George licked the hot blood which trickled down his forehead, around his eye, down his cheek, and then onto his lips. It was hot, wet, and tasted of iron. It would be an awkward fight with the blood covering half his vision, but it would also be quite useful to intimidate the others. 

He glanced around himself to notice at least six figures, all of whom were roughly High Iron First or more, but they weren’t like the shadows from before. Was this a separate group of shadows, or were they something else entirely?

The glint of a dagger betrayed itself to him as he swayed to one side, dodging it, and then ducked to dodge another as they whistled by him. He was someone who practised the Swaying Drunken Sword Art, so dodging these daggers wasn’t too difficult for him. The problem was that they would soon stop throwing them from afar. 

“These daggers you have are fairly nice,” George said, finally standing tall. “It appears that you all have some expensive taste.” He let his sword sway as though the wind was moving it. He glanced all around himself, not giving them a chance to approach one by one. He swung at a dagger and then caught it with his free hand. “Thirty percent cobalt? I was expecting just twenty percent. That’s already expensive, but you must have quite the Smith with you.”

The bandits around the man paused. How did the drunkard know that they had a smith with them? The blades were of slightly different design from one another, and each one was made from roughly thirty percent cobalt in order to assist them with what they needed to do. They had been made different in order to make it appear that they had been made by different people.

George wasn’t sure, but he felt as though they were all made around the same time, meaning they were in league with a Smith. “I was going to ask that we go our separate ways, but you’ve already hurt my pretty face.” In that moment he took a step forward, disappearing from his spot and appearing right in front of one of them. 

The bandit raised up both daggers to meet the blade, managing to stop George as the air around them burst. The bandit wore dark clothing with a mask over the bottom half of his face. His blades were of exquisite make, and they were definitely both Uncommon.

‘Oh dear,’ George thought, realising they were quite tough. He’d need to end this battle quickly, but his body was already wounded from the previous fight. It wouldn’t have been an issue, but that small amount of damage was creating a gap between himself and the bandits in another way. He also only had an Uncommon sword, which would be awkward since they all held Uncommon weapons as well.

“You slew my little pet,” the bandit said, staring up at George. “I’m afraid you’ve ruined our plans and you need to pay for that!” The bandit narrowed his eyes and George stepped back, dodging a giant swipe of the dagger. The ground behind him was cut a few inches deep, causing him to gulp as he spun aside to catch another bandit vying to cut the back of his leg. 

“Get him!” The bandit shouted, causing the others to leap into action. 

George had very little alcohol left on him, he hadn’t expected to meet with a bunch of bandits. He would need to trust in his other abilities now. He frowned as he quickly took a defensive stance, managing to catch several attacks with small movements of his sword. 

The bandits noted his change in disposition and quickly retreated. “Didn’t we see that he was using Swaying Drunken Sword Art?”

“Isn’t this a different Sword Art?” Another asked, her voice filled with uncertainty. 

“Draw out his other abilities, quickly.” A bandit raised a hand and then tossed a few daggers, and two charged in to fight him in combat. This group already knew that he had other tricks up his sleeves so it was going to be an awkward fight for him.

He stuck in the Bloodied Turtle Sword Art, utilising its defensive capabilities to defend against the three. They all seemed to be in High Iron, but the highest was High Iron Fourth Core. ‘Damn,’ he thought, realising the situation he was in. He remained on the defensive as they came upon him like a storm of steel, trying to break through his defensive shield.

“That Sword Art,” one bandit said, narrowing their eyes as they began to recognise it. “That’s the Bloo-“ Sir Anthony slashed at bandit, managing to cut deep into their chest. The bandit gurgled, unable to finish the rest of his sentence, but by then the rest had already figured out what had happened. 

The bandits retreated as Sir Anthony swung his blade like a whip, letting the blood splatter against the floor. He swayed lightly, looking around at the five remaining bandits. He inhaled deeply, trying to calm his rapid heart.

“Bloodied Turtle Sword Art,” a bandit said. “Shit.”

“I’m not strong enough to keep fighting without revealing this technique,” Sir Anthony said, shrugging his shoulders. “It seems my identity has been exposed. What a shame, I wanted to continue to adventure for a while.”

The bandits paused, glancing between one another. Bloodied Turtle Sword Art, the Sword Art which was trained to the knights of Bloodwall and very few guards. Either way, whoever this stranger was, it was a more dangerous task to deal with him. “What a troublesome Sword Art.” He rubbed his forehead and shook his head. “Change of plans. Everyone go at him. At least one more of us is going to die, but we can’t have Bloodwall interfere.”

Sir Anthony frowned as he noted that another few people were arriving. Reinforcements who noticed that the group was taking too long? He sighed and then held his blade out, ready to defend himself. He would need to cut one down and then find a gap for him to retreat through. 

The bandits flung themselves at him, one whistling something. It was a signal for the others to speed up and assist. Sir Anthony grabbed his blade loosely and then met the shower of steel with his own blade, moving and swaying in such a way that it appeared that the groups were all blurring together.

“Bloodied Turtle Sword Art, Golden Shell.” This technique was the ultimate defensive technique of the Bloodied Turtle Sword Art. He hadn’t mastered it, but once mastered it would easily be able to deal with multiple assailants even at a higher level. At that point it was up to one’s sword to be able to keep with the assault. 

The bandits couldn’t beat through the shell which had formed from the sword moving so quickly. Even when they struck from opposite directions, even when they used thrown daggers at the most opportune times. However, they could see that the knight was beginning to slow, with each step he took to try and retreat, he was under the pressure of their assault. 

An overly eager bandit tried to step forward, forgetting the name of the Sword Art. Bloodied Turtle. Sir Anthony took the momentary lapse of their concentration and then swung his blade, decapitating the person in an instant. The head fell across another bandit, who found their leg being pierced. Another bandit took the chance to push in, dagger gleaming within their hand, but Sir Anthony kicked backwards to meet them, causing the bandit to fly backwards. 

The bandits were replaced by others, but Sir Anthony was already too weak to continue. It was then a shout echoed through the air and Sir Anthony’s ears twitched, recognising the voice of the shout. He inhaled deeply and then exclaimed, meeting his blade with a dagger and then kicking another bandit. He felt two daggers pierce into his armour, plunging into his body.

“Terry you bastard!”

The bandits froze in shock when the knight shouted and Sir Anthony turned his head to see the approaching figure. The figure took off their head to reveal themselves, and there was the familiar sight of the Smith. “Who are you?” Terry asked, raising his brows in alarm. He was shocked that someone he wasn’t familiar with knew him just by his voice. 

Sir Anthony panted as he felt the daggers deep within him, though the bandits did not move their blades. “You son of a bitch,” Sir Anthony said, coughing up blood. “What are you doing here? You should be back in Riverhill, teaching little Jack.”

Terry raised his brows in surprise. “Sir Anthony?” he said, not recognising the appearance of the knight.

“You bastard. What are you doing in league with these bandits?” Sir Anthony coughed again as the bandits looked between the pair. 

Terry sweat a little, looking to the other bandits. “That business is mine alone.” He stepped forward, approaching the knight. The other bandits removed their daggers and Sir Anthony shook, struggling to remain standing. The usage of the ultimate defensive technique had caused such a large burden on his body, his muscles twitching and locking up from the abuse. 

Sir Anthony glared at him. “So this was your business?”

“I was called for assistance,” Terry said, though a bandit placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“What are you doing?” the bandit asked.

Terry rolled his shoulder and walked up to Sir Anthony. “This is just a misunderstanding. Come to the camp and we’ll patch you up.”

“He knows too much,” the bandit said. “We should kill him and leave.”

“Chief Bloodwall isn’t the kind of man to allow one of his knights to get killed and do nothing about it.” Terry glared at the bandit, as if coaxing him to step up to the challenge. “We’ll set you free and you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

Sir Anthony panted and then raised his sword to Terry, who didn’t flinch. “I swore an Oath,” he said. “You set me free, and I’ll tell Chief Bloodwall about your dealings.” Though it would no doubt lead to his death, he could not break the Oath to Chief Bloodwall. The punishment for breaking the Oath was severe, though it was better than dying. Still, he refused to betray the Chief. 

Terry frowned, sweating from his brow. “Is there any way we can change your mind?”

“Swear an Oath,” Sir Anthony said, understanding that his time was limited. There was no way he was going to be set free from here. 

“What Oath would I swear?”

“Look after Jack,” Anthony said. “If they come for you, tell them you swore the Oath to me.”

Terry continued to sweat. It was the only way to deal with the Chief’s wrath. If they managed to find his connection to the death of one of the knights of Bloodwall, then he could use the Oath as proof. Terry reached down and grabbed a pair of daggers. He handed one to Sir Anthony and then used his own dagger to cut the knight’s hand. 

Sir Anthony did the same, cutting the Smith’s hand. Then they clasped one another’s hand, letting the blood mix. 

“I, Smith Terry, will look after Jack. This I swear to you, Sir Anthony.”

“I, Sir Anthony, hear your Oath, Smith Terry.”

The blood seeped out of their hands, mixing together, before finally slipping into one another. The blood on their daggers shifted to form various different runes, before it dried. Sir Anthony took the dagger and placed it inside his cloak, and Smith Terry placed his at his side. 

Swearing an Oath was no small matter. Smith Terry would need to take it seriously, otherwise he’d suffer a severe backlash. However, this Oath would protect him from the Chief and so it had to be sword. With this Oath sworn, there would be no hard feelings between he and Sir Anthony.

“Do you have any last words, Sir Anthony of Bloodwall?” Smith Terry asked, reaching down to unsheathe his sword.  

Sir Anthony could already feel his strength fading. He had made a gamble by shouting for Terry, but he expected the Smith to be reasonable enough. It was lucky he had taken the gamble, otherwise the two of them would have surely died. He thought of what his last words would be, and all he could think about was how stupid he was going out to fight this Iron Snake.

“…” Smith Terry waited, seeing the dying man’s eyes slowly fade. 

“I wish I could have drank with you again,” Sir Anthony said, thinking of little Jack. He smiled as Terry swung his sword and saw his life flash before his eyes. 

Nooooo! Sir Anthony! Nooooooo!