By the time the clock struck one in the afternoon, Alex, Ethan, Darion, and Jake stood ready at the edge of the village. The decision had been made with little deliberation; the remaining smaller mercenary groups needed to be eliminated before they could regroup or cause more harm. Their first target was a settlement deep in the hills known as Vaskrith, a place rumored to house a group of ruthless mercenaries under the command of one of the Black Hand's lieutenants.
Vaskrith was an ancient village, its architecture steeped in time. Stone structures with moss-covered roofs lined the narrow streets, and the air smelled of damp earth and decay. Despite its quaint appearance, the tension was palpable. It was clear the mercenaries had taken over, their loud, crude laughter echoing through the otherwise silent village.
As they entered the village cautiously, the group spotted their target: a grotesquely obese man lounging on a massive, throne-like chair in the town square. His greasy fingers tore into a roasted leg of lamb as he barked orders to his men, spitting food with every word. Plates of half-eaten dishes were scattered around him, and a barrel of ale rested at his side.
"That," Darion muttered, his voice filled with disdain, "is Mograk the Glutton. One of the most pathetic excuses for a leader I've ever seen. But don't underestimate him. He may look harmless, but he's got tricks up his sleeve."
As they approached, Mograk noticed them, his beady eyes narrowing. When he recognized Darion, his greasy face broke into a mocking grin.
"Well, well, look who's come crawling back! Darion, the traitor!" Mograk bellowed, his voice filled with mockery. "Did the Black Hand kick you out, or are you just that desperate for friends? Joining these fools, huh? How pathetic."
Darion's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He knew better than to let Mograk's words get to him. However, Mograk wasn't done.
"You think switching sides will save you? Hah! You'll die here, Darion. And when I'm done with you, I'll send your little friends back in pieces to the Black Hand's leader as a warning!"
Jake, who had been quiet up to this point, clenched his fists. He could feel his blood boiling at the sight of Mograk's smug face and the sound of his jeering words. The insults, the arrogance—it was too much.
"Shut your mouth, you bloated pig!" Jake roared, stepping forward. "You think you're untouchable, but you're nothing more than a coward hiding behind your men and your food!"
Mograk's laughter only grew louder. "Oh, look at this one! The little cripple thinks he's a hero. Come on, boy, give me your best shot!"
That was the breaking point. With a feral cry, Jake charged at Mograk, his sword drawn. The mercenaries standing nearby barely had time to react before Jake swung his blade in a wide arc, aiming for Mograk's bloated chest.
Mograk, surprisingly quick for his size, rolled off his chair and avoided the blow. He grabbed a massive spiked club resting by his throne and swung it at Jake, who narrowly dodged the attack.
The square erupted into chaos. While Jake was locked in combat with Mograk, Alex, Ethan, and Darion sprang into action, engaging the mercenaries who rushed to their leader's aid.
Ethan's battle cry rang out as he launched himself at a group of three mercenaries, his sword slicing through the air with deadly precision. His movements were fueled by sheer determination, and with every strike, he pushed his enemies back.
Darion, meanwhile, was a whirlwind of calculated aggression. His movements were precise and brutal, his blade cutting down anyone who dared to challenge him. Despite the mockery he had endured, his focus remained unshaken.
Alex, always the strategist, stayed slightly apart from the fray, using his knowledge of their surroundings to his advantage. He knocked over barrels and crates to block the mercenaries' paths, forcing them into tight spaces where their numbers meant little. His sword flashed in the dim light as he expertly dispatched his opponents.
The sounds of battle filled the village—clanging swords, grunts of effort, and the occasional scream of pain. The mercenaries fought back fiercely, but they were no match for the skill and determination of the trio.
Jake, still locked in combat with Mograk, fought valiantly despite his injuries. Mograk's size and strength made him a formidable opponent, but Jake's speed and agility gave him an edge. However, the fight was far from over, and it was clear that Mograk was holding back, waiting for the right moment to strike.
As the battle raged on, the villagers of Vaskrith watched from the shadows of their homes, hope flickering in their eyes. For the first time in years, they saw a chance to reclaim their village, and it was all thanks to the strangers who had come to their aid.
Jake's breathing was heavy, his muscles screaming in pain, but he refused to back down. Mograk towered over him, his grotesque body surprisingly nimble as he swung his massive spiked club. Each swing was filled with destructive force, leaving deep dents in the cobblestone square.
"You've got spirit, boy!" Mograk jeered, wiping sweat and grease from his face. "But you're out of your league. Why don't you crawl back to your little friends and let the adults handle this?"
Jake clenched his teeth. "I'm not backing down. Not against you. Not against anyone!"
The fight was relentless. Mograk's strength and endurance were incredible for a man his size, and Jake struggled to keep up. Every strike from Mograk sent vibrations up Jake's arms, threatening to knock the sword from his grasp.
"I can help!" Alex shouted from the side, dispatching another mercenary with a swift slash.
"Stay out of this!" Jake barked, dodging another swing from Mograk's club. "This is my fight!"
Alex hesitated, his instincts urging him to intervene, but the look in Jake's eyes stopped him. Jake needed this.
Mograk laughed cruelly. "How noble. You want to die on your own terms, huh? Fine by me!"
Jake's frustration boiled over, and he made a risky move, lunging forward with his sword aimed at Mograk's gut. The blade found its mark, but instead of the satisfying give of flesh, Jake's sword struck reinforced leather armour hidden beneath Mograk's tunic.
Mograk grinned. "Nice try, kid."
He swung his club downward, forcing Jake to roll to the side. The cobblestone cracked under the impact, sending shards flying.
Jake's mind raced. He couldn't keep this up much longer. His injuries from the last battle were catching up to him, and Mograk was barely winded. "It's time." he thought.
Planting his feet firmly on the ground, Jake extended his free hand toward Mograk. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he summoned his power.
The air around them seemed to hum, and suddenly, Mograk's massive club was yanked from his hands, flying several feet away. Mograk's eyes widened in surprise.
"What the—?"
Jake didn't let him finish. With a flick of his wrist, he sent a nearby barrel of ale hurtling toward Mograk's head. The barrel shattered on impact, drenching the mercenary leader in frothy liquid.
Mograk roared in anger, charging at Jake with his bare fists. Jake didn't flinch. Using his telekinesis, he lifted several shards of broken cobblestone and launched them at Mograk like missiles.
The attacks slowed Mograk down but didn't stop him. He was too stubborn—or too stupid—to retreat.
"You think you're clever?" Mograk growled, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead. "You're nothing but a parlor trick!"
Jake's vision blurred for a moment, the strain of using his power catching up to him. He staggered but refused to fall. With one last effort, he focused all his energy on Mograk.
The mercenary leader suddenly found himself lifted off the ground, his massive body suspended in the air. He flailed helplessly, shouting curses as Jake clenched his fist.
"This is for the people you've tormented," Jake said through gritted teeth. With a final burst of energy, he slammed Mograk into the ground with enough force to shake the square.
Mograk lay still, groaning in pain. His armour was dented, and his face was bruised, but he was alive. Barely.
Jake dropped to one knee, sweat pouring down his face. His vision swam, and his muscles felt like they were on fire, but he had done it.
Alex and Ethan rushed over, finishing off the last of the mercenaries along the way.
"You did it," Alex said, his voice filled with both pride and concern.
Jake looked up at him, his face pale but determined. "Barely," he muttered. "I need to get stronger. If this is what one lieutenant can do, we're nowhere near ready for the Black Hand's leader."
Darion stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "Mograk wasn't strong because of skill," he said. "He was strong because of brute force and tricks. You fought with your mind and your power. That's strength too."
Jake gave a weak nod, though his thoughts remained grim. The battle was won, but the war against the Black Hand was only just beginning.
The aftermath of the battle in Vaskrith was bittersweet. While the village was battered, the oppressive presence of the mercenaries was gone, and the air was lighter with the promise of peace. Villagers began to emerge cautiously from their homes, peeking out from behind damaged doors and cracked windows. Slowly, their apprehension turned into expressions of gratitude and joy as they saw the unlikely band of saviors standing amidst the wreckage.
Children ran to their parents, elders wiped tears from their weary faces, and farmers dropped their tools to approach Alex, Ethan, Jake, and Darion.
An elderly man, his back stooped from years of toil, stepped forward as the villagers began to gather. "You've saved us," he said, his voice trembling. "These mercenaries have taken everything from us for months—our food, our money, even our hope. And yet, you came. You freed us."
The villagers brought out what little they could spare—baskets of bread, jars of honey, roasted meats, and even a few silver coins. A young woman carrying a woven basket approached Alex with a warm smile. "This is for you," she said, offering freshly baked loaves.
Ethan raised his hands, shaking his head. "We didn't do this for a reward. We just wanted to help."
"But we must show our gratitude," another villager insisted, placing a small pouch of coins into Jake's hand. "It's not much, but it's what we have. Please, take it."
Jake, though exhausted and still sore from his fight with Mograk, managed a small smile. "You've already done more than enough by just surviving and standing strong. Keep your money for rebuilding your lives."
The villagers exchanged looks of respect and admiration for the group. Despite their modest resources, they insisted on sending them off with food and supplies for their journey ahead.
Alex stepped forward, his voice steady. "Thank you for your kindness, but we can't stay long. There are other villages that might still be suffering under the Black Hand's grip. We have to keep moving."
Darion, who was uncharacteristically quiet, nodded in agreement. "The Black Hand doesn't rest. If we delay, more people could suffer."
Jake, despite his exhaustion, straightened up, determination shining in his eyes. "I'll manage," he said firmly. "We can't waste time."
Ethan glanced at Alex and Darion. "You guys don't even look tired. Must be nice."
Alex chuckled. "You'll catch up someday, Ethan."
With that, the group began to prepare for their next journey. The villagers lined the street as they departed, waving and offering blessings for their safety. The weight of their gratitude was humbling, but the group knew that their mission was far from over.
As they walked out of Vaskrith, the sound of the villagers' cheers faded into the distance. The road ahead was long, and the fight against the Black Hand was far from finished.