia. We would have lost more were it not for him." Pride and relief colored the Elder's words. "If you have time, you should speak with him. He's proven resourceful. Who knows—he may have insights on how best to strengthen our village against future harm."

Claire nodded, considering. Her father had dispatched her to restore order and infrastructure, but also to understand and govern wisely. It might be helpful to speak with this Kageno and glean what he knew. She had often been taught that a leader is also a student, learning from those who stand closest to the flames.

Just as she made a mental note to do so, a raised voice and the clang of dropped tools drew her attention elsewhere. Across the way, a soldier was schooling a small group of villagers in proper spear formation, demonstrating how to brace for a charge. The villagers watched intently, their former fear now tempered by the presence of reinforcements. Claire allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. Order was returning, born of cooperation and shared adversity.

As the sun dipped lower and the day's work continued, another figure slipped quietly through the outskirts of Karstal—someone less welcome than Kageno. A rough-looking man, face concealed beneath a hood, moved with the cautious steps of a predator. He pretended to be an itinerant laborer, offering to help carry a beam here or fetch water there, blending into the background as best he could. While most eyes were trained on rebuilding or training, he took his chance.

Nightfall would come soon enough, and with it, this stranger planned to infiltrate the old barn where the prisoners—the bandit's own comrades—remained bound and guarded. The village's newfound hope and careful organization would serve as a cover for his treachery. If he succeeded, he would sever bonds, break chains, and slip away with his fellow raiders under the cover of darkness. The guard posted there would need to be dealt with. A knife in the dark, quick and silent, would ensure no alarm sounded.

For now, he bided his time, head down, arms full of kindling, a helpful stranger in a place desperate for aid. No one suspected him yet. He only had to wait for the right moment to strike.

In that waning light, Claire surveyed the scene: villagers mending roofs, soldiers drilling a militia, and a mysterious newcomer named Kageno aiding them all. She could almost feel the pulse of life returning to Karstal's wounded heart. She believed the village could thrive again, not sensing the shadow moving just outside her notice. The chapter would close on this tenuous balance—hope kindling bright as the embers of fear smoldered quietly in the dusk, waiting to be stirred.

~!~

The moon waned each night, thinning to a pale sliver that cast only the faintest glow. In the long days before its final darkening, the village of Karstal continued its slow ascent from ruin to renewal. Walls were rebuilt, roofs patched, and fields replanted. Militia drills became a regular sight at sunset, with villagers forging bonds of trust under the watchful eyes of Claire's soldiers.

Beneath the surface of this hopeful rebirth, however, poison festered. The undercover bandit who had slipped into the village as a laborer worked tirelessly to sew mistrust. By day, he hefted beams or hauled water, always ready with a rueful smile and a sympathetic nod. By evening, when tired villagers gathered around lanterns and cups of thin ale, he spoke in hushed, urgent tones.

"I tell you," he said to a young man nursing a bruised shoulder—an injury from the night of the raid—"the Shadow was one of them. It's an old trick, you see, to show his comrades that he can maintain the charade. Pretend to fight them, hurt them just enough to make them look like victims too. This is how they gain your trust." The young man frowned, uncertain, but the bandit pressed on, voice dripping with earnestness. "Think about it—has anyone really known this Kageno before the attacks? He shows up out of nowhere, and suddenly the bandits flee? It's too convenient."

He told the same tale to another man who had lost a cousin, and to a pair of brothers still fuming over the vandalized family store. Each time, he planted the same seeds of suspicion and anger. He claimed to have overheard hushed conversations between Kageno and the prisoners. He swore Kageno's face had lit with recognition at the sight of a captured bandit. All lies, of course, but lies that sounded plausible when paired with grief and fear.

Soon a quiet murmur started in the corners of Karstal: "Who is Kageno, really? If he's so talented, why hide his strength and skills until now? Why not join the Baron's knights? Why stay in a place like this, if not to spy or finish what the bandits began?" The rumor slipped easily between suspicious ears and bitter hearts.

Claire noted these undercurrents of tension. She had a habit of taking evening strolls through the partially restored marketplace, listening as villagers spoke softly among themselves. She didn't catch the entire rumor at once, only fragments—snatches of conversation that mentioned "the newcomer," "the Shadow," and "can't be trusted." She filed these observations away, knowing better than to wade in without understanding their root.

During the days before the old moon—a time the wise knew as particularly dark and dangerous—Claire took steps to learn more about Kageno. She began with the Village Elder.

They stood by the well in the late afternoon, the slanting sunlight glinting off the Elder's cane. "Tell me more of Kageno," Claire said, calm and direct. "I've heard conflicting whispers. The villagers speak well of him, but some newcomers… not so much."

The Elder pursed his lips. "I'm not surprised. Rumors often swirl in troubled times. Still, I've seen Kageno's deeds with my own eyes. He helped defend us without hesitation, risked his life. He's never taken more than his share of food or asked for reward. The blacksmith respects him; that alone is no small feat. She's a good judge of character, and I trust her instincts."

Claire nodded, her brow furrowed. She then spoke to the blacksmith and the shopkeepers, each of whom vouched for Kageno's actions. While reserved and private, he had shown only kindness and diligence. Claire learned of how he had repaired a broken door hinge unasked, helped move a heavy beam at night so others could rest, and shared his meager ration with a hungry child.

Yet, the whispers persisted, growing bolder as the moon's light diminished. The hotheaded young men the bandit had targeted eyed Kageno warily as he passed. Some spit at the ground near his feet. Others muttered curses under their breath, loud enough to ensure he heard. Kageno responded only with silence, shoulders straight, gaze steady but not confrontational. He seemed to accept their hostility as if he had expected it.

Claire tried to watch Kageno from afar—how he behaved when no one thought her near. She saw no secretive meetings, no suspicious exchanges. Instead, she found him assisting a builder in hoisting a new roof beam, guiding the widow who lived there on where to place a temporary ladder. He vanished into the outskirts of the village occasionally, perhaps to gather herbs or to reflect in silence. Every time he returned, he carried something useful: a bundle of firewood, a handful of wild berries he handed to a hungry child, a stray goat he coaxed back to its pen.

Yet the poison spread by the bandit was doing its work. Fear and loss twisted reason into knots. Grief demands a scapegoat, and the stranger was too easy a target. Claire's soldiers reported a few tense moments where they had to step between an angry villager and Kageno. The militia captain expressed concern that these simmering suspicions might boil over.

Meanwhile, the undercover bandit counted the nights, waiting for the old moon's darkness to fall like a curtain. On that final night—when the moon was only a faint memory in the sky—he slipped through the sleeping village like a viper in the weeds. Earlier, he had voiced new doubts: "Mark my words, Kageno will sabotage us soon," he had hissed to the young men, fueling their anger with fresh lies. Under the cover of night, while the guards were changed and the sentries relied on lanterns, he approached the barn.

Inside, his fellow bandits were chained and guarded. He crept closer, a knife hidden beneath his ragged cloak. One guard, just beyond the door, yawned, leaning on his spear. Unaware of the silent figure creeping along the barn's side, the guard failed to notice the subtle scraping of a rusty hinge or the soft crunch of straw underfoot.

The bandit smiled thinly. Soon, his brothers and sisters would be free. And if he played his cards right, by the time anyone noticed their absence, Kageno would stand accused. After all, he had spread enough rumors to ensure that suspicion would fall squarely on the newcomer's shoulders.

As he moved to silence the guard, knife poised, the darkness inside the barn felt dense and suffocating, as if the night itself held its breath. Outside, Karstal lay quiet, each sleeping soul unaware that the fragile trust and fragile peace they were building was moments from shattering.

~!~

It happened with terrible swiftness beneath the old moon's absence. One moment, the village of Karstal slept, lulled by the steady progress it had been making—new beams in place, roofs repaired, militia drills bearing fruit. The next, screams tore through the dark as firelight danced across the hastily restored buildings. The captured bandits—freed in the dead of night by their undercover comrade—fanned out like black ants, intent on sabotage. They tossed oil-soaked rags onto thatched roofs, smashed support timbers with crowbars, and hurled torches through glassless windows. Where people had once gathered to rebuild, now destruction rushed in with cruel efficiency.

Claire awoke to panicked shouts and the smell of smoke. She threw on her cloak and dashed outside to find her soldiers already scrambling to contain the chaos. The militia hastened to form lines, drenching walls with bucket after bucket of water. Within moments, it became heartbreakingly clear: the bandits had struck at the soul of Karstal's fragile recovery. As Claire shouted orders to form a perimeter, to quell the fires and recapture the prisoners, she realized how meticulously planned this treachery had been. The whispers, the suspicions—everything had led to this moment.

After a frantic hour of battle, the fires were suppressed. The bandits vanished into the forest, leaving behind charred frames where homes had stood. Claire's soldiers corralled stunned villagers to count heads, offer medical aid, and ensure no one was trapped in smoldering ruins. Against the harsh glow of dying embers, tears glistened on soot-streaked faces. It had taken days to restore what the raiders had ruined in mere minutes. Now Karstal's streets were once more littered with wreckage.

In the aftermath, fear and rage simmered dangerously. The hotheaded young men, already stirred by the hidden bandit's lies, found Kageno's absence suspicious. Hadn't he been lurking near the barn earlier in the week? Wasn't he always quiet, always coming and going at odd hours? It seemed too coincidental that the bandits would manage such a daring breakout without an insider's help. Who better to blame than the mysterious newcomer?

"Where is Kageno?" one demanded, his voice cracking with fury and loss. He had taken a nasty burn to his arm while trying to save his family's freshly rebuilt cart. "He must have signaled them. I've seen how he disappears at night—maybe he opened the doors, showed them which houses to burn!"

Claire arrived just in time to see half a dozen youths, faces flushed with anger and dusted with ash, converging on Kageno. The young man stood near a toppled beam, breathing heavily as though he, too, had rushed to help stop the fires. He lifted his hands in confusion as they advanced. Fury and grief blinded them; one carried a length of rope, the other waved a club. Their eyes gleamed with a desperate need for retribution.

The Village Elder tried to intervene, but the youths pushed him aside. "Get out of our way! We'll make him pay!" they snarled. They didn't want justice—they wanted vengeance.

Claire stepped forward, placing herself between Kageno and the mob. "Stop!" she commanded, voice sharp as steel. "You have no proof. I will not allow you to harm a man without evidence or a proper hearing."

A murmur of defiance passed through the crowd. "We know what we saw," one spat. "His arrival was suspicious from the start! He's been plotting this!"

"Have you forgotten the help he's given you?" Claire retorted. She drew herself up, meeting their eyes one by one. "He fought off the bandits the first time. He helped rebuild your homes. If you doubt him now, show me real proof—not rumor or coincidence."

Some hesitated, moved by Claire's authority and the memory of Kageno's past deeds. But others were too overcome by grief and hatred to reason. They began to shout, clamoring for chains and punishment. "If he's so innocent, why was he not around when the fires started?" someone yelled. Another voice answered: "He was always sneaking off—what was he doing, gathering kindling for the raiders?"

Kageno's face paled. It was clear he was overwhelmed by the intensity of their anger. The young man took a step back, shaking his head. He opened his mouth to speak, but fear choked the words. Claire saw it: the wounded disbelief, the shock that those he had helped would so easily turn on him. Before she could assure him of his safety or demand the crowd disperse, Kageno bolted.

He darted into the darkness beyond the circle of torches and lanterns, slipping down the twisted alleyways that still stood, vaulting a half-repaired fence, and disappearing into the night. The mob shouted curses and gave half-hearted chase, but the narrow paths and collapsed beams slowed them, and Kageno's head start was enough. In moments, he was gone, vanished into the starless sky.

Claire clenched her jaw, suppressing a surge of frustration and sorrow. For a second time, Karstal lay broken and wounded. The community she had nurtured toward unity was now splintered by fear and blame. The youth who might have been their savior was now forced into exile.

She turned to face the villagers, her voice stern. "You drove him away," she said, her words heavy in the hush that followed. "Do not forget that. You listened to rumors and fear instead of reason."

The crowd shuffled uneasily. Some still sneered or muttered accusations, but others looked guilty, ashamed. The Village Elder drew closer, shoulders sagging, as if burdened by the enormity of what had just transpired.

In that moment, Claire understood one of the hardest lessons of governance: sometimes, even if you bring help and truth, people can be misled by pain and fear. Rebuilding roofs and walls was easy compared to rebuilding trust once it had cracked. She resolved not to give up, but to press forward more carefully, determined to restore not only the village's structures but also its fractured faith.

As dawn approached, the flickering flames reduced to glowing embers, and the soldiers regrouped, Claire stood at the threshold of a broken village and a wounded people. She wondered where Kageno had fled—and if he would ever return.

~!~

Author's note: I've returned! I have some good news too!

I've written enough to have two chapters this time around!

I have also taken the liberty to expand and give more action and context for the first three chapters! Please read and enjoy a fuller experience and then read this chapter and let me know what you think!

I will wait a couple of days (maybe even earlier!) until I post part two of this new adventure that our hero Kageno has found himself in.

Signing off!

Terra ace