CHAPTER 73: Immovable Wall (Part 3)

Ambush Success

“If you value your life, stop the carriage and give everything to us!”

The voice cut through the snowfall with crude authority.

Rolan tightened the reins just enough to make the horses uneasy but not panicked. He hunched his shoulders, letting his posture sag like a courier who had seen too many bad roads and not enough coin. His breathing became uneven, his hands slightly trembling, not entirely an act. Even knowing the plan, even standing at the front of a controlled ambush, the presence of bandits at this distance was never something a scout dismissed.

“My—my lords,” Rolan stammered, keeping his gaze low. “No need for this. We can pay toll. Higher than usual. Whatever the rate is—just say it.”

Laughter broke from the bandits.

It was not amused.

It was the kind of laughter that came from men who had already decided what they would take and what they would break.

Brutos stepped forward.

He was not as large as Arslov, but his presence carried the confidence of someone who had stood behind the King of Bandits long enough to believe himself untouchable. His saber rested easily in his grip, angled toward Rolan’s throat without trembling. His eyes moved over the carriage, the disguised guards, the snow, the surrounding trees.

“You think this is a toll road?” Brutos said.

Rolan swallowed visibly. “We—we’re just passing through. No need for blood. Goods can be shared.”

Brutos tilted his head slightly. “Goods will be shared. After you stop breathing.”

The bandits moved closer.

Two circled toward the back of the carriage. One kicked lightly at a crate to test its weight. Another leaned toward one of the disguised knights, smirking as if measuring how quickly the man would break.

The four knights acting as mercenaries responded exactly as instructed.

One shifted his stance, hand moving toward the hilt as if preparing to resist. Another stepped slightly in front of the carriage, shoulders squared but uncertain. Their formation was imperfect, intentionally so, enough to invite aggression rather than deter it. They did not overplay it. They did not look trained as soldiers. They looked like hired blades calculating whether their pay justified death.

The bandits did not hesitate.

They had seen this before.

Brutos raised his saber slightly, then paused.

For a fraction of a breath, something in his expression changed.

A flicker.

Not fear.

Recognition of imbalance.

He scanned the surroundings again, slower this time. His gaze lingered on the carriage longer than before. The snow, the silence, the way the guards stood—there was something wrong. Not obvious. Not enough to stop the men who had already moved forward.

“Wait—”

He did not finish the word.

The lackeys had already lunged.

That was enough.

Inside the carriage, Adrian’s hand moved once.

The signal was given.

The world broke.

The four disguised knights exploded into motion, their blades clearing cloth and sheath in one controlled burst. The two mages inside the carriage triggered their prepared scrolls, releasing a wave of compressed wind and blinding frost outward from the narrow slits. The sudden surge shattered the bandits’ initial momentum, throwing two off balance before their weapons even connected.

Rolan dropped the reins and rolled sideways, drawing his hidden blade in one fluid motion as his bow strap slipped free.

From the trees, the hidden knights moved.

Silent until that moment, they descended on the flanks with precision, cutting off escape routes before the bandits fully understood what had happened. Pressure traps snapped beneath hurried steps. One bandit stumbled as his ankle locked into a concealed line. Another ran straight into a caltrop cluster buried beneath fresh snow, his scream cut short by a blade through his throat.

Brutos reacted faster than the rest.

He swung his saber in a wide arc, forcing one knight to step back instead of pressing forward. His movement was not wild. It was trained, brutal, and efficient. He cut through one of the frost waves with sheer force, dispersing the lingering mana effect as he stepped toward the carriage.

“Ambush!” he roared.

Too late.

The first exchange lasted seconds.

The rest became control.

Adrian stepped out of the carriage with calm precision, his cloak shifting just enough to reveal the reinforced armor beneath. Darius followed immediately behind him, aura settling into the ground like an invisible weight. The two mages repositioned, maintaining support rather than chasing targets.

“Maintain formation,” Adrian said.

No one shouted.

No one charged blindly.

The knights moved in coordinated pairs, cutting down isolated targets, avoiding overextension, pulling back when needed, pressing when the bandits faltered. Smoke capsules triggered along the rear line, disorienting two bandits who attempted to flee uphill. Rolan moved through the confusion like a shadow, striking only when openings were certain.

Brutos fought through it.

He cut down one advancing knight with a heavy strike that forced Darius to step in before the blow could follow through. Steel met steel with a sharp crack. Darius absorbed the impact, feet holding against the ground, his aura reinforcing the collision without breaking stance.

“Stay in line,” Darius said quietly.

Brutos grinned despite the situation. “You’re not mercenaries.”

“No,” Darius replied.

He pushed forward.

The fight lasted half an hour.

Not because the bandits matched the knights.

But because Adrian refused to rush it.

Each movement was controlled. Each exchange is measured. The objective was not speed. It was certain. No loose survivor. No unnecessary injury. No unpredictable mistake.

One by one, the bandits fell.

Some tried to run. They were cut down before clearing the outer trap lines. Some tried to rally under Brutus. They were separated and eliminated before forming a proper group. A few fought fiercely, but discipline broke them faster than brute force.

In the end, only Brutos remained.

He stood with blood running down his side, one leg dragging slightly from a pressure trap wound, his breathing heavy but not broken. Around him lay his men, cut down in snow and steel. The white ground had turned dark in uneven patches.

Adrian stepped forward.

For the first time, Brutos looked at him directly.

Recognition sparked.

Then he laughed.

A rough, broken sound.

“You dare to poke the bear—”

He did not finish.

Darius moved.

One clean strike.

Brutos’s head fell into the snow.

Silence followed.

The wind moved lightly across the road, carrying the faint smell of blood and burned mana from the earlier scroll bursts. No one spoke immediately. The tension of the controlled fight settled into the aftermath.

Adrian scanned the team.

“Report.”

“No casualties,” Darius said. “Minor injuries.”

Rolan wiped his blade against a bandit’s coat. “Left flank clear. No escape.”

One knight flexed his arm, blood seeping through a shallow cut. “Nothing serious.”

The mages confirmed their condition with brief nods.

Adrian stepped closer to Brutos’s body.

He looked down at the severed head.

The expression had frozen mid-laughter.

“He recognized you,” Darius said.

“Yes.”

“That is a problem.”

“It is a signal,” Adrian corrected.

He turned back to the team. “We prepare for evacuation.”

Rolan frowned slightly. “We proceed with the original plan?”

Adrian shook his head. “No.”

He looked at Brutos again, then at the surrounding terrain. “We won the ambush. We achieved the first objective. But the vice-captain recognized my face. That alone changes the field. Arslov will not ignore that.”

Darius nodded slowly. “Agreed.”

“We collect evidence,” Adrian said. “All heads. Confirm identity. One sack.”

The knights moved immediately, grim but efficient. Heads were gathered, wrapped, and placed into a reinforced sack for transport. It was not cruelty. It was proof. Proof for the South. Proof for the crown, if needed. Proof that the road had not been abandoned.

“Return to the temporary camp,” Adrian continued. “One hour for emergency treatment. Then we leave. No trace.”

No one argued.

The camp was reached quickly.

The medics worked with speed sharpened by urgency. Wounds were cleaned, sealed, and bound. Potions were distributed sparingly. The mages assisted with minor stabilization, careful not to overextend. Blood-stained cloth was burned or packed for removal. Tents were dismantled. Trap markers were removed or reset to confuse pursuit.

Darius watched the perimeter while Adrian reviewed the final conditions.

“One hour,” Adrian repeated.

At the end of it, nothing remained.

No camp.

No obvious trace.

Only natural disturbance and the faint suggestion of passing movement, soon to be buried by snow.

They began their descent along the path they had used to arrive.

Fifteen minutes into the march, the mountain answered.

An explosion tore through the distance.

The fire scroll.

The delayed detonation struck the enemy base with force, sending a column of smoke and flame into the pale sky. Even from their distance, the impact could be seen as a dark bloom against the white landscape.

One of the injured knights allowed himself a brief smile.

“Mission complete,” he said. “We can celebrate—”

“Get yourself on the ground!” Darius shouted.

There was no hesitation.

Every man dropped.

A single breath.

Then it came.

A vertical slash tore through the space they had occupied, the aura pressure alone splitting snow and air as if the world had been cut open. The injured knight who had spoken did not move fast enough.

His body separated cleanly.

The snow swallowed half before it stained red.

Silence shattered.

Rolan froze.

Not from choice.

From instinct breaking under something he had never felt before.

The presence.

It pressed down on the lungs, on the spine, on the mind itself. It was not merely killing intent. It was something filthy, heavy, suffocating. Not the clean pressure of a trained aura. Not the controlled force of a knight. This was something that had killed too often, too brutally, for too long.

Rolan’s fingers trembled against the ground.

“Who… what…”

He could not finish.

The wind shifted.

Snow fell more heavily.

And from the white, a shadow formed.

A man stood there.

Still.

Massive.

Unmoved by the cold, by the blood, by the bodies.

“I knew there was a group of rats here.”