Midas's eyes shut close, his mind stirred with anxious thoughts about the incoming brawlers, eager to smash his head in if he wasn't quick enough to act. His bandaged fingers twitched as sharp pain emerged from the stone hammered into his palm, cramping up as he focused on letting his mana accumulate in his hand.
Not feeling any warmth being drained from it, Midas panicked, his eyes darting to the flickering light on his hand, anxiously watching it fade into nothing again, just as he got pushed to the side by Haya. Avoiding him being hit by one of the blades one of the six approaching brawlers used.
His body on the dusty ground, Midas got up, not waiting long, his left still grasping the handle of his sickle. Haya covered him, standing in between two of the grunts as another headed for Midas, keeping them both away from hopping onto the ride. Graf covered the other side, his tiny blade busy reflecting the blows of two other brawlers.
Unlike the one they fought in the desolate village, the six of them were much tinier, their size similar to Graf. Covered in rugged black cloth laid around their shoulders, masked in stained metal, their daggers and clubs swung for their heads and hip area. Directly hitting his knuckles against the wood of one of their clubs, Haya was able to burst open their weapon, rendering the enemy defenseless, none of them having the time to look at the splitters the weapon broke up into, as Haya dashed forward, delivering the final blow, palming the ear of his enemy, flinging him to the side.
Midas barely dodged by ducking the slash of the enemy's club, the wood broadening at the top, stones strapped tightly onto the primitive weapon. Right as the swing passed him, Midas leaped forward; the sickle was able to slide through the leather covering his enemy, slicing the cloth open.
Unable to retrieve again, his sickle was stuck in between the ribs of the grunt, his scream muffled by his mask tainted in red stripes as his blood ran out from the cut, the thick red substance glistening in the light of the fires that encircled them, more of it squirting out of his wound. Mustering enough strength, the man kicked Midas off of him; the tight grip Midas kept on his rusty weapon allowed him to finally free the blade from his enemy's bones.
Tumbling on the ground, Midas intently watched his enemy lose footing, one arm on his upper hip, his head already turned to Graf before the masked brawler fell. Dashing towards the driver, Midas threw his rusty sickle at one of the enemies encircling his partner, hopping over the sledge to arrive on its other side.
The masked man retrieved his strike; his attention drawn to the clunking noise of the old tool falling onto the dusty ground, Graf used this chance to stab him directly into his shoulder. Midas eventually caught up to the man, grabbing the sickle's wooden handle to swing at another grunt.
The noises of metal blades colliding and clashing against each other sounded from in between Graf and the brawler he fought, their blades having similar sizes. Graf was quick to recognize smooth lines engraved into the blade of his duel partner. The smooth-lined pattern started from the handle and made its way up to the weapon's tip, the edges of the engravings reflecting the fire's shine.
Midas struggled with gaining control over his enemy, his body shielded by armor plates on his forearm and torso, metal on top of a layer of leather, his rusty blade loosely reflecting the harsh blows directed towards him, his shoulder unable to keep his blade upright, one arm not enough to establish enough force to stop the advances of his enemy.
Midas's back was turned to the fire, slowly being forced to come closer to their consuming flames, being pushed back by the constant barrages of the brawler he fought, retreating as he had no chance to strike back at him. His neck sweating as he felt the warmth of the fire behind him, he took another two steps back, his eyes sharply viewing his masked enemy.
Haya was able to burrow one of his hand's knuckles in between the forearm muscles of the last of the three, rendering his exposed arm useless as his enemy was forced to watch himself let go of his shot blade, wildly swinging his other hand at the swift child, unable to avoid Haya from digging his other hand into his stomach, rendering him unable to fight.
The fire came closer, slowly crawling and spreading through the dry woods, the flickering flames nearly reaching him completely. Before Midas could realize, he already was surrounded by the burning wood he dreaded to come close to, watching his enemy laugh at him, pushing him further into the fire.
Dodging another swing, the enemy's club hit against the flaming trunk of one of the uncountable trees lit up by the fire, making it easily snap and fall to the ground, its sparks flying right into the boy's face upon impact with the floor. Instinctively, Midas held up his right arm, guarding his eyes from any of the sparks, flinching at the fire that was spit from the fallen trunk, his stomach curling as he felt the tip of the club being pushed into him.
To the enjoyment of the brawler, Midas fell to the ashy ground, wheezing at the smoke that lay in between the flaming trunks, his face being punched in, just as he got onto his feet again, making him stay on the ground. With clenched teeth, Midas watched the man come close to him, his yellow teeth exposed by his grin, reflecting the shine of the fires enveloping the both of them.
His alerted eyes darted to his right, dark wood curling and flaking under the embrace of orange fire that emerged from the weakened trunk. The trunk seemed much slimmer than the others surrounding it, the wood fractured and degenerated by the heat, enough for Midas to risk throwing his sickle against the trunk.
Both of them watched; the sickle simply stuck into the charred wood, making the brawler laugh at him, not minding its attention, as he made slow steps towards the defeated boy, unable to realize the long tree tipping over behind him, as he swung his hand, the flaming twigs reached for him, the wood flattening him, the fire consuming it, making the brawler scream in pain, as his feet were trapped under the trunk, with shaky breath, Midas watched the flames spread up his clothes, turning him into more fuel to be burnt.
Unable to enjoy his victory, Midas scrambled for his sickle, his bandages roasted by the fire, catching fire on multiple occasions, being put out, as Midas swung his right arm around in panic, burning his hand in the flames surrounding his sickle, the boy grasped its handle, his leather boot stepping onto the flaming wood, jumping over the fallen trunk.
His teeth clenched, he escaped the woods, his eyes widening in shock; the seventh of them had come back. The shadow figure now stood in front of a fallen Haya, pointing his cleaver-like blade towards the driver, his sharp grin making Midas freeze, unable to make out for sure if Haya was bleeding or not, his motionless body lying right beside the sledge. Even Graf was struggling, holding his shoulder, which connected the hand grasping his dagger to his torso.
Just as Graf glanced over to Midas with a bitter expression, the seventh swung his blade out to him, forcing the driver to dodge, his shoulder dodging his strike, before the driver made a step forward, his short blade rushing forward to hit his enemy, easily blocked by the cleaver. Pushing the driver away with the force he has over his blade, dashing towards him, his cleaver swinging down to him, nearly slashing Graf as he was quick enough to hold his slim blade against the cleaver with both of his hands.
Midas stumbled towards the two, holding his stomach, still out of breath from all the smoke he inhaled, making his way towards the two, his worried gaze glued to the driver's clenched teeth, which he flashed out at his enemy. Struggling to keep his blade upright under the pressure, his weapon snapping to his surprise, the cleaver slashing his chest, its thick blade sliding through his garments. With shock, the bald man stared down at his body, blood staining his white silk, freezing as he saw his enemy swing another strike against him.
Throwing his rusty sickle, piercing the back of the last brawler, Midas fell to his knees, making the brawler turn around to face him, visibly annoyed, as he pulled the rusty tool from his flesh. Midas furrowed his brows; without any of them able to fight, they had no chance against the man in front of them, seemingly the leader of the group. Upon realizing this, Midas found one solution, making him shout to the driver, „Graf, listen...! Get to the sledge—grab Haya and leave..." His throat too raspy to breathe any further, he fell to his knees.
The stern view which was directed to the handle of his broken apart dagger, quickly snapped to the boy in front of him, his eyes lighting up shortly at the words Midas shouted with a shaky tone, his lips trembling, „What… Don't play the hero, you brat!" Clenching his teeth, he replied back.
Midas's eyes looked into the crooked smile of the brawler in between them, „Go already...! I beg you…! Do it for the others—don't worry about me..." Kneeling under the amount of smoke in his system, Midas glanced back at the stressed expression of the bald driver, his brows sterning. The brawler heading towards the boy, as Graf quickly made his way to pick up Haya from the floor, ignoring the gaping wound stretching down his chest, his hands grasping the rope of his ride.
„You... Damn it!" Loosely letting the unconscious Haya fall to the hay, biting his tongue, he made the sled take off, running from the brawler, which now towered in front of him, smacking the boy's face, his hand keeping him on the dry ground, Midas's eye was sternly focused on the ride, which left through the opening in the direction of the city that lay on the border. Easing himself as much as he could by the thought of the rest of them being able to survive.
„You poor bastard—being left alone by your friends... Oh—I have an idea… Because I pity you, piece of trash, I will grant you some time to run from me—run…! Before I finish you off...!" His crooked tone and smelly breath hit directly into his pinned-down face. Without any reply, Midas began to crawl as soon as the brawler's hand was lifted off of him.
Able to make himself stand on his feet, he lumpily made his way forward, his sunken eyes glued to the arched exit out of the rift the two of them were stuck inside of, his sickle loosely held in his hand, able to pick it up on his way, holding his weak stomach with his bandaged right. A slim determination of himself being able to catch up to the rest began to spread through him; his wish of being able to escape the brawler's reach grew with every shaky step he took.
His expression was numbed, his teeth clenching as he heard the brawler's steps right behind him, the man behind him closing the gap in between them. The closer Midas came to the exit, mere steps away from passing under the natural rock bridge, he was kicked to the dust beneath him by the brawler.
„What a shame… But I'm sure I can find the rest of your little squad on the way to Puertagua." The brawler crouched down in front of him, looking down at the boy with a crooked grin, watching as Midas's right arm shakily stretched out to the opening, the boy's eyes widening. The thought of him going after the rest somewhat enraging him, forcing himself to finally focus, resulting in an orange glow escaping his bandaged right.
Unable to react to the unusual sight, the brawler watched as a stone front raised itself upwards, a wall of rock that blocked the only way towards the town ahead. Puzzled, he shot up, laughing in a shrill tone at the sight in front of him, „Oh, I see—you're smart... aren't you... bastard!" Kicking Midas lump body, the brawler clenched his teeth, making the boy scream in pain, his cleaver slashing his back multiple times.
Dry, he laughed, taking steps back from the body of the boy. Before Midas could faint, he heard numbed words spoken from behind him, shouted by the brawler, „Who are you...?" The boy's lids closing as he heard another shrill scream, the tone of it fading away, before his consciousness completely vanished.