The battle between Kaiser and Navid had reached its bloody conclusion, leaving only silence in the eerie arena. But down the hill, war has now begun.
Marlo Rook stood atop a wooden outpost, his steel sabers gleaming under the moonlight. Behind him, Rhea and Cricket led the charge as the townsfolk stormed the bandits' posts and garrisons. The night air was filled with battle cries, the clash of weapons, and the screams of the dying. The element of surprise was theirs; most of the bandits were still in the arena, enthralled by the brutal duels between the Grimknights and the Stallions' champions. Now, the outnumbered defenders fell swiftly to the onslaught.
Marlo pointed his saber forward. "Take no prisoners! These bastards have terrorized our people for too long!"
The townsfolk, wielding everything from rusted swords to farming tools, charged with fury. The first wave of bandits, caught completely off guard, barely had time to draw their weapons before being cut down.
Rhea sprinted through the fray, her twin daggers dancing in the firelight. She ducked beneath a wild axe swing, slashing through the bandit's leg before spinning and jamming her second dagger into his throat. Blood sprayed as she pushed forward, eyes scanning for her next target.
Cricket, armed with a crossbow, perched atop a ransacked supply cart. His bolts flew through the air, each shot finding its mark. A bandit captain bellowed orders from a wooden watchtower. Cricket narrowed his eyes and fired. The bolt punched through the man's chest, sending him tumbling over the railing, crashing onto the ground below.
A trio of bandits rushed toward Marlo, their weapons raised high. He met them with a feral grin, stepping into their assault. His first saber parried a downward strike while his second slashed across a throat. The second attacker lunged, but Marlo spun, elbowing him in the ribs before plunging a blade into his heart. The last bandit hesitated, fear flashing in his eyes.
Marlo smirked. "Smart men run. You? Too slow."
With a flick of his wrist, his saber sliced through the bandit's chest, dropping him like a stone.
All around them, the bandits faltered. Their garrisons were in flames, their numbers dwindling, and the rage of the townsfolk was unrelenting.
One of the bandit lieutenants, a scarred brute wielding a massive hammer, roared. "Hold the line, you dogs! The champions will finish their fight soon!"
Rhea appeared behind him like a ghost, her dagger piercing the base of his skull. "No," she whispered as his body collapsed. "They won't."
The battle raged on, but the outcome was clear. The town had risen, and the bandits were being slaughtered.
Marlo wiped the blood from his blade and turned to his people. "Push forward! Drive them out! Tonight, we take back what's ours!"
A deafening cheer rose as the final remnants of the bandit scum were chased into the darkness. The town had taken the fight to their oppressors, and victory was within their grasp.
The arena, once filled with roaring bandits, was now eerily quiet. The tension in the air was thick as the remaining audience processed the impossible—their champions had fallen.
A burly bandit, serving as the announcer, stepped forward with uncertainty, clearing his throat. "L-Ladies and gentlemen... the final match will now com—"
Before he could finish, a sudden chill crept down his spine. An ominous aura loomed behind him, suffocating and predatory.
A massive hand grabbed the back of his head and, with monstrous force, smashed his skull into the ground. The wet crunch echoed throughout the arena.
The attacker stepped forward, his eyes burning with rage—the Stallion. His towering presence, clad in dark armor, radiated nothing but unrelenting fury.
"Enough of this farce," he growled. "I've wasted too much time watching insects squabble. Now, who will face me?"
The murmurs from the bandits turned into a hushed silence. No one dared to answer.
Then, a heavy clanking sound rang out.
Henry Guhn, the shielded warrior, stepped forward. His armor, dented from previous fights, bore the marks of countless battles, yet he stood firm, unwavering.
"I will."
A smirk tugged at the Stallion's lips. "Ah, you're a bold one. But do you even know who you're dealing with?"
Henry tightened his gauntlet and raised his massive tower shield, eyes locked onto the Stallion's dark form. "I know exactly who you are. One of the Four Horsemen." His voice was steady, sharp like a blade. "You're the Famine, aren't you?"
The bandits flinched at the revelation. The title itself sent waves of dread through them.
The Stallion merely chuckled, resting his scimitar against his shoulder. "Doesn't matter. You all are going to die today."
Henry exhaled slowly, adjusting his stance. "We'll see about that."
The air between them grew thick, the ground seemingly trembling beneath their presence. The final battle was about to begin.
The Stallion's King's Presence roared to life, an unseen but crushing weight pressing down on everything around him. The sheer intensity of his aura cracked the ground beneath his feet, sending deep fissures sprawling outward like veins of destruction. The watching bandits stumbled back, some dropping their weapons, their bodies trembling involuntarily under the suffocating pressure.
The inscriptions on his long black scimitar glowed an eerie lavender hue, pulsing in rhythm with his breath. His ominous aura darkened the very air around him, making it seem as though the world itself recoiled from his presence. Henry Guhn, however, stood firm, his tower shield grounded, his gauntleted fists clenched with unwavering resolve.
Henry narrowed his eyes, taking in the monstrous force before him. "You're one of the Four Horsemen, aren't you?" His voice was steady, standing firm with no fear. "You're the Famine."
The Stallion tilted his head slightly, a smirk curling the corners of his lips. "Doesn't matter." His voice was deep, almost hollow, as if carrying the echoes of past devastation. "You all are going to answer for your crimes."
Meanwhile, at a nearby platform in the arena within the bandits' ranks, a group of bandit captains huddled together in discussion. Their armor was rough, pieced together from scavenged metal and leather, their faces hardened from years of lawless survival. They were some of the most brutal among the bandits, men who had cut down countless innocent lives for their own gain.
A wounded bandit stumbled into the chamber, his body slick with sweat, his side soaked in blood. He gasped for air before falling to his knees, clutching his wound. "The… town… the townsfolk…" he choked out, his voice hoarse with exhaustion.
One of the captains, a broad-shouldered brute with a thick scar running from his forehead down to his chin, stepped forward. "What about the town?" His voice was sharp, demanding.
The wounded bandit looked up with wild, fear-stricken eyes. "They're revolting!" he nearly screamed. "They've overrun the garrisons! They're slaughtering our men!"
A tense silence filled the room before the captains erupted in shock and rage.
"What?! That's impossible!" another captain growled, slamming his fist against the wooden table, causing it to shake.
"Most of our forces are here, watching the arena!" a third captain snarled, his fingers gripping the hilt of his sword.
The scarred captain's expression darkened. "Damn it… this was planned." His teeth clenched in realization. "They waited for the perfect moment. We underestimated those damn townsfolk!"
The wounded bandit gasped for air, his body barely able to hold itself up. "Marlo Rook… Rhea… Cricket… they're leading them…"
A grim look passed between the captains. They all knew those names—rebels, outlaws, warriors who had been thorns in their side for far too long. If those three were leading the charge, then this wasn't just some desperate uprising.
It was retribution.
The scarred captain slammed his boot into the ground and barked orders. "Gather every available fighter! Send word to the arena! We need to regroup before we're overrun!"
Another captain hesitated, his brow furrowed. "But what about the Stallion? If we pull men from the arena—"
"The Stallion can handle himself." The scarred captain's voice was firm. "If we don't act now, there won't be a bandit stronghold left to return to."
The captains exchanged looks, then nodded. Weapons were drawn, armor tightened, and orders were shouted. The battle for survival had begun—not just in the arena, but across the entire bandit hold.