Under the scorching sun and suffocating heat, the dry winds howled across the barren desert of the Empire, carrying fine grains of sand and dust. Hooves pounded against the cracked earth, echoing through the empty expanse.
A brutal environment—one that only the strongest could survive.
A week had passed since Zephyr arrived in this strange, savage world.
He had started to accept the truth of his situation, though it wasn't easy.
He fell into a quiet depression, haunted by thoughts of the life he'd left behind—his city, his home, his parents, and his little sister, Rita.
The thought of how worried they must be tormented him constantly. But the harsh struggle for survival in this desert soon demanded all his attention.
Now, Zephyr rode behind Jones, swaying uncomfortably on the saddle.
His body ached from the long ride, and his legs had gone numb.
Oddly, his broken arm had begun to show signs of healing—faster than it should have. A break like that should've taken months. Even his bruised shoulder felt noticeably better.
"Damn it… When are we going to rest?" he muttered under his breath.
At that exact moment, Commander Arlond raised his arm and signaled for the group to stop. The mercenaries slowed, forming a rough line behind him. Still mounted, Arlond pointed toward a distant spot on the horizon—smoke rising faintly into the sky.
The group fell silent. Eyes shifted. Brows raised. Questions filled the air, unspoken.
Arlond gestured to Zakrox.
The lieutenant dismounted swiftly, drew his bow, and sprinted toward the smoke.
Several minutes later, Zakrox returned. He whispered something to Arlond while showing him a few documents. The commander listened carefully and nodded.
Then he turned to face the group and said:
"They're another mercenary band. Their leader's a war criminal with a 500-gold-coin bounty on his head—put there by one of the princes of the Twilight Empire."
The mercenaries barely reacted—until they heard "bounty."
Interest flickered.
Then, at "500 gold coins," their eyes lit up with greed.
Weapons were drawn in an instant.
Zakrox added,
"There are forty-five of them. Their leader is a giant with a scarred face and a massive axe. Avoid him if you can—he's dangerous."
The mercenaries nodded silently.
Zakrox then turned toward the back of the group—toward Jones and Zephyr.
"As for you, boy… just try to stay alive. This is your first test. Let's see if you're worth keeping around."
He looked at Jones.
"Give him a dagger."
Jones tossed a small blade to Zephyr and said,
"Alright, kid. Here's the deal. We'll hit them on horseback, fast and hard. Surprise will give us the edge. Then we dismount and finish off whoever's left."
"Don't die. I'm not burying your corpse."
Zephyr clutched the dagger in his uninjured hand.
It trembled slightly.
His heart pounded as he looked at Arlond, silently begging him to change his mind.
But no mercy came.
Arlond kicked the side of his horse.
"Hyah!"
He charged forward, his black cape fluttering behind him.
His men followed with loud war cries, horses thundering beneath them.
The sand exploded beneath their hooves as they raced toward the enemy camp. The enemy mercenaries, alarmed by the roar and dust, began scrambling for weapons—some panicking, others frozen in shock.
Before the two forces even clashed, several enemies fell, arrows buried in their necks.
Then came the crash.
Arlond swung his great black sword, cleaving a man diagonally from shoulder to rib. Blood gushed like a fountain.
Another lunged at him—he parried the strike and drove his blade through the man's heart, the steel exiting cleanly through his back.
All around, Skull mercenaries dismounted and continued the fight on foot.
Zephyr remained behind Jones, who charged forward with his massive glaive.
"HAHAHA!"
With a crazed grin, Jones drove the glaive into a man's chest, the blade piercing straight through his torso.
He ripped the weapon free and kicked the corpse aside before charging toward another target.
Zephyr stared in horror—eyes wide, heart hammering—as he watched the brutal display unfold. Blood, screams, and laughter blended into a nightmare.
The man Jones had killed died with a look of pure shock frozen on his face.
As Jones moved to strike his second opponent, his glaive collided with a massive axe.
The clash of steel rang out like thunder.
Jones was stunned, his gaze locking onto the figure in front of him.
A mountain of a man, bald and covered in scars, stood nearly two meters tall.
He looked at Jones with mild amusement.
Then came the smile.
A twisted, evil grin stretched across the man's face.
With a mighty swing, the scarred giant struck.
The impact launched Jones off his horse—and Zephyr with him.
They crashed into the sand, rolling violently.
Zephyr coughed and spat sand, struggling to breathe.
He was lucky—had it not been soft sand, his spine might have shattered.
Rubbing his eyes clear of grit, Zephyr looked around.
To his left—nothing.
To his right—there! Jones lay on the ground, trying to stand, his glaive in hand.
The scarred giant walked slowly toward him.
Just as Jones got to his feet, the man kicked him brutally in the stomach, sending him flying again.
Jones screamed in pain as he hit the ground hard.
The giant kept walking.
"You dare attack my men?" he growled.
"You think you can kill me? That's hilarious… and insulting."
He reached Jones, raised his axe high—ready to decapitate him.
But just before the blade fell, another Skull mercenary intervened, slashing the giant's arm.
No reaction.
The man simply turned to the attacker, muttered,
"Annoying insect."
Then he drew a dagger and drove it into the mercenary's throat.
The man fell, choking and gurgling as blood poured from his neck, desperately gasping for air—until he died.
The scarred giant stepped past the body, raised his axe again—
But this time, it clashed against a long black sword with a skull carved into its hilt.
"You picked the wrong day to mess with my men," Arlond said, eyes blazing.
The giant paused.
His eyes followed the black blade upward—along the sculpted hilt, across Arlond's muscled arm, until they met his face.
The scarred man grinned.
"Heh. Finally. A worthy opponent."