Ruin has come to our family

Lance's gaze swept across the crowd, but all who met it quickly looked away, fearing they would be chosen. The Mercenary Captain, seeing this, laughed aloud. He picked up the longsword and brandished it tauntingly at the commoners, but not one soul dared to answer.

These were the shackles of the common folk. They were like scattered sand, with no concept of unity or resistance. To survive in this world, they had learned that dignity was a luxury; all that mattered was to endure, to live. They were a flock of tamed sheep, and the shepherds were, naturally, the ruling class. The sheepdogs were men like the Mercenary Captain.

But Lance had never placed his hopes in them. He was already prepared.

"I will!"

A voice cried out from the quiet crowd. Those standing near the speaker scrambled away, as if afraid of being mistaken for him. The sea of people parted, revealing a figure clad in armor, wielding a mace and a stout shield. His hair and beard were white as frost, his face old, but his stride was firm. His one good eye was locked on the captain in the center of the circle.

"It's him! He's still alive!"

"He's the one who saved me."

"He held back the brigands."

"..."

A murmur spread through the crowd as they finally recognized the veteran, the man who had stayed to fight when all others had fled, the only sellsword who had been willing to protect them.

Isn't that the armor and weapons I stole? How did he get them back? Not only the townsfolk, but the captain himself was stunned by the veteran's appearance. Faced with the old soldier's aura, as steady and imposing as a mountain, his earlier arrogance evaporated. On presence alone, the battle was already lost.

"Your opponent has arrived."

Lance's words pulled the captain's attention back to him. Seeing the smile on Lance's face, he finally understood why the new lord had been so agreeable. It was all a trap. And he was the stepping stone, a sacrifice to cement the lord's authority.

No, I have to find a way out! His choice to run when the brigands attacked proved he was not a man who would fight to the death. If I could take the lord hostage, maybe I could escape... But one look at the knight standing beside Lance, and he immediately dismissed the thought. The pressure Reynauld had put on him the previous night was too immense. Even with a weapon, he stood no chance. As for running, he was not confident he could outpace a horse. And looking at the two knights, the much older veteran seemed the easier target.

After weighing his options, the captain knew he had only one path left: he had to kill this old geezer.

The veteran entered the ring. The two men faced each other. The captain's expression was savage, like a cornered beast. But the veteran remained as steady as a mountain, unmoved by the captain's posturing. The veteran could wait, but the captain could not. With a strange cry, he charged, sword raised. The sight sent the surrounding townsfolk stumbling backward, widening the circle of combat.

The captain had survived for years as a mercenary. He knew more than just how to run; his methods for killing were both vicious and plentiful. He relied on his brute strength, swinging wildly, while the veteran simply raised his shield, giving ground with each blow.

To the townsfolk, it looked as if the old, frail veteran was at a clear disadvantage against the younger, stronger captain. This one-sided exchange filled many in the crowd with despair. They had hoped the veteran could defeat him, but the scales of victory seemed to be tipping away.

Lance, however, showed little reaction.

He had discussed the choice of a champion with his men the previous night. Both Dismas and Reynauld had been against his plan. The veteran had been grievously wounded, and though his wound was now healed, his body was still weak. A single night was not enough to recover. Neither of them knew the extent of the veteran's skill, and they did not believe a weakened old man could defeat the captain. Dismas, of course, had wanted the fight for himself, to prove his worth.

But in the end, Lance had overruled them. He needed the veteran to build his own legend, and besides, he had faith in the old soldier's ability.

The strength of his youth may have faded, but within him resided the experience of a hundred battles.

The fight continued. To the untrained eye, the captain had the complete advantage, pressing the veteran relentlessly. It seemed only a matter of time before he won. But the captain himself knew he was the one in trouble.

The veteran's shield seemed to possess some demonic magic. No matter how clever or vicious his attack, it was always perfectly blocked. It felt as if he were willingly throwing himself against a wall. And though he was young and strong, his stamina was not endless. His relentless assault was already leaving him winded. To make matters worse, the shoddy sword he was using, taken from some unlucky sellsword, was already chipping after a few blows. He didn't know if it would survive another strike.

No! I have to risk it all. I have to live...

With a sudden roar, the captain put all his strength into his body. The muscles in his bare torso bulged, thick veins standing out. He gripped his sword with both hands, raising it high, looking like a great black bear rising on its hind legs. The sheer pressure he exuded was immense. It was a single, artless overhead chop, but one backed by an explosive burst of power. It felt as if it could cleave a man in two.

The veteran was not intimidated by this display. He held his shield firm. As the sword came down, he could feel the power contained within it. But one does not simply meet force with force when holding a shield. The veteran merely angled his shield slightly, deflecting the blow's power and guiding the momentum of the sword so that it slammed into the ground.

CRACK!

The longsword could not withstand another violent impact and shattered. Without a moment's hesitation, the captain abandoned the broken hilt and lunged forward, trying to use his weight and strength to slam into the veteran and engage in close-quarters brawling.

But his move was completely anticipated. The mace shot out from beneath the veteran's shield and struck his exposed knee. Without armor to protect it, the spikes bit deep into flesh. A scream tore from the captain's throat; his knee was a mangled ruin of blood and pulp. With one blow, the veteran had drawn blood. The captain could barely stand, the pain clearly deep in his bones. Such is the power of a blunt weapon; the real damage is done where it cannot be seen.

Having gained the advantage, the veteran switched from defense to offense. Exploiting his opponent's crippled leg, he began to circle, closing in. The captain's back was now a massive vulnerability, his head exposed to a blow from the mace at any moment. Though movement was agony, the crippled captain could only try to turn with him. He was like a bull on a tether, being toyed with by the veteran.

And in that moment, he could feel the aura of death closing in on him. Fear broke him, and he began to cry and beg for mercy, spewing all manner of promises and pleas in an attempt to win sympathy.