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"Wake up, new blood!" A gruff-voiced woman kicks me in the side, rousing me to consciousness. Groaning, I sit up and shake the grogginess from my head, noting the different clothing I'm wearing - gone is my Terrorsteel equipment, replaced by furs and leathers that smell like they were put on fresh off the carcass a week ago. From the looks of things, I was sleeping on a bedroll in a forest camp. The fire crackles to the side of me, providing light in the darkness.

"Ah, lay off the lad, Urlis," a cheerful man laughs, "Don't want him cracking any ribs before we even start, eh?"

"Yeah, yeah. Ain't my fault the lazy shite wanted to take a nap instead of getting ready," the woman - Urlis - sneers, similarly dressed and filthy with soil-stains, carrying a pair of simple steel axes.

"You can stop talking as if I'm not here now," I inform them glibly. Judging by their accents, I'd say we're somewhere in the east of Firmament, in Facetsoul Kingdom, and by their clothes either cheap mercs or bandits. Or, as is often the case, both.

The man, overweight and from the looks of him, ignorant to the concept of a haircut, laughs, "I see rest has you in good spirits, lad. Or perhaps, you're just excited to get started on your first raid. Ah, to be young again and feel the excitement of my first kill once more."

Now that my eyes have adjusted, I look around a little more closely and spot a two-handed iron sword that's seen better days, partly broken off at the tip and in dire need of some expert sharpening. If I had to guess, it was looted off of some dead adventurer's corpse or a battlefield. The others here are already equipped with their weapons, readying to head out, so I assume that this lump of iron is mine. I may be an armoursmith by speciality, but as a smith and a veteran warrior, looking at this travesty of a weapon is making my bones itch in protest.

Standing up at last, I head over to take it, "Hey, do I have enough time to sharpen this real quick?"

The hairy man that appears to be in charge shrugs, "A minute won't make a difference to that lad, just swing it and let the blood fly true."

I want to protest, but I have to admit there's not much I can do to salvage this thing - I can even feel the crossguard rattling. Depending on what we're going to fight for this Trial, I may be able to replace it with something better soon.

"Right, now that the new blood's up and about, it's time we Peltsmen got to work," The jovial leader chuckles, "Poor bastards'll never see it comin'. To Yulopi Village, ya curs and whores! Kill'em all!"

The band of murderous presumed-bandits cheer, anticipating a slaughter and easy plunder. As this scenario is intended to test me, I have suspicions of my own that things aren't as cut and dry as they believe. My former life's First Step as a Warrior had me sent to the frontlines of a battlefield from centuries ago - I expect a similar level of difficulty here.

I don't share my suspicions or seek to talk with my comrades, having said that. Even if they don't ignore me, it would go against the spirit of the trial, whatever it is, as the system has yet to inform me of my task.

Nonetheless, I follow closely behind the group as they head out to our destination, knowing where to go better than a transient addition to their roster of cut-throats. If I had to place a rough estimate on the power of these yokels, I'd say they're somewhere between Level 8 and 14, by seniority. Though I don't know what the story of this group is, nor the person whose perspective I've taken the reins of, I doubt it matters, as they are utterly unremarkable from a glance. The only two worth mentioning are the leader and his right-hand woman, and even that much is generous.

My standards are a bit skewed, admittedly.

When we break past the treeline onto a rocky crag, the village below is deathly quiet and devoid of any flickering firelight from the windows - not even the makeshift chimneys of the wood and thatch huts are smoking. Signs which to me suggest that nobody is home. The Peltsmen don't seem to notice or care, and descend with hooting and blase attempts at intimidation. Squinting as I approach, I survey the surrounding area for possible ambush points - before determining that the most likely place for an enemy ambush to hide is in the village's buildings directly.

Entering the perimeter of the village and from there, the open, dusty central area, my suspicions are immediately proven correct, as a force of lightly armoured soldiers erupt from the buildings, wearing the heraldry of a minor Facetsoul nobleman. Likely a baronet of some description.

"Ambush? Pah, blooddry beasts weaned from their mothers too soon, show 'em a Peltsmen welcome!" The chief orders, raising his leather heater shield and running with wild abandon into the emerging militiamen, a lumber axe with it's haft cut down raised amateurishly above his head.

While I could feasibly make a break for it before the militiamen complete their encirclement, that doesn't seem to be the objective here. Making some assumptions, I'll need to kill at least five soldiers while outnumbered and disadvantaged, then break through the encirclement back into the forest to pass the test with certainty.

Rather than charge blindly into the first mass of soldiers I see, I opt to look around and pick a better target, which I find in a slightly more veteran looking man likely in a leadership capacity amongst them, who is carrying a bastard sword in better repair than the garbage I'm wielding at present. I think I'll be taking that.

Course set, I turn fully and charge him down, sword ready to defend or swing at a half-moment's notice, as I dodge around the clumsy spear thrust of a pikeman I pass by. While the veteran seems a little confused as to why I'm focused on him in this situation, his experience doesn't let him lose his wariness. Engaging in eye-contact, recognition of a fellow veteran flashes across his face, and his aura turns serious.

Locking blades, he smiles, "Odd eyes for a man so young. More mettle in your blood than these filthy lunatics, how'd you end up with them?"

"Doesn't matter," I push away, "The Stars willed it."

He narrows his eyes, "I see."

Likely, he understands what's going on here after that cryptic hint, but it's not going to stop him from trying to end my life. Stepping back he sets his stance for a thrust, and I immediately start to retreat backwards the moment I see his lips part, "<Myriad Strikes>!"

One of the possible evolutions of Swift Strike, Myriad Strike does more or less what it sounds like it would - it lets the user make multiple, difficult to predict attacks in quick succession, and at the highest levels of mastery with enough Dexterity & Agility behind it, users can attack multiple times practically simultaneously, evolving further into Parallel Strikes. It's a little odd to see a man with a larger sword use it.

Rather than allow him to pressure me with a combo, I parry the initial thrust at the tail-end of it's motion from a position of safety then step back in with a backhanded swipe at his exposed arms. It only manages to slice open his thick leather glove, unfortunately, and before I can attempt a follow-up, he's already correcting his stance, and one of his men rushes in from my right to slice open my back with his shortsword.

Clicking my tongue in annoyance at being interrupted mid-duel, I'm forced to move to the side to keep them both in front of me, even as another pair of soldiers arrive with bloodied spears after putting down one of my noisier comrades, putting the odds distinctly against me with my current equipment. While I'm hardly about to complain about fairness, I'm going to get overwhelmed if I don't deal with this quickly.

Taking a deep breath, I feel the tension ebb into a more manageable state of being. I can't afford to play around here, and fighting defensively is only going to see me increasingly surrounded, so I can only embrace a small, oft-ignored battle hunger and switch up to an aggressive, reckless offence to even the odds.

First to go is going to be the spearmen, their reach makes attacking the swordsmen an unpalatable prospect, but getting close is almost trickier than that. Or, it would be, if Skills didn't exist, I chuckle.

"<Rush>" I mutter, pushing off my feet and weaving between the extended spears, ready to reap their wielders lives. The veteran realises what I'm doing, but too late to stop my blunted, broken sword from tearing his men's throats apart messily, spraying gouts of blood in front from the ugly tears.

Two down, two to go.

Next comes the veteran, enraged by the deaths he couldn't prevent, "You'll pay for that!"

I smile, grabbing the falling corpse of the nearest spearman, and dragging it between us as he attempts a lunge, the blade tip sinking easily through the still-warm flesh and catching. With a bit of extra effort, I bring my blade around with the other hand and hack into his exposed shoulder, barely missing his neck. Unfortunately, with the blade damaged, the wound isn't too severe and leaves me in a difficult position as the other swordsman comes at me with a roar, aiming for my head with a two-handed downward strike, abandoning his targe.

With my sword still partially embedded in the veteran's shoulder and hampering the recovery of his own sword, I opt to dodge toward him the moment the sword begins it's arc, sawing the edge of my slab of iron free and eliciting a hiss of pain from the poor bastard, but also giving him a chance to pull his sword out of the corpse, even as I headbutt his nose, rattling my brain from the impact and flattening his nose.

The other swordsman stabs instead this time, and barely misses my heart, drawing a bloody line across my back and side as I twist to avoid a lethal blow. Even a glancing blow is enough to take a fifth of my total HP, which is sobering to say the least. Seeing little opportunity to turn this around through mundane means, I activate Swift Strike and quickly twist around, embedding my blade in the swordsman's right temple, the vibration of blunted, biting metal chopping into the thick bone at high speed sends a painful vibration down my arms and forces me to lose my grip as the man collapses, dead.

Which just leaves the wounded, angry and armed veteran against me, unarmed, and unarmoured, with no Skills left. His left arm is a little limp, but his grip is firm, and his face is bloodied, but set with seething determination to see my corpse at his feet. I smile in spite of myself, challenging him to make a move.

An offer that he promptly takes me up on, activating a second Skill, Burst - an evolution of Rush - to leap explosively at me, aiming to impale me through the face in a moment of pique. Which is fortunate, because if he aimed for my center of mass, I'd perish.

Ducking the blow quickly, the sword scraping across my scalp, I deliver a wild uppercut into the man's jaw, slamming his mouth shut and biting of the tip of his tongue, and falling to the ground where his face meets my boot, then says hello to it a few more times until he stops moving. When an arrow takes me in the arm, though, I realise that it's time for me to leave. I had wanted to save Rush for my retreat from the village, but I'll just have to take my chances.

Near-death, I run as fast as I can out of the village, dodging an arrow by virtue of poor aim that likely would have finished off the last of my HP. While the Peltsmen will perish this day, I will not.

So when I enter the forest and lose all sense of vision, I smile in triumph and relief.