It happened near midday, when the sun had already reached its zenith and the road stretched clear before Joel. He rode away from Kelion at a leisurely pace, careful to maintain his image as an ordinary citizen. He would have preferred to travel on foot—he knew that, using his true speed, he would have left the city behind in a matter of minutes—but that would have meant completely shattering the image he was still cultivating.

  For now, Evander Glezos remained an ordinary merchant, mounted on an ordinary horse, moving at a human pace.

  He had deliberately headed north. Not because it was the most direct route to the refuge, but precisely because it wasn't. Dispelling curious glances was a habit he performed almost reflexively. However, it wasn't long before his instincts began to tell him that something was watching him.

  At first, it was just a vague feeling, a slight pressure on the back of his neck. Then he noticed a peculiar group of riders in the distance behind him, suspiciously maintaining the same speed as he was.

  Joel glanced at them for several minutes, but the distance between them never changed. He loosened the reins slightly and let his horse slow down. Almost immediately, the figures behind him did the same.

  Confirmed.

  Thanks to his exceptional eyesight, he quickly spotted the group of riders, identifying five of them, always maintaining a safe distance. When he stopped, they stopped too. When he resumed his pace, they mirrored his movements. They didn't try to catch him, nor did they try to disappear. It was clumsy surveillance, but persistent.

  Joel calmly assessed the situation, and the possibilities quickly unfolded in his mind: the gold he had moved in the city, the energy crystals, the fact that he was traveling alone, or a combination of all of the above. There was also the possibility that his false identity had failed at some point, although he hadn't detected any clear signs of this.

  He discreetly checked the condition of his revolvers, concealed beneath his clothing. Everything was in order.

  The mere fact that these men relied on horses and avoided operating too close to the city spoke volumes. They most likely weren't high-level mystic warriors. Probably not at all. Organized bandits, opportunists… or low-level mercenaries looking for easy prey.

  Joel took a deep breath and remained calm. There was still a chance it was all a misunderstanding. So, when the road led him to a small town, he decided to test that hypothesis. He drove in unhurriedly, crossed the main street, paused for a few minutes like any indecisive traveler… and then took a side road that branched off to the southeast, much narrower and almost deserted.

  He rode for several minutes along the winding road, constantly glancing over his shoulder, but no one seemed to be following him.

  Silence settled in again, bringing with it a momentary sense of relief. Perhaps he had exaggerated, and they were just travelers sharing the same route. With that thought, Joel decided it was time to hasten his return. He looked for a suitable spot to leave the horse and continue on foot.

  That's when he heard it. The unmistakable sound of horses' hooves striking the ground, this time much closer. Too close.

  Joel turned his head, and there they were again: the same riders, emerging from a bend and moving forward without even trying to conceal their presence.

  Joel spotted them when they were still more than a hundred meters away. At that distance, and with the speed he was capable of, he could have vanished from the road in an instant, broken their line of sight, and left behind any possibility of conflict.

  But he didn't. Something inside him anchored him to the spot. This was a secluded area, with no nearby villages or travelers in sight. No witnesses. An almost ideal environment. Perhaps the moment had come to see, for the first time, what the warriors of Gaea were truly made of… and how dangerous this world was for someone like him.

  Joel loosened the reins and stopped his horse in the middle of the road.

  Noticing that their target wasn't moving forward, the group of riders immediately slowed down. Their initial determination gave way to caution. They approached with more measured steps, alert to any unusual movement, until they stopped a little over ten meters away.

  The five men watched him with obvious bewilderment.

  The scene didn't match anything they expected. Most of the prey would flee, beg, or, at best, try to negotiate. Joel, on the other hand, calmly dismounted his horse and stood in the middle of the road, upright and motionless, as if he were the one who had summoned them there.

  “What the hell is he doing…?” one of them murmured, unable to hide his unease.

  The man at the front of the group, clearly the leader, narrowed his eyes as he examined him closely. “This is strange…” he said quietly. “He seems to want to confront us. But I don’t detect any energy in his body.”

  “It looks like a trap…” added another, the youngest, with a barely concealed tremor in his voice, as he surveyed the surroundings.

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  Joel didn’t react to any of the comments. His face remained neutral, almost blank, without a trace of fear or defiance. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached under his coat and pulled out a hunting knife. It was long, single-edged, with a thick, sturdy blade. He gripped it firmly in his right hand and let his arm hang relaxed at his side.

  The contrast was absurd. Five armed men, mounted and ready for an assault… facing a single individual wielding a simple knife.

  Some couldn't help but show surprise; one even twisted his mouth into a mocking grimace. Only the leader remained serious, assessing the situation with growing discomfort.

  “We know you’re carrying gold and crystals,” the leader finally exclaimed. “Hand them over, and we’ll leave you alone.”

  “But the boss said no witnesses,” one of the men protested from behind.

  “Shut up,” the leader snapped. “Nobody asked for your opinion. I’m in charge here.”

  Then he turned his attention back to Joel. “Think it over carefully. Nobody has to get hurt.”

  Joel didn’t reply. He simply turned his head slowly from side to side, as if assessing his surroundings… or mentally counting his opponents.

  That silent gesture was enough to further heighten the tension in the group. The leader frowned, clearly losing patience.

  It was then that the youngest man brought his left hand to his ear, touching a small device embedded there. It was something like an earpiece, though made of a black, crystalline material that reflected light in a strange way.

  He remained silent for a second, listening. “Darmien says we should stop wasting time and attack,” he finally announced. “Our victim is just an ordinary man.”

  If Joel had heard those words, he didn’t show it at all. His expression remained unchanged as the five men dismounted and began to block his path, moving cautiously, like predators circling prey they didn’t quite understand.

  Four of them drew curved swords, well-maintained blades that reflected the midday light. The fifth, the leader, advanced with greater poise, wielding a pair of short swords in a way that revealed real combat experience.

  “Be careful,” he warned firmly, positioning himself directly in front of Joel. “He might still have some mystical artifact.”

  He paused briefly before adding, with a hint of irritation, “You should have handed over the gold.”

  From the five men's perspective, Joel's attitude seemed absurd. He showed no fear, no nervousness, not even tension. His posture was relaxed, almost nonchalant. His eyes, however, were completely fixed on the leader, attentive to every breath, every slightest shift in weight, as if he were studying him piece by piece.

  It was precisely at the moment the leader's gaze shifted slightly to the left that everything happened.

  Joel reacted. His body moved back just a few centimeters, in a movement so swift that no human eye could clearly follow it. One blink he was motionless; the next, an arrow lay firmly in his left hand, stopped mere centimeters from his chest.

  The silence was broken by a collective gasp.

  Without losing a second, Joel dropped the arrow to the ground. With a fluid, almost mechanical movement, he drew his revolver and fired twice in rapid succession toward the edge of the road, near a tree about a hundred meters away.

  The shots echoed like dry thunder in the open air. Both bullets struck something that couldn't be clearly seen, followed by a guttural, unnatural growl from a point that seemed empty. Something invisible stirred briefly before disappearing into the undergrowth.

  The effect was immediate. The leader's face paled, and any trace of control vanished from his expression. "Attack!" he shouted desperately, rushing forward alongside the others.

  Joel holstered his revolver with the same calm with which he had drawn it and focused all his attention on the five figures bearing down on him.

  What followed was a disturbing spectacle. Swords sliced ??through the air from every possible angle, coordinated, precise, executed by men clearly trained to fight as a group. Yet each attack missed by impossibly small margins. Joel moved among them like a living shadow, dodging blades that should have struck him, ducking, twisting, and retreating with perfect economy of movement.

  Although it was obvious that he could have ended the fight at any time, he did not respond in any way, he simply watched. He analyzed the rhythm of their steps, the way they covered the flanks, the precise moments they lowered their guard, trusting their companions. From the outside, it seemed almost like a cruel game: five warriors fighting with everything they had, and a single man simply avoiding their attacks. A cold analysis that lasted several minutes, until he finally raised his knife.

  Soon, the confrontation ceased to be a mere evasive dance and transformed into a real exchange of blows. Joel advanced a step, and his hunting knife clashed against the first curved sword with a dry, metallic sound, followed by a cascade of sparks. From that moment on, the path was filled with the constant clang of steel, rapid impacts following one another without pause.

  The knife he wielded was no ordinary weapon. It hailed from an era where engineering, advanced metallurgy, and industrial processes had reached almost obsessive levels of perfection. In its world of origin, that piece had been considered a luxury item: perfect balance, impeccable edge, and exceptional durability. However, when faced with Gaea's weapons, the difference became apparent.

  After each clash, the edge suffered. Tiny nicks appeared on the blade, almost imperceptible at first, but accumulating rapidly. The problem became even more pronounced each time the knife met the leader's short swords. Those weapons were not only denser, but they seemed to absorb some of the impact, as if designed to withstand forces beyond the purely physical.

  The men began to grow frustrated. Their coordination remained good, their movements precise and practiced, but none of them could even touch Joel. He slipped between attacks with insulting ease, turning just enough, taking a precise step back, anticipating each thrust half a second before it found its mark.

  Finally, just as Joel's weapon seemed about to break, his composure shifted completely. Enough was enough.

  The knife in his hand began to emit a growing glow, faint at first, then increasingly intense, until the blade was enveloped in a vibrant white light. Before the men could react or even comprehend what was happening, Joel executed the move.

  Five arcs of energy fanned out from the weapon, slicing through the air with a sharp, unnatural hiss.

  The result was immediate and brutal. Four bodies collapsed almost simultaneously, their heads cleanly severed from the rest of their bodies before they could even feel the impact. Blood took a second to flow, as if reality itself needed time to process what had occurred.

  The leader was the only one who reacted in time. He crossed his short swords in front of him and managed to intercept the energy arc aimed at him. The impact was devastating. The weapons held… barely. Both blades were nearly split in two, twisted and charred, unusable. Even so, they had served their purpose.

  The man's face changed completely. Every trace of sanity, every shred of certainty vanished, replaced by pure, visceral terror.

  At the same time, Joel's knife began to melt in his hand. The accumulated heat was overwhelming. Unlike his katana, this weapon possessed no spiritual connection to him, nor was it designed to channel such a vast amount of energy. The blade warped, lost its strength, and slipped like soft metal through his fingers.

  Joel showed no discomfort. He simply dropped it to the ground. Then, with a fluid motion, he drew his revolver and fired three times. Two bullets struck the leader's knees, shattering his kneecaps. The third lodged in his abdomen, cutting off his breath with a strangled scream.

  Before the man could collapse, Joel was already in front of him and violently grabbed one of his arms.

  What followed was neither quick nor clean. Joel broke both of his feet with sharp, precise movements, one after the other, then did the same to his hands. The sound of bones fracturing mingled with the man's muffled screams. Finally, a brutal blow to the face shattered his jaw, silencing him completely.

  Without wasting a moment, Joel hoisted the trembling body onto his shoulder as if it weighed nothing and sprinted toward the source of the first attack, the one with the arrow, leaving behind the corpses, the restless horses, and a path that, for the first time, had borne direct witness to what he was truly capable of.