Chapter 8—The Knight's Surge

Amidst the ancient trees of Eldri's dense forest, Lewis's breath hung in the frosty air, each exhale a visible testament to the peril that surrounded him. His heart raced, fueled by adrenaline and fear. The daggers in his hands felt foreign, their cold steel an unwelcome companion. Lewis was a swordsman at heart, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

The bandits had descended upon the woods like a plague, their footsteps muffled by fallen leaves. Their eyes gleamed with malice, and their weapons—a wicked assortment of blades, clubs, and spiked chains—were honed for brutality. Lewis's gut tightened as he counted their numbers: seven. Seven against one was grim odds, even for a seasoned fighter like him.

He studied their stances—their uneven grips, the tension in their shoulders. These were no mere highwaymen; they moved with the precision of soldiers. The leader, a scarred brute with a notched sword, barked orders. Lewis's mind raced, calculating his chances. He had to strike swiftly, exploit their weaknesses.

As the two swordsmen lunged, Lewis danced between them, his daggers a blur. He sidestepped the first blade, feeling its icy kiss as it sliced the air. The second sword grazed his shoulder, leaving a shallow cut. Lewis winced but pressed on. His target was the bandit on the right—the one favoring his injured leg.

Dropping low, Lewis aimed for the man's calf. The dagger's edge kissed flesh, and the bandit howled. But he twisted away, avoiding a fatal blow. Lewis cursed under his breath. The bandit's eyes narrowed, pain fueling his rage. Lewis retreated, buying himself precious seconds. His mind raced, seeking an opening.

The forest seemed to hold its breath. Lewis's boots sank into damp earth as he circled, waiting for the right moment. The bandit limped, favoring his wounded leg. Lewis's gaze flickered to the spiked chain hanging from the brute's belt. A desperate plan formed—a gamble, but his only chance.

As the bandit lunged again, Lewis feigned exhaustion. He staggered, then lunged forward, aiming not for the man's leg but for the chain. His dagger hooked the metal links, and with a fierce yank, he disarmed his foe. The spiked chain clattered to the ground, and the bandit stumbled, off-balance.

Lewis seized the opportunity. He drove his other dagger into the bandit's side, twisting it for good measure. The man's eyes widened, blood bubbling from his lips. Lewis stepped back, watching as the bandit crumpled, defeated. One down, six to go.

But there was no time to savor the victory. The remaining bandits closed in, their weapons hungry for blood. Lewis wiped sweat from his brow, his breaths ragged. He'd faced worse odds—but never in a forest so thick with shadows and secrets. The fight was far from over, and Eldri's ancient trees bore witness to the clash of steel and survival.

As the remaining bandits closed in, their eyes filled with bloodlust, Lewis's world shifted. The forest seemed to pulse around him, its ancient heart awakening. His breaths slowed, each inhale drawing in the very essence of Eldri—the kingdom of warriors.

And then it happened again.

A surge of familiar energy erupted from his core, radiating outward. His senses sharpened, the world crystallizing into vivid clarity. The bandits' movements slowed, their grimaces etched in slow motion. Lewis's daggers felt weightless, an extension of his hidden power. It was one in one of the sparring that he discovered his prowess and strength. But it was like a candlelit oil, burning bright but will flicker once drained.

He sidestepped a charging brute, his footwork fluid as if guided by unseen hands. The bandit's sword whistled past, missing its mark. Lewis spun, his blades slashing through the air. One bandit fell, clutching his throat, crimson seeping between his fingers. Two down.

The others hesitated, their eyes wide. Lewis's vision tunneled, focusing on the scarred leader. The notched sword swung toward him, but Lewis deflected it effortlessly. His strength—amplified tenfold—allowed him to parry blows that would have shattered bone.

He lunged, driving a dagger into the leader's shoulder. The man grunted, staggered. Lewis twisted the blade, severing tendons. The scarred brute dropped his sword, collapsing to his knees. Lewis's breaths came easy now, his body humming with power.

The remaining bandits wavered. Fear etched their faces. Lewis advanced, his steps deliberate. He was no longer just a swordsman; he was a force of nature. His daggers danced, a deadly waltz. He disarmed one, then another, until only the last stood—a trembling youth, eyes wide with terror.

"Mercy," the youth stammered. "Please."

Lewis hesitated. His newfound strength could crush this boy like a twig. But he remembered the pain of the bandits' weapons, the brutality they'd shown. He lowered his daggers, their tips shine against the moonlight.

"Go," Lewis said, his voice steady. "Tell your kind that Eldri's woods are no place for people like you."

The youth stumbled backward, then turned and fled. Lewis watched him disappear into the shadows. The forest sighed, its ancient heart settling. The bandits lay defeated, groaning or unconscious. Lewis wiped his blades clean and sheathed them.

From the depths of the woods, emerged the form of Elara, personification of fury and swift. Her eyes exuded anger, teeth seething and Blood adorned her skin, It was not her own blood; Lewis knew that much. Elara was no stranger to violence."Thirty," she spat, her voice a whip-crack. "Thirty bandits, Lewis. You've been busy."

Lewis's heart stuttered. Elara was no ordinary woman. She was the embodiment of fury, an elf of Myrdadri, and her wrath was as unpredictable as the shifting winds. He wiped sweat from his brow, the chill of her gaze seeping into his bones.

"It's not natural," Lewis admitted, his breaths ragged. "This isn't the first time it's happened. Is it part of my lineage?"

Elara's laughter was sharp, like the bite of frost. "Lineage? You humans cling to your bloodlines like ivy to a crumbling wall. But this"—she gestured to his broadened body—"you're a mongrel Lewis. Myrdadri is your home."

He glanced at his daggers, their blades stained with bandit blood. "What do I do?"Elara circled him, her footsteps soundless. "Focus on your speed," she said. "You're making a fool of our kind. These bandits are mere insects compared to Daemon"s knights."

Lewis scoffed. "A normal person can't handle a company of bandits, Elara. And I'm far from normal." She grinned, teeth sharp as thorns. "True. But you're also reckless. You fight like a cornered animal. That won't do."

"Train me, then," Lewis said, defiance in his eyes. "I don't think daggers suit me. I'll need your guidance." Elara's laughter echoed through the trees. "Gladly. but stick to daggers, I'll mold you into something more." Lewis nodded, wrapping a torn cloth around his wounded leg. The forest watched, its ancient heart pulsing. Elara's anger had subsided, replaced by something akin to curiosity.

"Daemon already has guards patrolling the borders, This is not gonna be easy especially they're on a hunt for you."

"Well I'm cer—" The groan shattered the silence. Lewis and Elara spun toward the sound, daggers drawn. Behind a tangle of underbrush, a man lay sprawled—a patchwork of wounds and desperation. His cloak bore the unmistakable patterns of Ebonhert Citadel motley, Elara's eyes narrowed; she recognized the build, the way the fabric clung to sinew and bone.

"Brax! What happened?" Her voice laced with concern and intrigued. Brax's breaths came in ragged bursts. His cloak was shredded, and blood seeped through the fabric. A deep gash marred his belly, as if claws had raked across his skin. He pushed himself up, eyes wild.

"Verdant—the—the King," Brax gasped. "He's… he's revived."

"King Datura?" Lewis queried.

"Y-yes... at Verdant, he's.. " Just like fire that's been extinguished, His body slumped, the light in his eyes vanished and his breathing stopped.