The night was heavy with the scent of blood, mingling with damp earth and charred wood. The echoes of battle had faded, leaving behind only the rustling of leaves in the wind, the restless whinnies of the surviving horse, and the ragged groans of the brigand who lay crippled on the ground.
Caedmic stood frozen, his sword still clutched tightly in his hands, knuckles white from the strain. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, sweat trailing down the back of his neck. His chest rose and fell rapidly, but his mind refused to settle. The images played over and over again—the blade that had nearly struck him down, the counter that had come as swift as lightning, the strange clarity that had guided his every move.
The Iron Crown… it was guiding me.
Without the Scar of Fortitude, he knew he wouldn't have been able to keep up with the brigand's attack, let alone strike back. But now, that heightened focus was fading, receding like a tide. And in its wake, something heavier settled in its place—something real.
The weight of reality.
He looked down at the blade in his grip—dark red, thick, dripping onto the dirt below, staining the earth with its mark."
I actually killed someone…" Caedmic murmured to himself.
He had known this moment would come. He had prepared for it, accepted it. This world was not a game. The dead did not respawn. Wounds did not vanish with time. But now, as the cold, unshakable truth of it settled into his bones, he realized just how meaningless preparation had been.
His stomach twisted. A raw, physical nausea climbed up his throat.
Caedmic squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to take a deep breath, to fight against the rising sickness. But the body at his feet remained, unyielding proof of his deed, its lifeless gaze staring into nothing.
"Breathe."
A firm hand landed on his shoulder, solid and steady.
Caedmic's eyes snapped open. He looked up and met Reynauld's gaze.
The knight's expression was neither approving nor condemning. There was no surprise, no judgment—just quiet understanding and an unwavering steadiness. He didn't speak further, merely waited, as if giving Caedmic the space to find his own footing.
Caedmic followed the command almost instinctively, inhaling deeply. But the air was thick with the coppery scent of blood, making every breath feel like swallowing sand. His throat tightened, his stomach lurched again.
"Damn."
Another voice cut in—more casual, with a note of disbelief.
Caedmic turned his head and saw Dismas standing nearby, arms crossed, one brow raised as he studied him.
"You actually killed someone." His tone wasn't fearful—just genuinely surprised.
Caedmic frowned, but before he could say anything, Dismas tilted his head and added, "Don't tell me you've trained with a sword before?"
There was something probing in the question, a curiosity tinged with skepticism. Dismas had seen plenty of so-called noble sons, trained in the art of fencing, boasting about their skills. But when it came down to real combat—to life and death—most of them pissed themselves before they even thought about swinging a blade.
Caedmic didn't answer right away. He was still trying to steady his breath, still fighting back the raw aftershock of the kill.But Dismas's meaning was clear—he hadn't expected Caedmic to act so decisively, so effectively.
Caedmic glanced at the sword in his hand. Would he have reacted the same way without the Iron Crown's fortitude heightening his clarity? Would he have made the right move, had the strength to strike?
He didn't know.
But he couldn't afford to appear hesitant. Not now.
So he exhaled slowly, wiped the blood from his blade onto his trouser leg, and looked up with a level gaze. "I've trained a little."
Dismas squinted at him as if trying to see through him, but in the end, he simply shrugged. "Well… You're more interesting than I thought."
Reynauld finally spoke, his voice steady as always. "Everyone has a first time."
It wasn't a compliment, nor was it dismissive. Just a statement of fact.
Dismas chuckled. "Better than my first time, at least."
Caedmic didn't respond, only managing a stiff smile. But he noticed something—the way their attitudes toward him had shifted.
So he forced himself to push the lingering nausea down, to even out his breathing, and straightened his posture.
Reynauld studied him for a moment longer, then nodded slightly. "You're adapting quickly."
Dismas let out an amused snort. "Not bad. Looks like our dear employer isn't as soft as I thought." Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he glanced down at the tear in his sleeve where the brigand's whip had nearly caught him. He blinked once before sighing dramatically. "We got hurt, you know. Shouldn't that warrant extra pay?"
Caedmic blinked.
Reynauld, without missing a beat, tilted his head slightly as if actually considering it. "If you'd let the whip hit you, and gotten seriously wounded, perhaps."
Dismas let out a grin, shrugging. "Then I suppose I lost out."
Caedmic listened to them bicker, and for the first time since the fight ended, some of the tension coiled in his chest loosened. The taste of blood in his throat didn't seem quite as strong anymore.
Then his gaze fell back to the bodies.
The dead brigands lay sprawled across the dirt, unseeing eyes still open, their lifeblood soaking into the earth. The scent of gunpowder, blood, and damp soil still clung to the air. His stomach gave another uneasy twist.
Nearby, Reynauld was checking his shoulder wound. The bullet had been stopped by his armor, and though the impact had clearly bruised him, it didn't seem to affect his movement too badly. He rolled his shoulder experimentally, testing his range of motion.
Dismas, meanwhile, had pulled out a rag and was casually wiping down his flintlock pistol, removing the soot and residue left by the shot. But even as he did, his eyes flicked toward the lone surviving brigand—the one lying on the ground, groaning in pain, his knee shattered by Dismas's bullet.
"So," Dismas finally said, flicking his gaze toward Caedmic, "what's next?"
Caedmic hesitated.
"What do you mean?"
But even as he asked, he already knew.
This wasn't just about the injured brigand. It was about all of it—the corpses littering the road, the wreckage of the battle.
Caedmic slowly exhaled and scanned the scene again. In a game, there would have been a button to press, a pre-determined choice to make. But here, there was no such thing. No guiding system. No automatic cleanup.
He was the employer, but that didn't mean he knew what to do.
So he turned to Reynauld and Dismas, carefully measuring his words. "What do you suggest?"
Reynauld answered first, his tone measured. "We can't leave the bodies here. Someone will find them. Could be a patrol, could be something worse." His gaze swept over the fallen brigands, impassive. "Burying them would be the safest option."
Dismas scoffed. "You want us to dig graves in the dark? We'll still be here by dawn. Best option? Drag them into the undergrowth—out of sight, at least. We're not undertakers."
Reynauld frowned slightly, but he didn't argue. He understood the practicality of Dismas's approach.
Caedmic weighed both options before nodding. "Then we move them into the trees."
Dismas smirked. "You heard him, knight. Our employer has spoken."
Reynauld simply nodded and bent down to grab a body.
"Wait," Dismas suddenly interjected.
Caedmic tensed. "What now?"
Dismas's grin widened. "We're just going to toss them without looting them first?"
Caedmic frowned. "Loot them?"
Reynauld, who had already begun dragging a corpse, stopped and turned his head, his expression tightening slightly. "You want to rob the dead?"
Dismas let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. "Oh, come on. They were bandits. Whatever they had wasn't exactly theirs to begin with." He nudged one of the corpses with his boot, smirking. "You think these fine gentlemen paid for their weapons? Their coin? Their supplies? No, they stole from merchants, travelers—people like us. So really, it's not looting. It's… redistribution."
Reynauld's lips pressed into a thin line. "It's still dishonorable."
Dismas snorted. "Honor won't buy us food, won't get us new bullets. I don't know about you, but I prefer having full pockets over some dead man's pride." He turned to Caedmic, grinning. "What about you, boss? I'm guessing you wouldn't mind a little extra travel money."
Caedmic hesitated.
He knew looting was a given in the game—killing enemies, taking their drops, moving on. But here… these were real bodies. Real people.
Yet, Dismas wasn't wrong. They were in a world where survival depended on whatever resources they could scavenge. Weapons, money, supplies—those things mattered.
"…Take what's useful." Caedmic finally said. "Weapons, coin, provisions—anything we can use. The rest, leave it."
Reynauld exhaled through his nose, but he didn't argue. Instead, he resumed dragging a corpse toward the treeline, muttering, "If we must."
Dismas grinned. "That's the spirit." He crouched down and began rifling through pockets with practiced ease.
It didn't take long to collect their spoils:
Three rusted swords, crude but functional.
A short-barreled flintlock pistol and a long-barreled musket, both in decent condition, along with a small pouch of gunpowder and lead bullets.
A thick, reinforced whip lined with jagged metal shards.
A scattering of gold dust and small coins—about 200 gold in total.
A handful of dried rations and a half-filled waterskin.
Dismas tossed the loot into a small pile, dusting his hands off. "Not exactly a king's ransom, but not bad either."
Caedmic's eyes lingered on the weapons, particularly the pistols. He had always played ranged characters in games, but holding a real gun, feeling the weight of it in his hand… That would be different.
Before he could dwell on it, a ragged groan drew their attention.
The wounded brigand was still alive.
All three turned toward him.
Dismas let out a slow whistle, crouching down beside the man, resting his arms lazily on his knees. "Oh? Still breathing, are we?"
The brigand gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead. He was pale from blood loss, his hands clutching at his shattered leg, but his eyes darted between them—alert, desperate.
Reynauld stepped forward, his expression hard. "He can still talk. We need answers."
Caedmic nodded.
This wasn't just about random bandits. They had been waiting here, prepared. Either they were part of a larger group or someone had tipped them off about their arrival. Either way, they needed to know.
Dismas tilted his head at the brigand, his tone light, almost friendly. "You heard him. We've got questions, and you've got answers. So, how about we have a little chat?"
The brigand spat at the ground, his voice hoarse but defiant. "Go to hell."
Dismas's grin didn't waver. "Oh, I like your spirit." Then, with a casual movement, he pressed the barrel of his pistol against the man's good knee. "But see, you don't have much room to bargain."
The brigand stiffened, his breath hitching.
Caedmic watched, heart still pounding from the aftermath of battle. He had never interrogated someone before. But he knew one thing—this wasn't a game. This man wouldn't give up information just because they clicked the right dialogue option.
He needed a reason to talk.
Caedmic took a step closer, keeping his voice calm. "If you tell us what we want to know, we won't kill you."
Dismas sighed dramatically. "That's a little generous."
Caedmic ignored him.
He crouched slightly to meet the brigand's eye. "Who ordered you to attack us?"
The brigand let out a sharp breath, his expression twisting. "No one."