The Gorosum Bandits were notorious, led by the fearsome ex-knight known as 'Old Hand' and his second-in-command, 'Red Dog.' They operated in the lawless lands between the Empire's borders and the Allied Kingdoms, preying on villages, travelers, and anyone unfortunate enough to cross their path.
It was all thanks to 'Hans of Belthea,' or as most people called him now, 'Old Hand.' Like his name suggested, he was old, but with age came experience. A former knight of great renown, Hans had long since turned away from the path of honor. His once shining armor had given way to bandit rags, but his skills and leadership were sharper than ever. Using his fame, prowess, and natural charisma, he had roused a group of angry farmers and former soldiers into forming his band of marauders. In time, their numbers swelled, and so did the list of their atrocities.
The Gorosum Bandits left no one alive—men, women, the elderly, and even children were cut down without mercy. It was Hans's ironclad rule: no survivors. No witnesses. And because of that, they never had to flee for long, never had to worry about pursuit. It was how they maintained their ruthless grip on the land, drifting from place to place, slaughtering as they pleased.
Red, his second-in-command, leaned against the crumbling stone wall of their current hideout, a ruin that once belonged to some long-forgotten noble house. "Hey, old man, you'd be surprised... I saw an interesting kid today," Red said with a grin, his scarred face gleaming in the torchlight. "Oh boy, he lopped Tun's head off like it was nothing. I'd love to see what that kid turns into when he grows up."
Hans, seated on a rough stone throne, narrowed his eyes at Red. His gray beard twitched with irritation. "You let him go?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
Red shrugged, still smiling. "Yeah, I let him go. Kid had fire in his eyes, you know? Thought he might be worth watching."
Hans grunted in displeasure, his fingers tightening around the spear resting beside him. With a swift movement, he slammed the butt of the spear into the stone floor, a ripple of energy spreading through the room. His aura, dark and menacing, seemed to bleed into the very air, the wind carrying a sense of unease through the ruins.
"You know our policy when we raid," Hans said coldly, his eyes narrowing. "No survivors. No witnesses. That way, we don't have to run. You let a witness go, Red, and now we have a loose end. We've barely been in this region for a few months, and now you've gone and complicated things."
Red's smile faded slightly, though he didn't back down. "I figured he wasn't the type to go running for help. He'll get stronger, and then we can deal with him properly."
"And if you're wrong?" Hans leaned back, his grip on the spear loosening slightly, though the air still buzzed with tension. "If that boy comes back, and he's strong enough to challenge us, it'll be your mess to clean up. But that's not the worst of it. If you're wrong, and knights from the neighboring regions catch wind of our activities, they'll swarm this place like flies. All the effort we've put into establishing this stronghold, all the investments we've made... gone. Because of your arrogance."
Red nodded, the familiar, reckless grin creeping back onto his face. "You've gone soft, old man. What's the matter with some knights? I'd welcome the challenge."
Hans's eyes darkened. "You are an arrogant fool."
Red pushed off the wall, laughing lightly, stepping closer to the seated Hans. "And you're a coward. You're content living off scraps, benefiting from the fame you built years ago. Tell me, where were you during the last few raids, huh? Here, sitting on your throne, pretending to be a king. Do you even remember why you named this gang Gor-o-sum? Or did the scholars need to remind you? 'The sum of gore.' You can't handle the gore anymore, can you, Hans? Maybe you don't deserve to be the leader of this gang."
In an instant, Hans vanished from his throne, his spear alight with a blazing yellow aura. He reappeared inches from Red, the spearhead humming with deadly energy as it hovered near Red's throat. Red's grin faltered, but he didn't move, his cocky demeanor slipping only slightly as he stared down at the weapon poised to end his life.
Hans's voice was cold, low, and lethal. "You think I've gone soft, Red? You think sitting on this throne makes me weak? I built this gang with my hands, and I'll tear it down with my hands if I have to."
Red's eyes narrowed, the tension between them palpable. "Then prove it, old man."
For a long moment, neither man moved. The yellow aura from Hans's spear cast an eerie glow across the ruins, flickering in the silence. Red's defiance burned brightly in his gaze, but Hans didn't flinch. The old knight had faced more dangerous enemies than Red, but this wasn't a battle of steel. It was a battle of wills.
Finally, Hans lowered his spear, though his grip remained firm. "You aren't worth my time."
"Why? Because I don't have aura?" Red laughed, the sound sharp and mocking.
Aura. It was the hallmark of knights and powerful warriors. A miraculous power that allowed ordinary men to perform extraordinary feats—lifting boulders heavier than anvils, vanishing like the wind, imbuing weapons with elemental forces. Aura was what separated the strong from the weak.
Hans's eyes narrowed. "Go back to your post, Red. Unless you want me to exile you... or worse, kill you."
Red's laughter grew louder and more manic. "You know why I joined this gang, don't you, old man? To learn aura. I figured a washed-up knight like you would be a decent teacher. But you've been a miserly old geezer, keeping it all to yourself." His grin widened as a subtle crimson aura began to shimmer around him, filling the room with a chilling energy.
Hans's eyes widened slightly as he instinctively raised his own aura, the familiar yellow glow surrounding him. He took a step back, the weight of Red's presence growing stronger. "That's one... peculiar aura."
The crimson aura was raw, unrefined, and brimming with pure killing intent. Unlike most auras, which came from training and discipline, Red's was wild, feral, and suffused with bloodlust. It was not an aura honed through years of battle, but one born from an innate, dangerous instinct.
"Exile?" Red sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "No, I'd rather leave on my own terms. But first, it'd be a shame not to cross blades with you, even once. After all, I didn't learn aura by watching you for nothing." He unsheathed his broadsword, the crimson aura enveloping the blade as he took a stance.
At that moment, the air in the room thickened with tension. All distractions vanished. It was just the two of them now: Red Dog, the reckless second-in-command, and Old Hands, the once-great knight.
Outside, the other bandits reveled in their recent spoils, oblivious to the confrontation brewing within. But in the silence of the ruins, two auras crackled with energy, preparing for the inevitable clash.
Hans gripped his spear tighter, his yellow aura pulsing steadily. "So, you've learned aura through blood and instinct. But without control, it's nothing more than a tool for destruction."
Red's grin remained, his crimson aura flaring brighter. "That's all I need, old man. Just enough destruction to tear this place apart."
Without another word, their auras clashed, the room trembling as the battle between two forces—experience and raw power—began.
Hans made the first move, fully aware of the importance of taking the initiative in a battle between two auras. His yellow aura surged, dense and swift, enveloping his spear. In a mere second, he executed thirteen precise thrusts, each one faster and more forceful than the last, the sound of his strikes echoing like rolling thunder.
Red, with his crimson aura crackling around him, parried each thrust, believing he had successfully blocked every attack. His eyes narrowed as he swung his broadsword downward with tremendous force, aiming to cleave Hans in half.
Hans dodged effortlessly, his body flickering out of the path of the sword as if he were merely a shadow. Red's blade slammed into the ground with a deafening crash, creating a small crater where it struck.
"Is that it, old man?" Red sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.
But before he could gloat any further, small lacerations suddenly opened up across his arms and chest, blood slowly seeping from the wounds. He looked down, confused for a brief moment, before realizing what had happened.
"Huh? A delayed attack?" Red muttered, his expression shifting from surprise to understanding. "So… this is how aura should be used." He calmly assessed the situation, noting the precision of Hans's strikes.
Hans twirled his spear effortlessly, his yellow aura pulsing steadily, the weapon humming with power. "Using aura as brute force," he said, his voice low and cold, "is proof of your ignorance. To a knight, technique is everything."
Red's grin faltered for the first time, though the fire in his eyes remained. He could feel the sharp stings from Hans's attacks, and he knew that the old knight had outclassed him in skill. But Red wasn't one to back down easily. He adjusted his stance, the crimson aura around him swirling with renewed intensity.
"You talk about technique, but all I care about is strength," Red growled, his voice low and menacing. "And I've got plenty of that."
Hans's gaze remained steady, unwavering. "Strength without control is nothing more than chaos. And chaos won't save you here."
Red slammed his broadsword into the ground, embedding it with ease. He licked his lips with a twisted smile creeping across his face. "Technique, is it?" he asked mockingly.
Red had dark brown hair, but despite the nickname "Red Dog," it wasn't because of his hair color. No, he earned that name because every time he fought, he'd be covered in blood—both his enemies' and his own. The "Dog" part came from his reputation as a savage, an unrefined brute who reveled in chaos.
"I know all about technique. It's the 'one thing' you're good at, right?" Red's voice was taunting. He jabbed his thumb into his chest, right above his heart, and twisted it as he spoke. "Guess what I'm good at, old man?"
Hans narrowed his eyes, unfazed by Red's theatrics. "Murder, of course."
Red grinned wider. "Half-correct! You really are going senile if you didn't get the whole answer. It's enjoying murder. That's what I'm best at, and no one does it better than me."
Hans had always known Red to be a bloodthirsty warrior, a man who thrived on violence, but even now, the level of depravity in his words unsettled him.
Without warning, Red pressed his thumb deeper into his chest. "Old man, I'm going to show you my technique—with my bare hands." He pulled his thumb free, and black blood began to leak from the puncture wound. As the blood flowed, his aura surged, expanding in waves until it filled the room with an oppressive, suffocating presence. The sheer weight of it made Hans grip his spear tighter.
Hans felt a rare moment of uncertainty. He hadn't expected Red's power to grow so suddenly, so violently. It wasn't just bloodlust; it was something more primal, more unhinged.
Red's aura flared, and with it, his speed. He vanished from Hans's sight in an instant.
Hans blinked—too late. Pain exploded in his body. His left arm was ripped clean off, torn from its socket as easily as one would pull a weed from the ground. Blood gushed from the stump, and Hans staggered, his mind racing to catch up to the reality of what had just happened.
Red stood a few feet away, his expression flat, even disappointed. "That's it? I'm already bored," he muttered, as if tearing off a man's arm with his bare hands was no more than a passing inconvenience.
Without another word, Red turned his back on Hans, casually retrieving his broadsword from the ground. He slung it over his shoulder and started to walk away.
Hans dropped his spear and clutched his bloody stump, trying to stem the flow of blood. He gritted his teeth, his face pale. "Fucking hell... I really must be getting old."
The legendary knight Hans—Old Hands—felt the crushing weight of time and age bearing down on him.
Later that day, the Gorosum Bandits met their end—not at the hands of Red, as one might have expected, but at the blade of a young avenger.
But that tale—the story of how a single youth carved through a gang of seasoned killers—would be told another day. For now, the Gorosum Bandits were no more. Their legacy of violence, snuffed out like the dying embers of a forgotten fire.