Terror and shock filled him. The mercenary's heart pounded in his chest, the weight of the situation slowly sinking in. The rush of adrenaline had faded, leaving him with nothing but fear. He never expected this from a robbery—he had assumed it would be a quick and easy job. But now, the battle had turned against them with a swiftness that left him speechless.
The pain from his broken wrist still gnawed at him, but his survival instincts were stronger. He knew he was finished, that this was the end. Yet, some small part of him clung desperately to hope. Ronan hadn't noticed him. He could still play dead. If he lay still enough, if he slowed his breathing and suppressed the pain long enough, maybe, just maybe, he would be able to escape. The blood pooling beneath him threatened to spill onto the stone pavement, but he forced himself to keep it in, trying to stem the flow with whatever strength he had left.
As Ronan turned to leave, seemingly unconcerned by the devastation left in his wake, a sudden shift in the air caught his attention. His gaze snapped to the corner of the alley, narrowing with focus.
A pebble, no larger than a fingernail, floated upward, spinning slowly before striking the stone wall with a sharp clang!
Clang!
The sound echoed off the walls, high-pitched and metallic, reverberating in the alley with a suddenness that made the air feel heavy. It was the kind of sound that made your skin prickle, that drew attention whether you wanted it or not. Someone was there. It wasn't just the echo of a stray object—it was a signal.
Ronan's eyes shifted, his body instinctively tensing. He turned to Frieren, who had been watching the scene unfold silently, her gaze already flicking toward the source of the noise. The stillness of the alley seemed to stretch out, drawing their senses to every subtle shift in the environment. Every rustle of leaves, every faint movement was amplified, as if the entire world had slowed to a crawl.
"Come out," Ronan's voice was calm, carrying the authority of someone who didn't need to raise their voice to command attention.
Rustle, rustle.
A figure emerged from the shadows. At first, it was little more than a blur, a distortion in the air, but as it stepped forward, it became clearer—a man in heavy armor, his movements deliberate and careful. The way he materialized seemed almost unnatural, as though he had been there all along, hiding in plain sight.
The man's armor was dented and scratched, but the most noticeable thing was the clean hole visible on the side of his chest plate. It was large enough for a pebble to have passed through.
Frieren frowned, her sharp elven eyes narrowing as she examined the man. Excellent concealment magic, she mused. She could tell the armor wasn't merely well-maintained—it had been enchanted to hide its true nature. The man had either cloaked himself or been using a spell of some kind. She was certain of it. Magic, then, or some other means of stealth?
Ronan studied the armored figure with mild curiosity. His stance remained relaxed, but his eyes never left the man. The fight was over. The bandits had been vanquished. Yet, there was something unsettling about this new player. Someone had been watching them, and their presence raised more questions than answers.
"Who are you?" Ronan asked, his tone level. "Why were you hiding? Are you with them? A bandit?"
The armored man, still catching his breath, gave a soft, wry chuckle. It was a sound that conveyed frustration more than amusement. He looked down at the hole in his armor, his expression shifting into one of mild exasperation.
"My apologies, sir," the man said, his voice steady and formal. "I wasn't hiding intentionally." He paused, his gaze flicking toward the remains of the mercenaries. "I'm the captain of Lord Marco's guard. I heard your conversation at the market earlier today and followed you here, intending to ensure the safety of the town. I apologize for the criminals operating on Lord Marco's territory. It was my duty to protect the citizens, but it seems I've arrived a bit too late."
The man's apology came off as genuine, but there was something else in his words that Ronan couldn't quite place. Was this some sort of official intervention? A random guard taking a personal interest in the proceedings? Or was there more to this situation than met the eye?
"I'll report this to my lord immediately," the guard continued, his voice now carrying a touch of authority. "And of course, I will compensate you for the trouble. Please, allow me to take their leader into custody."
Ronan's gaze shifted back to the pugilist, who, for all his bravado, had been brought low by a single blow. The man was in no condition to flee, much less escape with a hostage. Ronan frowned, realizing his own actions had set the entire scene in motion faster than even the guards could manage. It wasn't the first time he had acted without thinking, but it was rare for him to let his power overwhelm the situation so completely.
He had acted too quickly; the bandits were almost all dead. This was not just an isolated event; it had happened in town, in full view of whoever had been watching. That was why the guard had used a barrier to conceal himself, to make sure no one could see him or his actions. The town's laws prohibited such violence. But Ronan's overwhelming power had compromised the situation.
"Leader?" Ronan's voice was thoughtful, a small frown crossing his features as he looked at the pugilist, who now lay motionless on the ground. It was only now that he noticed the man hadn't yet been taken care of. His plan had been to finish off the rest, but he had overlooked this one.
Just as Ronan was about to ask for compensation or discuss the guard's proposal, the pugilist stirred. His eyes snapped open, bloodshot and filled with desperation. He had heard the sound of the guard and the faint hope it stirred in him was enough to force him to act. He was finished—but not yet. He had to escape.
With the last of his strength, the pugilist scrambled to his feet, his breath coming in short, labored gasps. He couldn't afford to stay down. His plan had failed, but if he could just grab a hostage, maybe he could bargain for his life. He stumbled, trying to move faster than his battered body would allow, his eyes darting to Ronan and Frieren. There was no time to waste.
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