Chapter Seventeen: Alone, Facing the World Single-Handedly! Yearning for More

This time, the injuries were truly severe.

After entering the forest, Duncan and his companions abandoned their horses. He carried Severus on his back, Anya supported the weak Triss, and the four of them staggered their way to a massive oak tree to rest.

— The Abandoned Druid’s Circle.

On the overhead map, this was marked clearly. There were no buildings nearby, only a ring of oak trees encircling the spot—each nearly a century old judging by their rings.

Duncan stripped off his clothes and laid them on the ground, then helped Severus lie down.

Nearby, Triss struggled to stand and directed Duncan to use the druid’s herbs to tend Severus’s wounds again. Anya tore her long skirt apart, using the softer lining as bandages, then assisted Duncan with Severus’s second round of dressing.

“I’ll go gather some dry wood,” Anya said, rising to search for kindling nearby. She was occasionally scratched by thorns, and this witch—who looked like a refined noblewoman—would immediately wear a pained, tearful expression, genuine in her suffering. She was over a hundred meters away from the others, nearly in tears from the thorn wounds.

A pampered Roman noblewoman, whose husband was once an imperial general.

Duncan observed silently through the overhead perspective.

When Anya returned, she wiped her tears, clutching a bundle of dry wood wrapped in part of her skirt, limping as she placed it beside the oak tree.

She truly was a two-star white mage.

In the projection, Duncan’s status showed as ‘exhausted,’ ‘weak,’ and ‘severely bruised.’ His health bar had dropped by about two-fifths, and his stamina limit was reduced by nearly a third. Beside him, Severus was marked ‘critically wounded, near death,’ ‘severe blood loss,’ and ‘minor disability.’ The Raven Queen—Triss—was labeled ‘mana overdraft,’ ‘severely weak,’ ‘mental fatigue,’ and ‘minor backlash.’

Only Anya remained in good condition. She had been fine before but now carried a ‘minor bruise.’ The witch had mud on her forehead, possibly from a harsh fall when Duncan wasn’t watching.

Duncan found a way to give Severus some water.

Looking at Triss beside him, he spoke gravely, “We must find a safe place to rest for a while. Otherwise, Severus won’t last much longer.”

The Raven Queen’s pale face looked toward him. “You should make the decisions now.”

Duncan nodded.

He lit a small campfire in front of the three, placing Severus near the flames, close to the tree’s shade. He reached out to feel the druid’s forehead—no fever, just severe blood loss. Then his gaze shifted to the anxious-looking witch, Anya, seated by the fire.

“You stay and care for them.”

“I’ll return as soon as I can.”

Night had fallen.

Anya’s expression was uneasy, seemingly worried that Duncan might abandon them. After glancing at the weak Triss, the witch bit her lip and nodded firmly, “Alright.”

Though delicate in appearance, this witch showed some resolve when it mattered.

Duncan offered no further explanation.

He glanced at Triss again, seeing trust reflected in her eyes.

Supporting his weary body, he picked up the Northern war bow, fastened his Fran throwing axe to his waist, drew his oathkeeper sword, looked up at the sky, and soon vanished into the dense forest.

He had eleven arrows left.

Duncan’s figure advanced along the rugged mountain path, pausing occasionally to rest as his stamina recovery had slowed significantly due to injury.

The weak condition had faded, but exhaustion would last another ten hours or so.

Severus couldn’t wait that long.

If it rained, a single downpour could mean Severus’s end by the next day.

“I can still draw the bow.”

“But not fully. My stamina is nearly spent.”

In the dimensional space, Duncan stared at the projection, enlarging the overhead map. Soon, a building marker appeared a few miles away.

— Bandit Stronghold.

They lacked food, clean water, and shelter to recuperate.

Traveling to other towns now was too dangerous.

“Severus must rest properly and receive further treatment or he won’t last.”

From the moment Severus handed over the horse, he had become Duncan’s comrade in arms.

Let’s go.

Duncan headed toward the bandit stronghold. He had stopped nearby because the map had shown its marker.

Until the moon rose.

He finally reached the edge of the stronghold. It was small and crude—a wooden fort surrounded by a fence, with a small cave inside. Years ago, the Gaul region had frequent rebellions, and many rebels had turned into bandits roaming the hills.

— Master of Weapons (Sword): Your mastery of sword weapons is so complete they feel like part of your body. Greatly enhances sword-fighting skills.

After slaying the Hermit Order sanctuary, a master-level branch appeared under military weapon proficiency.

Military weapons cover most conventional melee weapons. The enemies faced in this battle specialized mainly in swordsmanship; others hadn’t reached master level. Hence, a master-level combat skill emerged for sword weapons alone.

— Throwing Mastery: You are skilled with all throwing weapons. Using javelins or throwing axes significantly increases your accuracy.

Roman soldiers often trained in javelin throwing, while Fran soldiers excelled with throwing axes.

— Arrow Deflection [Special Ability]: An advanced combat technique that forms a battle instinct. You can deflect arrows or attempt to deflect thrown weapons with any weapon. Success depends on your overall combat proficiency and physical fitness.

This was undoubtedly an ability of the Hermit Order sanctuary.

— Holy Grail Blood (Fake) [Special Ability]: Although not the true Holy Grail, its blood granted mortals incredible power. Your physical attributes can surpass ordinary limits, gradually improving over time, strengthening your basic attributes.

Hmm?

So the rumored Holy Grail in the Hermit Order’s hands is a fake?

King Arthur also sought the Holy Grail.

The real one must be lost.

This was likely the key to the Hermit Order sanctuary’s extraordinary physical abilities. Even with Duncan’s adrenaline surges, he could only barely hold his own for a few moves.

— Combat Style—Assault: Striking with incredible speed and explosive power to deliver a deadly blow. This is the combat technique of the hidden assassins, unpredictable and seizing fleeting opportunities, unleashing all strength in a sudden assault.

This combat style was more akin to a charge or raid—one move only, no defense, no chance to recover strength after attacking.

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Fast, precise, ruthless!

Centered on the basic ‘stab’ move, skilled with short weapons, life and death hung on a moment’s edge. Success or failure could mean being cut down by nearby enemies. (An all-out assassination assault, leaving no room for evasive maneuvers.)

This was the early assassin’s combat technique, typically trained only by those ready to die.

In the medieval era, there were not many flashy moves. Even during the Crusades, the most important in battle was basic swordsmanship. Martial arts moves were better suited for duels. On the battlefield, flashy moves meant instant death by multiple enemies.

In a duel, you don’t have to defend against many foes, so you can afford more varied techniques. But in battle, you only need the basics: thrusts, chops, slashes.

After this battle, all Duncan’s basic combat styles turned blue. The core moves—stab, chop, slash—were deep blue, with the basic stab move glowing faintly gold.

The imperial army primarily used shields for defense and short swords for stabbing, honed to perfection. Duncan’s casual stab was as fast as a shadow, as if he had practiced it for over ten years.

It had become muscle memory.

“Seems the later you get, the harder it is to improve combat skills.”

“But basic moves still improve little by little. The limit is still unknown.”

Most swords, knives, and axes shared basic moves, while polearms and spears had exclusive basics. Duncan sometimes felt a sense of all things returning to one source because these basics were the origin of all techniques.

“If there’s a flaw, it’s that Western life-and-death combat lacks complex footwork, relying more on adaptability.”

This battle brought enormous improvement to Duncan.

Because the Raven Queen—Triss—whether intentionally or not, left those enemies alive. Duncan had harvested their heads himself.

He suspected Triss guessed he grew stronger through killing.

Master-level combat skills probably had to be forged on mountains of corpses and seas of blood!

Bandit Stronghold.

Using the overhead view, Duncan marked each enemy.

— Saxon Hunter.

— Gaul Rebel Raider.

— Bandit.

— Fran Light Infantry Axeman.

There were twenty-seven in total, a small group. Five were marked blue as ‘slaves,’ ‘farmers,’ and ‘farm wives.’

Three farmers were locked in a room in a corner.

The bandits were scattered around the stronghold, with two or three patrolling, though they looked drowsy.

The most dangerous was the ‘Fran Heavy Axeman’ (bandit leader), a one-star unit, sharing a room with a ‘slave.’ Another room held a ‘farm wife’ and three other enemy units with special marks but not bandits.

Twenty-two enemies should be manageable.

Night was pitch black.

Duncan crept forward bit by bit, watching enemy positions through the overhead map. The patrolling bandits were listless, grumbling and occasionally glancing toward the rooms with the ‘farm wife’ and ‘slave.’

Swish!

Duncan fired an arrow, striking the bandit in the head, who collapsed with a noise, drawing others’ attention.

Arrow after arrow.

Without hesitation, Duncan pulled his bowstring, headshot after headshot. Most bandits wore no armor; only a few special units had leather or partial scale armor. They were likely too intoxicated to notice the sounds.

They probably never had the chance to wear armor.

Duncan climbed a wooden frame and looked at his stamina bar. If not injured, it would have been easier.

— Fran Throwing Axe.

A bandit distracted by the noise poked his head out, only to be instantly killed.

Thunk.

The Fran throwing axe cleaved into his forehead. Duncan calmly stepped forward and pulled the axe free.

His throwing axe spun through the air, slicing another bandit’s head off with a thud.

All six patrolling and night-watch bandits outside the stronghold were mercilessly slain!

Duncan drew his axe and glanced around.

Some bandits slept in the cave, the higher-ranking ones inside the wooden hut.

Painful moans faintly echoed ahead.

Duncan’s gaze hardened. He stealthily approached and lightly knocked on the door. Impatient voices came from inside. A barely clad Saxon hunter approached, opened the door, and was about to curse.

“I told you your watch isn’t until midnight… you lot…”

Thunk!

Duncan’s axe split the enemy’s skull, blood and brains spraying.

Clang.

He surged forward, drawing his sword. Swordlight flashed like a shadow, severing an enemy’s arm like cutting tofu. As the enemy tried to grab his weapon, he howled in pain clutching his severed arm. Duncan’s sword pierced his neck. Moving swiftly in the dim light, the last man barely grasped his hand axe before the blade pierced his heart.

The entire process took mere seconds.

At that moment, a wretchedly beaten farm wife on a rag-strewn floor let out a piercing scream.

Bandit blood splattered her face and head.

Noise came from the adjacent hut.

In the overhead view, the Fran heavy axeman shivered, climbing up from the slave’s body and hastily donning his armor.

Duncan kicked open the door.

The bandit leader circled to the side, planning an ambush, but suddenly the female slave rose, pulled out a dagger from somewhere, and stabbed his neck.

Blood gushed.

Still inexperienced in combat, the woman’s dagger hit the bandit’s back. Furious, the leader swung his axe to kill her.

— Fran Throwing Axe.

Duncan leapt in, throwing his axe midair, scoring a close-range headshot. The bandit leader’s corpse collapsed with a crash.

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Inside the room.

The slave woman was covered in wounds and bruises, her skin marked with contusions. She silently looked at Duncan, showing no desire to attack. Her blue marker turned green.

“Stay here.”

Duncan retrieved his Fran throwing axe from the enemy’s head and glanced toward the cave on the overhead view.

The combat skills he had gained from this path made him feel like he could only cosplay as a berserker assassin wielding an axe. His Fran throwing axe grew ever more familiar. The axe’s combat style was chopping; a single strike could split a man’s skull.

Many high-ranking Germanic warriors excelled with axes.

Swish!

An arrow tore through the air, dropping a bandit who had just peeked his head out.

Bandits were poorly equipped, mostly without armor, some with leather.

One arrow, two arrows, three arrows.

Duncan seemed a merciless killing machine, shooting his last arrow as bodies piled up at the cave’s exit.

“He has no arrows left!”

“Only one man!”

Shouts came from the cave. A Gaul rebel urged the bandits to attack first.

Thunk.

The Fran throwing axe embedded itself in the head of a bandit who dared to peek and speak.

Duncan’s overhead view showed every position clearly, even inside the cave.

He drew his oathkeeper sword and grabbed a battered round shield, stepping slowly toward the cave, leaving bloody footprints behind.

Clang!

The shield blocked an attack from the right. His sword flashed cold light, parrying a short knife from the left. The bandit with the short axe clutched his throat, blood spurting, unable to speak.

Blood splattered Duncan, dripping down the shield.

He flicked his sword, lunged forward, piercing the enemy’s throat. Drawing out oathkeeper, he turned, stepped, and slammed his shield, knocking down an enemy attempting a sneak attack.

Thunk.

Duncan crouched slightly, gripping the sword with both hands, driving the blade through another enemy’s heart.

“Devil! … Demon!…”

The remaining bandits broke down. Some fought desperately, some begged on their knees, others tried to flee with nowhere to go.

— Combat Style: Beheading!

A severed head flew.

Blood sprayed like a fountain, frightening the bandits into sharp screams. When they had tormented those farmers and slaves, they never imagined this day would come.

Death with every step!

Absolute mastery of combat skills suppressed them completely. Occasional counterattacks were effortlessly blocked by the shield.

The Hermit Order sanctuary had greatly enhanced his power.

Duncan advanced steadily, leaving a trail of corpses, wiping out all enemies.

When he exited the cave, two trembling women knelt at the entrance. The entire stronghold was littered with bodies—twenty-two bandits, not a single survivor.

“Free those three farmers.”

“Find a stretcher. All of you come with me.”

Duncan pulled arrows from corpses, his body dripping blood like a god of war risen from hell. He grabbed a tattered bandit coat from the hut, donned it, and led five shivering farmers toward their refuge.

Dawn broke.

A faint morning light appeared in the distance.

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