Two Weeks Later...

  Raven sat inside a carriage moving steadily along a cobblestone road, his legs crossed, eyes watching the ever-shifting scenery outside.

  In front of him, a blue holographic screen shimmered with text spread across its interface.

  ‘So I didn’t fail the quest after all,’ he thought. ‘I figured Captain Dunn stopping Jake from attacking the weird Elves would count as a failure, but I guess the system marked it complete once Rhodes was down and they surrendered.’

  It had been two weeks since the Silverware incident, and Raven had been traveling nonstop from his hometown to the western colonial capital, Clockton City.

  “It’s been a while since I had to tra—”

  The carriage lurched violently, cutting him off and slamming him face-first into the opposite seat.

  “What the hell was that?” he barked.

  “I’m sorry, sir! The road ahead’s been blocked!” the coachman replied, his voice uneasy.

  Raven frowned and stepped out. Just ten meters ahead, a thick tree trunk lay sprawled across the road.

  “Oh, just a little obstruction,” he muttered, unstrapping his sword. “I’ll deal with it in no time.”

  “Sir, that tree didn’t fall by accident,” the coachman warned nervously. “Bandits must’ve done it. No wonder no other carriages came this way…”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Like I said,” Raven smirked, “I’ll deal with it.”

  He scanned the bushes, eyes narrowing. His trained senses picked up faint movements, about twenty of them. He grinned, his expression twisting with bloodthirsty anticipation.

  “You can come out now,” he called lazily. “No point hiding anymore.”

  From both sides of the road, stickmen of various colors emerged, weapons drawn, cruel smiles plastered on their faces.

  ‘This takes me back,’ Raven thought. ‘Zelest and I used to handle missions like this, hunting bandits, outlaws, and shady syndicates… almost nostalgic.’

  “A traveler heading to the colonial capital, I presume?” said a cyan stickman with three claw scars slashing across his left cheek as he swaggered forward.

  “Hehe, boys, looks like we’ve hit a jackpot. Traveler, it’s a custom around here that you pay a toll to the Azure Gang.”

  ‘Azure? Are they rom the east?’

  “Huh. Pretty sure we passed a toll gate a while ago,” Raven said. “Looked government-built, not… whatever this is.”

  “That’s their territory,” the cyan stickman said smugly. “This is ours. You use our turf, you pay our price.”

  “I’ve got nothing to give,” Raven said coldly. “If you want payment that badly, I’ll pay you in blood.”

  His killing intent exploded like a pressure wave. The bandit leader instinctively stepped back, his gut twisting in fear.

  ‘Why am I afraid? How?’ he thought, teeth grinding.

  “Attack him!” he shouted.

  The bandits surged forward, some leaping into the air, others chanting spells.

  Raven stood still, exhaling slowly. His sword hummed faintly as crimson light coiled around the blade.

  “Seventh stance…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Punitive Chop.”

  His aura flared violently. The air around him warped as he slashed, sending cross-shaped crimson arcs tearing through the space.

  Screams filled the air. One by one, the bandits fell like cut weeds, their bodies sliced apart, blood splattering across the cobblestones. The air reeked of iron and death.

  Raven walked forward, his boots crunching over broken weapons and flesh. The bandit leader, now trembling, watched in horror.

  “You’re a Novice Aura-stage cultivator like me, aren’t you?” Raven said quietly. “Then at least make this interesting.”

  The cyan stickman’s hands shook as he hid them behind his back. With a desperate yell, he flung a knife. Raven sidestepped it easily.

  In that instant, the bandit dashed forward, dual cyan-glowing sickles in hand, aiming for Raven’s head.

  Raven smirked. “Fifth stance: Phantom Strike.”

  Time seemed to slow. His body blurred, leaving afterimages trailing behind his movement.

  He slashed once, clean, precise.

  A sharp cry split the air before the world snapped back to motion. The cyan stickman collapsed, clutching his torn torso before going still.

  Raven flicked his blade. The blood fell in neat arcs, leaving the weapon spotless.

  ‘We’re both Novice stage… Guess soldier training still gives me the edge,’ he mused.

  Then, grinning faintly, he added, “Well, no point wasting mana for free.”

  He crouched and extracted the glowing core shards from each corpse with surgical efficiency.

  “Oh… didn’t think I’d actually get XP for this,” Raven muttered.

  Minutes later, the road was cleared. The coachman stared at him pale-faced, unable to speak. The thought in his eyes was obvious 'this guy’s a monster... How can he extract core shards from his fellow stickmen without batting a eye '

  But Raven didn’t care. He’d seen far worse in his past life; men who’d gut their comrades without hesitation for the same glowing shards he now pocketed.

  Hours later, the carriage rolled into Clockton City. The atmosphere was thick with noise and the smell of oil and iron. Near the city square, long lines of people waited for access to the Warp Gate — a towering magic portal used for instant long-distance travel, found only in places with heavy traffic.

  Raven slung his luggage over his shoulder and stepped into the crowd.

  “About time you got here,” a familiar voice said behind him.

  Wolfton stood there, smirking.