DREAM: Rebirth across Time

Victory Favors the Bold

Clinton made a double-watch post.

They moved with grim precision.

Sitting close to the fire, Steven prodded at a scorched pork on a tin plate.

Twyford groaned and sat down next to him, massaging his shoulder.

A shout, however, came from the edge of the camp before the warmth had subsided.

"East side, movement!"

In a moment, the camp came alive.

Swords drawn.

The second attack was less coordinated.

The bandits were chased away in a matter of minutes.

Steven had battled once more.

There was no freezing this time.

He made no hesitation.

The men witnessed it.

Clinton, too, nodded curtly as he went by.

The following afternoon, it occurred once more.

Another battle.

This time, Steven showed more braveness. He initiated combat with the enemy and successfully captured the bandit.

The atmosphere of the camp had changed by evening.

He was no longer viewed with suspicion or sympathy by the guards.

As he gazed into the fire, Steven considered the path that lay ahead.

He was uncertain about what Headow would bring.

However, for the first time, he felt prepared to face the challenges.

Arms bound behind his back, the bandit sat against a tree, his mouth bloodied but unyielding.

While his right eye had swollen shut, his left eye glowed with hatred and caution.

The rustling of leaves, distant crickets, and the murmur of a nearby stream were among the sounds of dusk that throbbed through the forest around him.

Steven knelt down in front of the prisoner and watched.

"You will not get answers by staring," the bandit grumbled, spitting aside.

Steven remained expressionless. "You will help me figure out why there are so many bandits on the roads."

The man gave a little, sour laugh. "The reason is that nobody can stop us. The lords have lost their grip on the land, barely struggling to survive."

Twyford moved forward, holding a waterskin after Steven gave him a single nod.

The bandit grabbed it and took a deep drink before giving Steven a suspicious look.

Steven asked. "Tell me about the bandits that are in charge of these areas. Who is suffocating the vitality of trade routes?"

The bandit shrugged after he hesitated. "There are two major groups: the Red Scorpion and the Black Fangs. A caravan cannot move unless it pays the toll."

The eyes of Steven narrowed a bit. "And you are with..."

He spat out, "Red Scorpion. To the east of this place, the hills and trade routes belong to them."

Steven cocked his head. "A mastermind?"

The man reluctantly replied, "Five captains. Each has outposts and territory."

Steven took notice of that.

He maintained a neutral expression. "Explain them to me."

The bandit who had been apprehended answered. "I am not familiar with names. Top-level orders are communicated to lower-level ones."

Heart pounding, Steven stood slowly as he considered his next course of action.

He turned to face the silently observing Clinton. "What do you think?"

Clinton knitted his brows. "If this is accurate..."

He paused. "We have strayed into a network. If we hit the incorrect node, the entire nest could collapse on us."

Steven laid out his plan. "We will cut a segment of this network."

Arms folded, Twyford took a step closer. "Which part?"

Drawing an approximate plan of the terrain, roads, and villages based on previous scouting, Steven pointed to the road map.

He tapped a spot close to the eastern ridge and said, "This pass is said to be controlled by one of the captains. We will attack their outpost and break their hold on Headow."

Clinton said somberly. "This plan is bold."

Silent and pale, the moon hung low, seemingly grasping its breath for what lay ahead.

The bandit outpost, flickering torchlight illuminating the reckless laughter of men who believed themselves untouchable, was tucked away deep in the hills.

Steven crouched his eyes, following the terrain like a seasoned strategist.

He quickly traced a rough outline of the perimeter with his fingers on the dirt.

He spoke in a purposeful, taut whisper. "As soon as the eastern gate opens, we launch a direct attack."

Clinton turned to look at Steven. "And you?"

Steven stood up straight, his hand on his sword. "I am in charge of the frontal attack. We will drive them into confusion and completely destroy them."

Twyford smiled mischievously. "My prince, I did not think you were capable of this."

Steven did not answer right away.

He kept his eyes focused on the outpost, the battlefield, the enemy, and the objective.

At last, he spoke. "I have had enough of hesitation."

Steven and his group made their way downhill, slowly and methodically, each man full of tension.

When they got close to the edge, Steven lifted his hand and ducked behind a dense bush, pressing towards his sword. The disciplined silence of elite soldiers encircled him.

"Twyford, your path is clear," Steven murmured. "Make it count by taking four."

Twyford smiled, that skewed, menacing smile of a man overconfident in chaos. "Let me open a door large enough to allow death to march through."

Twyford gave a slight nod, and each one of them disappeared into the night, leaving only the shadows of the trees swinging in and out.

The tunnel smelled of blood and mold.

With a knife between his teeth and a heart that pounded like war drums, Twyford hunkered down.

Behind him, the four men moved like phantoms, each step a whisper.

Rats were all over the place.

There was a distant murmur — voices.

Drunken bandits.

They reached the end of the tunnel.

By the grate, two sentries were playing dice.

Twyford gave the signal.

The first man was slit before he could scream.

Wide-eyed, the second turned to see a sword pierce his abdomen.

They climbed up, silent and quick, killing two more drowsy guards with accurate blows.

Twyford reached for the lever and pulled it down with his might.

The entrance was made of wood and creaked open.

Steven narrowed his gaze as the gate trembled.

The moment had come.

He growled, "On me."

Screams could not rise until arrows hissed into throats.

Silently, steel and flesh converged.

His men rushed forward.

The first person through the entrance was Steven.

He sliced through a bandit as his blade arced in a neat circle.

Before this journey, he had never been killed.

Now, though, he felt the weight of each blow—not guilt, but purpose.

Every kill was for survival.

Every drop of blood represented a step toward hope and Headow.

Twyford commanded his team in a steel rush.

The shocked bandits were sliced down before they could even draw their own line.

Then he kicked another into the wall, buried his sword in the collarbone, and spun around, slashing across the chest after parrying a blow.

Footfalls thudded, steel clanged, blood sprayed.

Halfway through, he encountered a savage bandit with twin axes.

Almost clipped by the first swing, Twyford ducked, slid forward, and slashed his blade into the thighs.

As the bandit roared and swung down, Twyford used his sword to catch the axe and his off-hand to slam a dagger into the bandit's gut.

The body dropped.

Twyford didn't even glance down.

Steven deflected the wide slash then cut low, his blade slicing through the attacker. He whirled, his blade making a lethal arc across the chest as another charged.

His movements resembled those of a dancer; each kill was clean, and his movements were deliberate.

He yelled, "Take the courtyard!"

And then a huge bandit with a spiked club charged at him.

Steven slammed his pommel into the jaw after sidestepping and catching the wrist.

The man stumbled, and Steven mercilessly cut his throat.

Clinton fought like a monster at the rear flank.

His longsword cut through the battlefield with an accuracy that had been refined over many years of combat.

Clinton shattered the bone of a bandit with a vicious uppercut, and his sword passed through the ribs.

He roared, "Push forward!"

The men immediately obeyed, switching places and forcing the bandits into a kill zone.

A horn rang out from far inside the bandit camp.

Disorganized but furious, more enemies poured out of the building.

"Return to formation!" Clinton ordered.

Steel clanging, men screaming, the clash was deafening.

Steven swerved between the soldiers, slaying assailants with terrifying precision.

With two blades in perfect synchronization, he and Clinton engaged in a back-to-back battle.

Twyford took down three soldiers with a single strike as he rushed into the battle.

A large bandit appeared, his presence intimidating the soldiers.

"Yours," Clinton said to Steven and moved out of the way.

Steven walked over.

They circled each other.

The bandit chuckled.

Steven remained silent.

His first blow was low and quick.

The bandit blocked.

Sparks flew as they exchanged blows, and the ground rumbled under them.

Next, Steven made a feint.

The bandit fell for it.

After slipping beneath the blow, Steven stabbed him in the ribs.

Coughing up blood, the bandit fell, his eyes wide with shock.

"It is clear from the side!" Twyford bellowed.

Steven looked him in the eyes and nodded curtly.

"Advance!" He gave the order.

The battlefield was theirs.

Flickering shadows were cast on the blood-stained ground by the flames.

The screams had subsided into moans.

Although steel rang less now, the battle was far from over.