Six scout riders ambled down the trail. Clad in leather armor and bearing knightly swords, they patrolled carelessly, chatting and laughing—clearly untroubled for many days. Scratches covered the chest area of their armor where insignia once lay. From his perch, Rogue suddenly felt his heart lurch, as if a venomous serpent had fixed its gaze upon him. The portly man instantly withdrew the Wizard Eye, closed his eyes, and focused entirely on sensing magical fluctuations. His exceptional mental energy immediately detected a faint mana source approaching from two miles away. Given that the Wizard Eye hadn’t sensed it earlier, the mage must be under an invisibility spell—likely at least a mid-level practitioner.

Rogue was momentarily at a loss. Mental perception could only pinpoint the mage’s general direction, and True Sight—a fourth-level spell capable of piercing invisibility—was beyond his current ability. But solutions always existed. After a moment’s thought, a sly grin spread across his face. While the mage was still some distance off, he quickly conferred with Ete, the nearest mercenary, then vanished into the forest with unnatural agility.

The patrol riders leisurely digested their breakfast, though the forest scenery did little to enhance their mood. They felt secure, knowing a mid-level mage guarded them unseen. Their simple minds never considered themselves bait. They began discussing the young, lone village girl encountered during last month’s patrol, their laughter growing louder.

Death arrives most unexpectedly. From the forest depths, a swarm of arrows flew. Twenty shortbows and three crossbows targeted the three lead riders. These scouts were skilled; they deflected arrows with surprising speed, blocking nearly half despite the surprise. Yet each of the front three still took several hits, tumbling from their saddles. The three unwounded riders reacted instantly, spurring into the woods before the mercenaries could loose a second volley.

Discarding bows, the mercenaries drew longswords for close combat. The patrol riders were proficient fighters, especially the one wielding a Greatsword. He maneuvered his mount with astonishing agility, weaving between trees to plunge into the midst of three sword-drawing mercenaries. His Greatsword swept out, felling one, then lashed lightning-fast at a second. The mercenary parried; steel clanged as his sword was knocked aside. Terror-stricken, he raised his knightly steel shield to protect his chest. The Greatsword’s tip scraped against the curved shield, showering sparks with a grating shriek. The shield’s curve deflected the blow, but the impact hurled the mercenary backward, his arm snapping with a crisp crack. The rider smirked, wrist flicking the blade downward, piercing deep into the mercenary’s unarmored thigh.

The third mercenary dove behind a tree. The Greatsword rider scanned him—his armor noticeably finer—and instantly abandoned the wounded men, spurring after him. That mercenary was Lance, now fighting for his life. Clad head-to-toe, he displayed agility rivaling a thief, darting through the trees. The knight relentlessly pursued but couldn’t close the gap.

The other two patrol riders lacked such luck or skill. One chased a mercenary; suddenly, two halberds swung down from an overhead tree. Startled, he threw himself flat against his saddle, kicking his mount forward three meters—a narrow escape. Yet another halberd struck silently from behind, shearing through leather armor and nearly splitting him in two. Kait leaped lightly from the tree, didn’t pause to check the corpse, and rushed toward the sounds of combat, halberd in hand. The remaining patrol rider was surrounded by Ete and five other mercenaries. No tiger withstands a wolf pack; soon a mercenary struck his thigh from behind, and he fell under a rain of blades.

After circling with Lance twice more, the distant screams changed the Greatsword rider’s mind. He wheeled his mount to flee. His horse reared violently—a crossbow bolt protruding from its rump. The rider was thrown clear. Unfazed by the fall, he rolled to his feet just as Kait, halberd dripping blood, blocked his path. Behind him, Ete appeared with a heavy blade. Fraggio, crossbow raised, and Lance, who had seemingly escaped, emerged from the trees. Sweat beaded the rider’s palms. He cursed, "Where the blazes is that damned mage?"

The mage’s situation was dire. Upon detecting the Wizard Eye, he’d cast invisibility and cautiously approached the battlefield. Hearing the distant clash, he was fortunate to spot a gleaming knight in full armor hiding thirty meters away—an officer by appearance. Pleased with his luck, he loosed a lightning bolt. It struck true; the knight crumpled, sparks dancing over his frame. The mage, now visible, strode confidently toward his fallen foe. Trusting his spell’s power, he had a second lightning bolt ready.

The knight struggled upright. The second bolt crossed the void, striking him again. Yet he didn’t fall. Instead, he turned. Beneath the helmet, only a skull stared back, deep sockets flickering with pale flames fixed upon the mage. Horror-struck, the mage watched as the skeleton seemed to grin. His mouth went dry, palms slick. Instincts honed by years of combat made him activate his amulet. A pillar of white light rose from the ground around him, then vanished—but an invisible magical field now enveloped the mage. The second-tier "Mage Armor" spell was economical, practical, simple to learn, and absolutely essential for a traveling mage’s defense.

Already a mid-level mage, he still used the amulet to trigger this basic spell solely to save precious seconds for his next incantation. In battle, time was a mage’s second life. Equal power, equal spell—the one who finished first held the advantage. Incantation speed varied; accent, speech habits, even daily mood could affect performance. As the continent knew, stutterers couldn’t become master mages. Yet speed wasn’t everything—faster casting increased failure risk, higher-level spells often had longer, more complex incantations, and crucial phonemes couldn’t be shortened. Which syllables *could* be abbreviated was often a mage’s deepest secret, rarely shared even with close apprentices.

The mage’s incantation concluded. A summoning array glowed on the ground, light coalescing into a forming magical creature. Rogue, silent as shadow, had crept up behind him. His battle-axe swung downward. The mage was moments from decapitation when Rogue felt his axe strike something like soft butter, veering wildly off course. A neophyte with the axe, he hadn’t yet mastered controlling its swing.

Startled, the mage dodged sideways. The axe still gashed a long, bloody line across his shoulder. Rogue kicked out—a sweep instead of his favorite groin shot. Predictably, his foot sank into nothingness, as if striking cotton. Yet the powerful kick still sent the mage flying.

"ROAR!" A thunderous growl erupted behind Rogue. He turned to see a black panther poised to pounce. "Damn it!" Rogue cursed his luck. Having closed in successfully, the mage was finished—until his rare combat-type familiar intervened. Stripped of his armor (donned by Breezemoon), Rogue wore only a thin shirt, utterly defenseless against fangs. "WHOOSH!" A halberd sliced through the air toward the panther—Breezemoon, burdened by heavy armor, had finally arrived. The panther instantly shifted focus, lunging at the skeleton.

Wiping cold sweat, Rogue turned with a cruel grin toward the groaning mage struggling to rise. His axe swung again. Protected by Mage Armor, the mage was no match for Rogue’s brute strength. Wounds bloomed crimson across his body. After several spells were interrupted, the mage gritted his teeth, hurling a fistful of multicolored gems. This struck Rogue’s weakness. His attack faltered as he hesitated, eyeing the gems’ quality. Seizing his chance, the mage scrambled to flee—but a root suddenly coiled from the earth, tripping him headlong. Agony flared from countless wounds; the mage nearly passed out.

Breezemoon fought the panther at a disadvantage. The armor was too heavy, the halberd unwieldy. For a skeleton of limited strength, knightly gear was ill-suited. Matched to the mage’s level, this panther was formidable. Thankfully, its fangs couldn’t penetrate Rogue’s meticulously crafted steel plates. Compared to months past, Breezemoon now possessed evenly proportioned, robust bones with a smooth, lustrous sheen; his joints were seamless and strong—clearly a superior specimen. In this clash, Breezemoon sacrificed a leg bone to land an axe blow that sheared off half the panther’s tail. In return, deep fang marks and cracks scored his thigh bone.

Feeling Breezemoon’s distant anxiety, Rogue recalled the ongoing battle and glanced back. That moment of distraction was his undoing. A faint incantation whispered behind him. Rogue whirled, seeing the grinning mage ignite a scroll. A fist-sized fireball filled his vision. With no choice, Rogue raised his axe to shield his face and threw himself flat.

"BOOM!" Roaring flames erupted. The black crystal on Rogue’s axe hilt hummed softly; a faintly shimmering black-tinted shield enveloped him. Yet it couldn’t withstand the full inferno. The scent of roasting meat spread through the woods. The mage, already grievously wounded, stood no chance against the fireball’s fury—reduced instantly to charred ash.

The panther vanished back to its realm. Severely wounded, Breezemoon also retreated to the Otherworld. The fragrant Rogue struggled to his feet, then collapsed again. As darkness claimed him, he swore never to spare a cornered foe again.