The smaller man stepped closer, his grin splitting wider with each dragging step. Panic prickled through Avin’s veins.
Every instinct screamed to surrender. To collapse. To let whatever these monsters planned simply happen. That was who he used to be — who Clive was. The boy who had never fought for anything, not even his own life.
But something inside had shifted.
He didn’t want to die. Not again. Not here, not . Even the faintest spark of survival was enough to change everything.
His crimson eyes darted between the three men. The towering giant in the center stood silent, a statue of menace, arms folded. The other on the right smirked but stayed still. It was the one advancing who drew Avin’s attention.
Smaller. Weaker. A limp in his step. His skin pale, unhealthy.
And at his waist — a brown, dirty sheath that had a dagger.
Deadly in the wrong hands. Useful in Avin’s.
The man was close now. Within arm’s reach. Avin forced his body into trembling, his chest heaving with exaggerated fear. He panted loud, his hands shaking.
The man’s grin grew. He saw not a threat, but a pathetic noble boy. Easy prey.
"Aww, don’t be like that," he crooned. "I’m not gonna hurt ya..." His grin twisted darker. "Not too much."
His hand shot out, gripping Avin’s arm.
But it wasn’t strong. Not compared to what Avin had felt before. Whether because of weakness, or because he underestimated him, the grip lacked bite.
The man tried to pull him forward.
Instead, Avin pulled him.
With a sudden surge of strength, Avin yanked the man off balance. The bandit stumbled, eyes widening in surprise.
Momentum carried the man forward. He tripped over Avin’s crouched frame and went sailing past him, straight over the cliff’s edge.
His scream ripped into the air.
Before gravity claimed him, Avin’s hand darted out, snatching the dagger from the sheath on his belt.
Then the man was gone, body tumbling end over end, smashing against rocks below. His cries grew faint, swallowed by the abyss.
Avin rose, dagger clutched tight, heart hammering.
The two left stared at him.
The smaller of the pair slapped a hand over his face, groaning. "That dumbass... I always told him his stupidity would kill him."
The larger one said nothing. His grin had faded into neutrality, eyes locked on Avin with unreadable weight. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t grief. It was something else entirely. Something Avin couldn’t name.
The surviving smaller man drew his own weapon — a curved dagger with a serrated edge. He lifted it to his face, licking the back from tip to hilt with deliberate slowness. His eyes burned into Avin’s.
"More spoils for us, I guess."
Avin stumbled back, bile rising in his throat. Tʜe sourcᴇ of thɪs content ɪs novel-fire.ɴet
"What the fuck is wrong with these psychopaths?" he muttered under his breath. "They’re unfazed. Completely unfazed."
Sweat beaded his forehead, sliding down his cheek to drip onto the dirt. His throat tightened, swallowing hard. His mind screamed, What am I going to do against these guys?
His gaze flicked between them — the dagger-licking freak advancing, and the giant still unmoving, arms folded. The big one’s silence was worse than taunts.
The smaller one lunged. "Come here!"
Fear surged. Avin backpedaled. One step. Another. His heel nearly slipped over the edge.
His foot planted. His shoulders straightened.
A flame sparked inside him.
"I can do this," he whispered. His voice shook, but determination hardened his jaw.
The man came closer, sprinting with wild eyes.
Avin’s senses sharpened. The world around him dulled into a muffled hum. The rustle of leaves. The calls of distant crows. All faded.
All that remained were the sounds of the attacker.
Footsteps pounding. Clothes rasping against skin. The rasp of frantic breath.
Every detail burned in Avin’s ears.
The glow overtook his eyes. The man’s movements slowed, each swing dragged into clarity.
"I can do it," Avin’s voice echoed in his head.
The dagger slashed toward him. He tilted his head. The blade scraped past, close enough to graze the air by his cheek.
The man staggered at the miss, snarling, swinging again.
To Avin, it was pitiful. The attack was clumsy. Wide arcs, poor grip, disorganized posture. Compared to Ashborn, this man was crawling.
Avin dodged again, weaving with ease.
"Ashborn was twenty times faster than this," he muttered, his crimson eyes tracing every flaw.
Another wild stab came. Avin swayed to the side, irritation growing.
The dagger jabbed at his face. Avin’s hand snapped up, gripping the man’s wrist.
His other hand clenched the dagger he’d stolen earlier, thumb braced on the hilt.
With a sharp thrust, he drove it into the bandit’s hand.
The weapon clattered to the ground. The man screamed, a howl of agony ripping through the forest.
Avin yanked the blade free. Blood poured down the man’s wrist. He dropped to his knees, clutching the wound, tears spilling down his dirt-streaked face.
"What’s wrong with you, bastard?!" he shrieked.
Avin exhaled slowly, his chest heaving. His eyes flicked up — back to the giant, still unmoving. Still silent.
Not a word. Not even a flinch.
Avin’s gaze slid back down to the kneeling man.
"I guess your friend doesn’t like you very much," he said flatly.
The bandit sobbed. Avin sighed.
He shifted his grip on the dagger. His crimson eyes gleamed.
He lifted the blade, voice dropping low.
"O magne magne armorum parens, arma mea divinitate tua imbue."
It grew heavier, thicker, charged. The wind stilled. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
Avin’s dagger glowed faintly, pulsing in his grip.
The bandit’s cries quieted into terrified silence.
Even the giant’s eyes narrowed, for the first time showing a flicker of interest.
Avin inhaled deep, crimson gaze locked forward.
This was no longer the boy who gave up.
This was prey sharpening its teeth.