More than fifteen well-armed men stood against us. They split up and began circling from the sides. They were men of varying ages and builds, yet each radiated the aura of someone who’d seen battle many times before. Their eyes tracked our every move, and with each passing second, their fingers tightened further around sharp steel blades. When they formed a semicircle around us, complete silence fell for several seconds.

  “Maybe there’s still a way to talk this out?” Scot called out loudly. “You’re only twice our number—get it? Guys, whatever sum you were paid isn’t worth your lives.”

  No one answered him. Scot took a few steps forward, leaving our defensive circle, and leveled his spearpoint ahead. The sparse sunbeams that pierced through the tall treetops glinted brilliantly off the blade, dancing across the enemies’ clothing. Scot’s spear was a single piece of metal unknown to me—only a thin leather strap wrapped around its shaft distinguished it from a giant needle dropped by a seamstress titan.

  “Ah, so this is your choice? I admire such resolve—even though you can feel death coming,” Scot tilted his head left and smiled. “You know what you and my dinner have in common? It’ll go cold soon… just like your bodies.”

  At those words, one warrior swung his sword and attacked. Three others immediately followed, giving no time to react. But Scot sidestepped his opponent and struck. His spear pierced the first warrior’s skull straight through the eye socket. The tip didn’t emerge from the other side, nor was there any smell of burnt flesh—apparently, he hadn’t intended to use the spear’s special ability at all, relying solely on his skill.

  At the same moment, Sem halted the rest of the attackers, drawing two identical short swords coated in some kind of gold-like sheen. He positioned himself so perfectly that he pinned two of them in place, blocking the third’s advance. After shoving them back, he returned to our formation. His breathing remained calm, his movements light. Scot also rejoined the defensive line, a faint smile on his face:

  “They seemed dumb—but didn’t all rush at once. You can tell they’re trained. Would’ve been easier to wipe out the whole mob together, but that ‘coat’ worries me. Anything known about him?”

  “He’s known in certain circles as a man who ‘cleans up trash,’” Drodul explained. “His services are expensive, but he always does clean work. Don’t know if the baron hired him or not—but we’ll definitely have trouble with him. He’s no weaker than silver-rank. Can’t say more—too many rumors floating around.”

  “Great,” Scot scanned the surroundings. “Don’t want to walk into his prepared strike while dealing with the grunts.”

  “Maybe use bait?” Beri suggested.

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  “Not bad—but what would lure him in?”

  “We’ll try everything—and see how it plays out,” Sem cut short their quiet discussion. “Attack.”

  At his command, Scot lunged into the crowd. Just before his spear clashed with enemy blades, four arrows flew ahead, sharply diverting attention. One struck an unlucky fighter in the shoulder. His comrades immediately pulled him back—but before he could recover, another arrow pierced his neck. Warm blood gushed from the wound in a dark stream as he tried to stop it with his hand. That was Mikhail’s work. Yet he’d already forgotten the dying man and was selecting his next target.

  Scot was once again among enemies, just like in the goblin fight. His own movements and those of his spear resembled a serpent’s dance. He fought five opponents at once, pressing them tighter with every strike. None had fallen yet, but wounds on their bodies grew more frequent.

  Sem and Drodul advanced forward, forming an unbreakable wall that halted the enemy’s push. Behind them, the twins provided cover—but at times it seemed they could handle things perfectly well on their own. Especially Sem. He faced four foes, yet it felt as if they kept getting in each other’s way—only two could engage him directly at a time, sometimes just one. They constantly collided, blocking each other’s paths. Drodul met only three, but he completely overwhelmed them.

  Beri and I stayed behind everyone, doing nothing—yet we didn’t feel like a burden to the team. More like observers whose presence had no bearing on the battle. This lasted a couple of minutes until I heard a cry. It was Beri’s voice. Turning, I saw the man in the coat standing right beside her, gripping her wrist and trying to pull her toward him.

  But how? He’d been standing far behind everyone. He couldn’t have run past Sem and Drodul. He never even reached Scot—so how did he get here?! And my sense of living beings didn’t warn me of his approach either. He was just… there. Is that even possible?

  A flood of questions instantly churned in my mind. I turned, ready to charge—but realized I couldn’t. I simply lacked the strength to stop him. I froze in place, watching helplessly, unable to act.

  “Let her go!” Larry spun toward the enemy and aimed her bow at him.

  “That won’t help. You’ve already missed your chance, so any attempt—” The man didn’t finish. He suddenly felt immense pressure pushing him away from the small girl. He tried to tighten his grip, but the repelling force only grew stronger. His fingers lost hold of her slender wrist, and his boots began carving furrows in the grass. He resisted for a few more seconds—then a reddish flash erupted between them. A tremendous force hurled him backward over ten meters until he slammed into an old tree. Leaves rained down from the impact, and his hat fell off, revealing his sparse dark hair. Before he could recover, a soft whistle reached his ears—followed by a surge of danger. Three arrows buried themselves exactly where he’d sat a second earlier. But he was already gone.

  I turned my head and saw him standing once more behind the group fighting Scot. His coat was rumpled, but otherwise he looked perfectly unharmed. Interest—and far greater focus—now gleamed in his brown eyes.

  Drodul shoved back the warriors he’d been battling and created distance:

  “Yeah, I just remembered something. His name is Gragov Grelts. We need to be extremely careful of his movements.”

  “Real timely memory. Good job,” Beri said, rubbing her wrist.

  “Sorry. I did say there were too many rumors about him.”