Chapter 3: An Encounter Without Context

Raiga sprang into action without a second thought. His imposing black armor caught the attackers off guard, and rather than continue tangling with the rookies and wounded guards, they turned their attention to him.

“It’s the Heretic! Kill him!” their leader shouted. He was a hooded bandit with a shirt of mail concealed beneath his rags.

The sword at his side was nothing remarkable, but a well-placed cut from it could still prove dangerous if Raiga grew careless.

He kept his distance and remained fully focused. There were twenty-four attackers in total, and he could not expect any reinforcements from the caravan.

“The Heretic! This must be some kind of internal dispute! Every man for himself!”

The adventurers and soldiers abandoned the wagon, grabbed whatever valuables they could carry, and fled before they became caught up in the violent confrontation. Raiga also saw them take their wounded with them, although they left the dead behind.

It was a painful decision, but a smart one.

“Last chance. Surrender or die,” the armored warrior said with open hostility.

Facing more than three opponents at once was already a feat worthy of a champion. Facing twenty-four was simply absurd—an impossible challenge that could easily cost him his life.

Even so, Raiga placed his hopes in the reputation that came with being the Heretic, an existence both hated and feared in equal measure.

Any advantage was worth using.

“There are more of us. You’re the one who made a mistake, Heretic.”

“Very well. Death it is!”

Raiga wasted no more time. He moved like a bolt of lightning and mercilessly drove his longsword through the first outlaw’s neck.

He had drawn his weapon so quickly that his opponent barely felt the burning blade pierce him. The man was dead before he could even form a thought.

The others instinctively stepped back. Watching one of their own fall had dealt an unexpected blow to their morale.

“Wind Magic: Swift Slash!”

The most quick-witted of the raiders cast an advanced spell, moving with incredible speed until he appeared directly behind Raiga. His sword seemed almost invisible because of the sheer velocity of his attack.

Wind was the element of speed. Most wind spells were designed to move their users efficiently enough to unleash deadly techniques.

Against an ordinary opponent, that attack would have been more than enough to bring the battle to an end.

But Raiga was no weakling!

The sword bounced off his armor and shattered.

“Too slow!”

Raiga’s longsword pierced straight through the unfortunate man without the slightest difficulty, bringing his existence to a painful end.

Two down.

Twenty-two remained.

“You bastard!”

Enraged by the deaths of his comrades, a spear-wielding outlaw charged fearlessly at Raiga and unleashed a vicious thrust aimed directly at the center of his breastplate.

The Heretic stepped to the right. His sword sliced through the spear’s shaft, and with one simple motion, he decapitated the bandit.

The entire maneuver lasted no more than two seconds. His body moved like a killing machine capable of eliminating any opponent who entered his field of vision.

“I warned you! You still have time to run away like cowards and save your lives! I’m not playing around! Your lives should mean more to you than this!” the warrior in black armor shouted.

Unfortunately, his words fell on deaf ears.

“Earth Magic: Mud!”

One of the outlaws pressed both hands against the ground, drawing mana from his surroundings and combining it with his own.

Raiga did not allow him to finish the incantation.

“Dark Arts: Inferno!”

The ground erupted in flames, burning the hands of the bandit in the middle of casting his spell. The burns made him scream until his voice broke, while four of his companions charged at Raiga from behind in an attempt to catch him by surprise.

Four more deluded fools, armed with maces and swords.

Every last one of them was mercilessly cut down.

SLASH.

The sound of flesh being sliced apart was horrifying.

It was a living nightmare, and one that creatures like them thoroughly deserved.

“Water Magic: Ice Spikes!”

Another criminal had moved far enough away to cast his technique. Nine razor-sharp spikes, each thirty centimeters long, immediately shot through the air at tremendous speed toward the Heretic.

“Fool.”

A wall of black fire appeared in front of Raiga, allowing him to block the criminal’s assault with nearly perfect timing.

The moment the projectiles melted, he transformed the wall into a rotating sphere of dark flames.

“Goodbye.”

The blazing sphere roasted the attacker before he even had the chance to writhe on the ground. A single second of contact with his skin was enough to reduce him to ashes.

Not even the metal of his equipment survived.

It was a clean death, devoid of blood, entrails, or any other grotesque sight.

In a way, his end had been kinder than those of his companions.

Sixteen against one.

The battle was still uneven, but the criminals could already feel their resolve beginning to falter.

It was one thing to rob rookies and merchants along the kingdom’s roads.

It was something else entirely to face a Heretic head-on.

The risk was not worth it.

For a moment, the thought of fleeing and preserving their lives crossed their minds. Why die today when they could still be alive tomorrow?

“Don’t fall back! We’ll attack him all at once!” their leader shouted.

Unlike his companions, who looked like irredeemable thugs, their leader appeared far more civilized. He was blond, blue-eyed, and fair-skinned.

He abandoned his ridiculous games and snapped his fingers. A complete suit of plate armor materialized around his body, giving him a much more martial appearance.

He gripped his longsword, drawing confidence from the enhancement rune engraved into the breastplate of his armor.

Such enchantments did not depend on the wearer, but rather on the runesmith capable of imbuing inanimate objects with magic.

Because of this, enchanted weapons and armor were highly sought after by adventurers, knights, soldiers, and outlaws throughout the world.

Possessing a single piece of equipment like that was equivalent to hiring a small band of mercenaries.

That bastard plans to use his companions as cannon fodder to wear me down. It won’t work!

“Come on, then!” Raiga shouted.

What followed was a massacre unlike any other.

Raiga moved like lightning, his sword claiming lives faster than a baker working through the morning rush.

One after another, the outlaws fell dead.

Blood pooled across the road, while magic joined the dance in that festival of steel and violence.

Slashes, thrusts, blows, spells, and dark arts—every possible method of inflicting harm was present, like distinguished guests invited to a grand gala.

Raiga did not emerge unscathed.

He suffered dangerous blows to the center of his breastplate and his back. Had it not been for his great helm, his brains would have been sent flying by a hammer strike to the head that left him seeing stars for an entire second.

Thanks to the enchantments on his armor, the blow was not fatal.

Any ordinary soldier would have died from that attack.

“You’re the only one left.”

Raiga panted as his vision slowly began to blur.

“Heretic, thank you for killing those worthless bastards. Now all the loot will be mine. That armor of yours will fetch a fortune.”

The bandit leader assumed a fighting stance. His right foot was forward, his left foot behind him, and both hands held the sword out in front of his body.

It was an advanced fencing stance that Raiga knew very well.

“Don’t worry. You won’t miss your companions for long. You’ll be joining them soon.”

A moment of silence followed.

The two opponents stared each other down.

“Dark Arts: Burning Slash!”

“Fire Magic: Burning Slash!”

Both blades shone with different flames.

The bandit leader’s fire was as red as hell itself.

Raiga’s flames were as dark as the night.

The two techniques were identical on paper, yet vastly different in their execution.

“AAAAARGH!”

SLASH.

Both warriors charged at one another and unleashed a final slash toward the center of the other’s armor.

As a result, a deep crack appeared across the Heretic’s cuirass. The attack also cut through his mail, gambeson, and part of his skin.

Raiga groaned in pain and nearly fell to his knees.

But he did not.

He remained standing despite the excruciating agony.

His opponent simply collapsed backward.

The bandit’s plate armor erupted in black flames before shattering into pieces.

The outlaw died instantly. The moment their attacks crossed, life left his body almost painlessly.

In a way, the Heretic had once again shown mercy.

“Ah... Th-They almost killed me.”

Raiga had to remove his helmet so he could breathe.

His lips were bleeding, as were his left cheek and the back of his head.

He did not look well at all.

He desperately needed to sit down.

“No... Th-This isn’t over yet.”

With what little strength he had left, he walked toward the abandoned wagon.

That was where he saw her.

“You really do have terrible luck, Emi.”

The poor young woman was unconscious.

Emi lay sprawled across the floor of the wagon, her arms and legs spread out in the shape of an X, leaving her in an extremely vulnerable position.

Had the Heretic not appeared, her life might have come to a horrifying end.

She did not appear to be seriously injured. Raiga gave her a quick examination in search of any severe wounds, but found nothing.

Did she hit her head? Or did she simply faint from fear?

“I’d better return to the camp,” the warrior whispered.

With the utmost care, he lifted Emi into his arms like a princess and headed back toward the wooded section of the road.

As he walked, his headache growing worse and his vision becoming increasingly blurred, Raiga could not stop himself from blushing at the feeling of holding a woman so close.

“D-Definitely not my lucky day,” he concluded.