The wagon shook from side to side, and Rose’s concerned look flashed from her beefy friend to the wiry woman driving the cart and back.

  “Either you can trust me enough to give me my sword,” Aton insisted, not for the first time, “or we can all die.”

  The delicate little wanna-be warden chewed on her bottom lip, her worry over her friend clearly compromising her better judgment.

  Finally, the girl asked, “What’s to keep you from running out on us once I untie you?”

  “Nothing,” Aton said simply. He didn’t need to persuade the younger girl–she was unlikely to trust anything the eclipsed former-bandit would have to say anyways. “You just have to trust me. I can fight the damned thing off, but I can’t do it while I’m tied up and unarmed!”

  The wagon rattled again, and this time there was a splintering crack that seemed fairly ominous to Aton.

  The scarecrow woman at the front swore. “One way or another Rose, if this thing keeps going like this, we’re gonna lose a wheel!”

  Rose swore enthusiastically, her eyes still locked on her comatose friend. A moment passed, then two, then she swore again and finally looked at Aton. He was unsurprised to see the tear rimming her soft green eyes with redness, but he hadn’t expected the impressive iron that still backed her gaze.

  “Fine! Come here!”

  Aton wiggled around, all he could manage with both his wrists and ankles tied together, until he was close enough for Rose to reach. The redhead moved with quick motions and finally parted the ropes with a keen little knife.

  Aton immediately bounced to his feet. He shook out his hands a little bit, feeling the tingle of blood returning to his underused extremities, and stretched high enough that his hands brushed the bonnet of the wagon–only for another rattle to make him stumble to one side.

  Rose shrieked, “Well?”

  Aton rolled his eyes. “Sword,” he told her curtly, holding out a hand.

  The girl hesitated–but she was committed now, and she didn’t waste much time on doubt. After a moment, she moved some canvas bags of meal aside and revealed the graceful curve of Aton’s saber. Her motions were still tentative, but she handed him the sword.

  Aton’s firm, calloused fingers wrapped around the worn leather of his saber’s hilt, and he felt a knot he hadn’t really even noticed release inside his chest. It had only been a couple days since he was captured, but he hadn’t gone unarmed for even that long since he had first picked up the sword. Holding it in his hands, he felt whole again, as if Rose had offered to return one of his limbs.

  In a smooth motion, he pulled the sword from its sheath, leaving his former captor holding the seemingly-empty leather sheath, and leapt from the back of the wagon.

  Finally, he got his first look at the monster that had been harassing them through the night. Aton had to admit–it fit the reactions it had gotten from the warden doll and the old crone.

  It looked to have once been a boar, and still shared the same general lines–built like a barrel, with stubby legs, its back humping up with powerful shoulder muscles, and two long tusks emerging from its mouth. But something wasn’t right. Rather than brindle fur, it was coated in segmented plates of some sort of matte-black metal. Its tusks boasted similar modifications, each of them now a foot long and ending in axe heads, like halberds pointed towards the ground.

  Overall, it looked like a pig had fucked a furnace and somehow knocked it up, and Aton was immediately sure that it was unnatural, even by the very lax standards of arcane beasts. It was an outsider, it had to be.

  The monster was more persistent than most natural monsters, certainly. It had been following them for over a day, long enough that Aton had taken it for his comrades trying to free him–a foolish hope, he now realized. There was no way Egin or Garret would authorize an action like that, not to free an eclipsed exile they saw more as a rival than a companion.

  The iron boar, or whatever it was, had struck just after midnight, when Rose was the only one of the four passengers in the wagon still awake. The girl’s response, a savage blast of wind, had surprised the beast into a retreat, but only for an hour. The second time, the teamster woman had gotten one of the draft goats to drive it off, though the more natural animal had been mangled by the end, leaving them with just one goat to drag their wagon.

  It was only their growing desperation that had convinced the little warden girl to let Aton free, and now that he was finally armed and unbound, there was at least a small part of the swordsman that longed to do just as she had feared and run off, leaving them to their fate. But the vast majority of him had no desire to return to a life of wandering banditry, a life as likely to end at the blade of a supposed ally as a hangman’s noose. That part wanted to stay, wanted to take this rare chance at redemption.

  Of course, Aton reflected as the squealing monstrosity spun on him, that requires surviving this.

  Normally, Aton was confident in his skills. Prior to his exile, he was considered one of the most talented fencers of his generation, a notable claim in the most ancient and elite Bastion City, and in his time on the road, he had rarely been pushed to his limits. But the vast majority of his combat had been against human opponents, and what little wasn’t had only been against minor monsters–inconsequential threats.

  Both the gift of the fencer he had earned before his abrupt departure from Arsilet and the gift of the bandit he had gained in the years since were geared toward fighting other people. The psychic attack of the gift of the bandit would be weakened, at best, against an unintelligent foe, and the precise attacks of a fencer would be of little use against such a brutal beast, especially considering its armor-like hide.

  Still, he had committed. “Put up or shut up,” he told himself.

  As if his words had sparked its ire, the boar monster gave an ear-rending squeal, like a hog’s natural cry combined with a piece of metal being shredded, and then it charged him.

  First things first, is that metal potent?

  Between them, Aton’s gifts granted boons to strength, speed, coordination, and focus. While he lacked the endurance of some–like the pup knight that he had defeated during the caravan battle–he had the reflexes and skill to avoid most attacks. So, right before the boar hit, the lean swordsman bobbed to one side in a neat dodge, timed so that the boar couldn’t turn in time to compensate. As the monster's charge carried it past him, Aton swung his sword, charging it with a special attack.

  [Stunning Blow] - Attack, Psychic, Active - Make a special attack with potency increased by one tier. On a hit, it momentarily disorients the target. Lesser focus cost.

  Aton didn’t wait around to see what the attack did, dancing backwards even as his sword slid along the monster’s metallic hide. And it was a good thing he did–only the preemptive dodge saved him from the beast’s axeblade tusks as it swung around.

  The boar wasn’t so much as staggered by the psychic aspects of Stunning Blow, which Aton had expected. Significantly worse was that the special attack had failed to penetrate the monster’s armored skin. That meant it had at least tier one potency, enough that his special attacks couldn’t harm it.

  Which was, putting it mildly, a giant fucking problem.

  As the iron boar lunged forward again, Aton reconsidered that maybe, just maybe, making a run for it was a good idea. But there was no time for that now. He was in it. The boar swung its oversized head side to side, its razor sharp axetusks slicing through the air with brutal force.

  Aton’s saber flicked out in seemingly delicate parries, but his enhanced strength and reflexes were such that each was more than enough to block the boar’s swinging tusks, especially enhanced as they were by the gift of the fencer’s defensive ability.

  [Infused Parry] - Defense, Active - Momentarily enhance the potency of your weapon by two tiers when executing a parry. A successful parry also nullifies limited magical effects. Lesser focus cost.

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  If he was just slightly higher leveled, the fight would’ve been over then and there. Aton was familiar with the gift of the fencer through Adept level, and knew that at Initiate he’d gain an Infused Riposte to complement his Parry, allowing him to counter attack with enough potency that even the monster’s iron skin wouldn’t be able to stop it. But Aton had a long way to go to reach Initiate with fencer. He simply hadn’t been pushing his skills the way the gift demanded.

  Once more, the difference between Aton’s bestial adversary and the humanoid foes he was used to became clear. After a fast exchange of cuts and parries, Aton would've expected a normal enemy to break, allowing them each to regain their breath. The boar offered no such reprieve, only becoming more aggressive as it was foiled, and Aton could feel the focus cost of his Parries starting to take their toll even through his boon.

  Desperate, he flicked his sword out between blocks with the pinpoint precision of a veteran fencer, aimed at the only weak spot he had managed to notice on the living weapon–its beady red eyes.

  For the first time, the monster showed surprise, flinching back with another head-splitting squeal, finally giving Aton a moment to breathe–but no more than that. He had to keep moving, had to keep the boar from pressuring him like that again. He danced back a few steps, and the boar responded by setting itself to charge again. Watching it, a plan began to form in Aton’s mind.

  It was a bad plan. But then, so was this entire fight, and it was the best he was likely to come up with.

  “Alright, piggy,” he muttered. He lifted his sword until its hilt was against his ear, the blade stretched out before him at eye level, its curve oriented so the tip pointed up, towards the offensively blue sky overhead. The exiled-noble-turned-bandit-turned-something-else set himself, one foot in front of the other in a lunging stance, knees bent–and then the monster charged.

  The attack was fast by any normal human measure, but Aton was no normal human. He was naturally fast, and had the training and boons to take advantage of that speed. Just as he had the first time, he dodged the charge easily, but this time he held his ground twirling in a tight circle to reorient even as the boar turned around. His eyes met the monster’s beady red gaze, and Aton activated another ability from the gift of the fencer.

  [Guided Strike] - Attack, Active - Make a special attack while focused on a single point to target. The attack will be drawn unerringly to that target. Lesser focus cost.

  The boar’s eyes were barely visible under the thick ridge of metallic hide that sloped over its face, a difficult target for even the most dextrous fighter, but one made simple by Guided Strike. If Aton could see his target, he could hit it.

  In a single motion, as easily as if he had sheathed his blade, Aton thrust his saber into the boar’s eye. It sank in one handspan, then two, before it caught on some protuberance of bone in the boar’s skull.

  Aton smiled, satisfied–and then the monster swung its head, jerking Aton’s sword from his hand, leaving two deep gashes in his abdomen, and sending him flying to one side.

  Well, fuck, Aton thought to himself as pain flared through his body. Cautiously, he lifted his head to see how bad it was, and decided that, despite what his body was trying to tell him, it could’ve been worse. Even surprised as he had been, he had already been trying to dodge when the attack hit him, and the axetusks had failed to disembowel him the way he had feared.

  Of course, “could’ve been worse” was far from “okay”. He was still bleeding copiously, and he didn’t have the resilience boon to shrug off those kinds of deep lacerations. But… if he didn’t get up, he’d certainly die. And then the wagon would be destroyed, along with its occupants.

  The exile tried to sit up, but merely tensing his abs forced a ragged scream from his jaw, and he flopped back into the dirt, panting, every breath another jagged flash of pain through his battered body.

  Well. He had tried. Aton had fucked up plenty in his life, but at the very least, in the end, he had died fighting a good fight. He hadn’t abandoned some helpless people to their deaths. He had done everything he could. He had simply failed.

  Heh. Better than getting strung up at least, right?

  Aton closed his eyes, ready for it all to go black.

  #

  “Heal him.”

  Rose spun around, shocked.

  She hadn’t been mistaken. The rough words had been spoken by Beryl. It was the first time her friend had been conscious enough to speak since the attack.

  “What?” She knew what her friend had said, but…

  “Heal him,” Beryl repeated, her voice rough and weak. “Y’gotta.”

  “I can’t,” Rose told her. “Only my Critical Healing could get him back on his feet, and if I did that, then you…”

  “Rose.” Beryl’s mouth twitched, the expression to be feeble to be called a smile. “Y’gotta. Or I’ll die anyway. And so will you. C-can’t do that.”

  More tears, silently streaming down Rose’s face now. Critical Healing was the most powerful healing spell she had available at Novice level. Aton’s wounds, brutal though they were, weren't as deep as Beryl’s. It hadn’t made it to his guts, the way the bandit’s arrows had wrecked Beryl’s insides.

  But if Rose cast the spell, she wouldn’t have the mana to keep Beryl alive anymore. She had already used every mana potion they had taken from the wreckage of Hugo’s caravan. What was already a losing battle would become unwinnable.

  Beryl would die.

  But if she did nothing, they’d all die.

  But still… “Beryl… I can’t do it.”

  “Gotta. Now.”

  #

  Why aren’t I dead yet?

  Aton kept waiting, but the darkness didn’t fully close in. In fact…

  Why is it starting to hurt less? Does pain go away when you die?

  “Aton!!!”

  There’s the redhead. That cute little doll. It was too bad. He would’ve liked to have saved her.

  “ATON!!!”

  Stop screaming already, doll. Let me die in peace.

  “GET UP YOU IDIOT!!!”

  She really isn’t gonna let this go, is she? Doesn’t she know I already tried that?

  Subconsciously, the swordsman tensed his abs again, as if he was going to sit up. And this time… this time it didn’t hurt as much. There was an ache, sure, but it was far from the jagged, hateful pain that had shattered his will before.

  Aton blinked and sat up, surprised at his own actions. He just barely caught a glint of green light as it faded away, and the wounds on his torso were gone, mostly closed, as if they had been bandaged for weeks. He still felt a twinge of discomfort with every movement–but he could move. He could fight.

  With a grunt, he hopped to his feet. The boar monster squealed that terrible squeal again, but Aton fancied he could see some surprise on its porcine face–nowhere near the surprise he felt though.

  “That’s right, bacon griddle,” he called at it, an adrenaline-fueled smirk stretching his lips. “I’m still here! C’mon, let’s finish this!”

  Of course, that would be easier said than done without his sword. He had only one chance now, and it was an even worse plan than before. But it was all he had.

  The boar had begun advancing on the wagon again, but at Aton’s words, it spun around and charged for a third time.

  Never learns, does it?

  Still, Aton had to admit it was convenient. The boar charged in–and this time, as it approached, Aton didn’t slip aside. He lept, straight up, with all the speed and strength of his bandit boon, and came down with one foot planted firmly on the end of his saber’s hilt.

  The monster’s own charge combined with Aton’s falling weight forced the saber past whatever it had gotten stuck on. The blade was forced deeper in the boar’s skull, until the handguard rested flush against its eye socket.

  The boar didn’t so much as squeal. It was over too fast. The monster simply collapsed, digging a long furrow in the dirt as its momentum carried its corpse several more feet.

  #

  “Had to be done…” Beryl whispered. Her voice had gotten weaker.

  Rose bowed herself over the girl, her oldest friend, her companion as long as she could remember, she cried. She had saved herself, and Harriet, and Aton, but only at the cost of her own efforts to keep her best friend alive.

  “I’m sorry,” she told her friend, her voice cracking with every word. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

  “N-no… don’t… happy you’re… ‘kay…”

  “It’s dead… What’s wrong?” It was Aton’s voice.

  Rose lifted her head, too deep in her own grief to care what the bandit thought of her. “Beryl… I don’t have any mana left to heal her with. I used it…” Her voice broke, unable to continue.

  “You used it on me…” Aton finished for her, his voice thoughtful. “Okay.”

  The bandit vanished from Rose’s attention as he walked by her. She bent back over her friend, her long red hair forming an impromptu veil. Beryl took a slow breath, and her mouth twitched in another attempt to smile.

  Rose didn’t need Beryl to talk to know what she was thinking. The tough girl had always teased Rose over her cleanliness, but Rose knew her friend enjoyed the smell of the oils Rose used in her long hair.

  So fixated was she that she didn’t see Aton picked up his sword’s sheathe. She didn’t notice the extra few inches at the end of sheathe, longer than the bandit’s saber demanded. She didn’t notice him tip the sheathe and shake it a few times, until a small wad of cloth fell to the floor of the wagon with a soft clink.

  What she did notice was Aton kneeling next to her, at Beryl’s head, brushing Rose’s hair aside so that he could pour the glowing healing potion down the wounded girl’s throat.