A while ago;
The forest road was quiet, save for the creak of wooden wheels and the soft clop of hooves pulling a caravan along.
Three horse-drawn wagons rolled steadily; their canvas covers swaying in the breeze. Merchants; men and women in rough wool tunics and patched cloaks.
They sat among barrels of grain and bundles of cloth, chatting in low tones about market prices. Several adventurers flanked them around the carts, hired muscles in dented armor and scarred leather, swords sheathed and eyes scanning the trees.
At the back of the middle wagon sat a small figure; an elven girl, no older than ten, her short golden-blonde hair brushing her shoulders.
She wore a forest-green tunic with gold trim, her emerald eyes wide and curious, pointed ears poking through her locks.
A wooden staff rested across her lap; its tip carved with faint runes. She wasn't with the fighters; she clung to a merchant woman's side, clutching her sleeve.
The peace shattered in an instant. A whistle cut the air; sharp, deliberate, and the trees erupted with sounds alerting the adventurers.
A crossbow bolt flew from the underbrush, slamming into an adventurer's throat; blood sprayed as he gurgled, clawing at the shaft, collapsing in a heap.
Two dozen strong men and women, poured out of the bushes and trees. Their faces smeared with dirt, eyes glinting with malice.
They had moved like wolves; silent until the trap sprang. Bandits.
Before the others could draw steel, a second bolt punched through a woman's chest plate, pinning her to the wagon's side, her scream dying in a wet choke.
The adventurers roared, pulling swords and axes, but the bandits were slick, too slick. A wiry bastard darted in, ducking a wild swing, and drove a dagger up under a man's chin.
The blade burst through his skull, blood and brains splattering the dirt as he dropped. Another adventurer, a broad-shouldered guy with a mace, swung hard, catching a bandit in the ribs, cracking his bone.
But two more leapt from the side, slashing his hamstrings. The adventurer fell, screaming, and a rusty sword hacked down, splitting his face in half, one eye popping free to roll in the dust.
The last two fought back-to-back; a woman with a short-sword and a guy hurling fireballs from his hands.
She parried a strike, steel clanging, but a bandit tripped her with a chain, then stomped her skull into the ground; crunch after crunch, blood pooling under her caved-in face.
The mage's fire scorched one attacker, flesh blistering and peeling as he shrieked, but a hatchet flew from the trees, burying in his spine.
He twitched, flames flickering out, and a bandit finished him with a boot to the throat, cartilage snapping inwards from the impact.
The merchants didn't stand a chance. The bandits turned on them, blades flashing. A man in a brown cloak begged with hands up.
But the next moment, his fingers were lopped off, then his head, rolling into a ditch with a dull thud.
A woman tried to run, clutching a sack of coins; a bandit tackled her, slamming a knife into her gut over and over, blood soaking the soil as her screams faded to whimpers.
Another merchant, a fat guy with a beard, swung a plank and managed cracked a bandit's jaw, but three more swarmed him, hacking his arms to stumps, then splitting his belly open.
Guts spilled out, steaming, as he collapsed, still gurgling.
The elven girl leapt up, staff trembling in her hands. "Stay back!" she yelled, voice high and shaky.
She thrust the staff forward; a burst of green light shot out, hitting a bandit square in the chest.
His ribcage caved in with a wet crack, blood exploding from his mouth as he flew back, dead before he hit the ground.
Another charged her; she swung the staff, and a gust of wind blasted him; his neck snapped against a tree, body slumping in a twisted heap.
But her eyes were wide, terrified, breaths coming in gasps; she was no fighter.
A hulking bandit lunged, enraged, dagger raised to gut her. "Little bitch!" he snarled, then froze as a hand clamped his shoulder.
Their leader stepped forward, a lean man with a scarred lip and cold eyes. "Stop, you idiot," he barked, shoving the thug back. "Look at her. She's an elf brat, pure stock. She's worth more than this whole haul in the slave pits."
Greed lit up their faces, a sick hunger spreading through the group. The leader grinned, teeth yellowed and sharp. "Take her alive. And not a single mark on her, you hear me?"
A bandit with a club nodded, stepping in while her fear locked her up, staff slipping in sweaty hands as he was ready swing and knock her cold.
The forest path was a graveyard when Satoru had warped in, the air thick with the coppery tang of blood and the groans of the dying.
The caravan lay in ruins; wagons splintered, horses gutted, their entrails steaming in the dirt. Merchants sprawled across the ground, throats slit, bellies ripped open, flies already buzzing over the carnage.
The adventurers were no better; limbs hacked off, skulls caved in, one guy's face split down the middle like a cracked melon.
The bandits had planned to keep a few alive for ransom or the slave trade, their usual gig, but greed and chaos had turned it into a slaughter.
Only the elven girl remained, her golden hair matted with sweat, emerald eyes wide with terror as she clutched her staff.
A bandit loomed over her, club raised to knock her out, his buddies circling like vultures; twenty-two, strong, ragged and scarred people, their weapons dripping red.
Satoru stepped out of the trees, slow and deliberate, his white hair catching the sunlight, blue eyes glinting with something cold and unreadable.
"Well, well," he said, voice cutting through the silence like a blade, "you lot look like you crawled out of a dumpster fire. What's with the cosplay? Auditioning for Mad Max?"
He smirked, hands in his pockets, strolling onto the blood-soaked path as if he were late to a picnic. The bandits turned, sizing him up; tall, lean, prominent muscles but no weapons and armors.
In this world's terms, he felt like nothing; no magic, no aura, just a human dumb enough to wander into their mess.
The leader; wiry bastard with a scarred lip, barked something in a guttural tongue Satoru couldn't parse.
He tilted his head, frowning. "Yeah, no clue what you're yapping about, but I'm guessing it's not 'welcome to the neighborhood.'"
The leader pointed at him, snarling an order, and five bandits broke off, grinning like they'd just been handed a free meal.
The first guy lunged; a rusty sword swinging for Satoru's neck. He sidestepped, casual as a stroll, and grabbed the man's wrist and twisted hard.
His bones snapped like dry twigs; the scream cut short as Satoru's fist smashed into his throat. Cartilage crumpled, blood sprayed from his mouth, and he dropped, choking on his own windpipe.
The second bandit charged with his axe raised. Satoru ducked, drove an elbow into his gut, then grabbed his head and slammed it into the ground.
Skull met dirt with a wet crunch, brains oozing out in a gray-red puddle, eyes rolling back. The others froze, grins fading, but Satoru didn't stop.
He was on them, a blur of violence, no hesitation, no mercy.
A third guy swung a mace, wild and panicked. Satoru caught the arm mid-swing, yanked it until the shoulder popped free, then drove his knee into the man's chest.
Ribs shattered, puncturing his lungs; he wheezed blood, collapsing as Satoru ripped the mace free and hurled it into the fourth bandit's face.
His teeth exploded, jaw caved in, and he fell, gurgling through a ruined mouth. The fifth tried to run but Satoru grabbed him by the neck, lifted him like a ragdoll, and smashed his spine over his knee.
The crack echoed, body folding backward, guts spilling out from the belly that ripped open from the front as the spine tore through and he hit the dirt, twitching.
The rest of the bandits stared; their weapons trembling. The world seemed to shift; colors drained, the forest turning stark black and white in their terror-fogged minds.
Satoru's eyes glowed, six of them now, in their hallucinations, a towering demon with a grin and Six Eyes, that promised death.
The leader shouted, voice cracking the out of their trance, and they rushed him, desperation fueling their charge.
One swung a sword; Satoru caught the blade barehanded, not even bothering to use infinity, and snapped it in half.
He drove the jagged end into the man's eye, twisting until brain matter leaked out, then kicked the corpse into another bandit, sending him sprawling.
A woman with a dagger lunged forward, Satoru just sidestepped, grabbed her hair, and slammed her face into a wagon wheel. Her bones splintered; blood painted the wood; her body slumping as teeth scattered like dice.
It was then, that the horror sank in; they weren't fighting a man.
A skinny guy with a club swung, screaming in fear. Satoru snatched the weapon mid-air, snapped it, and drove the splintered end through his chest.
Blood fountained as his heart got pierced, and he fell, clawing at the wood as his life drained out. Another tried a crossbow.
Satoru closed the gap in a silent blink, ripped the bolt free from the crossbow, and jammed it into the shooter's throat.
Blood gushed, hands flailing as he drowned in it. The bandits' minds broke; some dropped their weapons, babbling, seeing that six-eyed demon loom larger, shadows stretching behind him.
One swung a hatchet, sobbing in pure terror. Satoru caught his wrist, twisted until it tore free, then smashed the man's own hand into his skull, caving it in with a wet thud, brains splattering his boots.
The leader barked orders, rallying the last ten. They circled, blades shaking. Satoru laughed; a low and dark laugh. A sound that chilled their blood.
He lunged, grabbing one by the face, fingers digging into flesh. His grasp crushed the jaw, teeth popping free, then hurled him into two others.
Their bones snapped as they hit the ground, one's neck twisting at a sick angle, the other's chest caving under the weight.
A bandit with a spear thrust lunged forward. Satoru sidestepped again, snapped the shaft, and drove the point through the man's gut, twisting until intestines spilled out, in a hot and slick mess.
Another swung a sword; Satoru ducked, grabbed his legs, and yanked. The man fell, screaming, and Satoru stomped on his head; skull burst like a ripe fruit, gray matter mixing with dirt.
The last few broke. One ran but Satoru caught her with his hands around her neck and squeezed. The woman's vertebrae popped, head lolling as she dropped.
Another swung wildly; Satoru kicked her knee backward, bone jutting through skin, then grabbed her hair and ripped.
Scalp tore free, blood pouring as she shrieked, cut short by a fist to the throat. Finally, the leader charged, his dagger flashing.
Satoru just backstepped, grabbed his arm, and bent it until it snapped, bone piercing flesh. He screamed in pain and Satoru silenced him, driving his own dagger into his chest, twisting until the heart stopped, blood pooling under the corpse.
Silence fell, broken only by the drip of gore. Twenty-four bandits lay scattered; torn, crushed, gutted, faces frozen in terror, some still twitching.
The elven girl stood frozen, staff clutched tight, her emerald eyes darting between the bodies and Satoru. The world snapped back to color for her, but the fear lingered.
Was this thing her savior or her end? Satoru turned, not a single drop of blood on his hands or anywhere in his body.
He caught her stare; wide, pale, trembling. He paused, tilting his head. "Huh," he said, scratching his neck. "Might've overdone it a bit. You good, kid?"
She'd seen him rip through those men like a beast, hands snapping bones, tearing flesh, leaving nothing but carnage.
Now he turned to her, his blue eyes softening, and took a step forward. She flinched, staff trembling, but he raised his hands; palms out. "Hey, easy, kid," he said, voice low and calm. "Not here to hurt you. You okay?"
She blinked, her pointed ears twitching, but her brow furrowed; his words were gibberish to her, a string of sounds that didn't click.
Relief flickered in her chest, since he wasn't lunging at her or wasn't 'growling'. She opened her mouth, letting out a shaky stream of words in a lilting tongue, sharp and melodic.
Satoru tilted his head, frowning. "Yeah, that's a whole lotta nothing to me," he said, scratching his neck.
She paused, then mimed with her hands; pointing to her lips, shaking her head, gesturing at him. He nodded, mimicking her. "Got it. We're both lost in translation."
She hesitated, then took a cautious step closer, her forest-green tunic swishing. She raised a finger. "Wait," she said, hoping her intention was carried on the word.
She then gripped her staff tighter. Satoru watched, curious, as she lifted it, the runes along its length glowing faintly.
She chanted, her voice shifting into something deeper, more intricate words that rolled like a river, complex and ancient.
A golden-green light flared from the staff's tip, liquid-like, and washed over him. It wasn't warm or cold; just there, seeping into his skin, his head.
His Six Eyes flared, tracking it; energy bending, twisting, pouring knowledge into his brain like a flood. Words, grammar, sounds clicked into place, half-formed but functional.
He staggered a step, blinking hard. "Holy shit," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "That's one hell of a download."
She lowered her staff, panting slightly, and looked up at him. "Can… can you understand me now?" she asked, voice small but clear.
Satoru grinned, wide and genuine, and replied in her tongue; accent rough but words spot-on. "Yeah, loud and clear, kid. What the hell was that?"
She blinked, startled; he was speaking her language, which meant her spell had worked. His Six-Eyes had kept analyzing: the energy, Mana, he'd called it, somewhat similar to what it was called in this world.
It had shifted form, carried information, rewired his head. He couldn't crack it fully, but the gist was there; magical, raw and wild, beyond his CE.
He crouched to her level, resting an elbow on his knee. "So, who're you, little spell-slinger?" he asked, tone light.
She swallowed, still shaky from the bloodbath she'd witnessed, and clutched her staff closer. "I'm… Marcille... Marcille Donato," she said, voice trembling but steadying.
He nodded, then flashed a smile. It was warm and sweet, like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. "Satoru Gojo. Nice to meet you, Marcille."
The shift was jarring. Minutes ago, he'd been a whirlwind of death, painting the world in red, eyes cold as ice. Now? He looked… human, almost gentle, like a big brother checking on a scraped knee.
And the strangest thing of all, he didn't have single drop of blood on him, his clothes definitely seemed like he just came out of a fight, before this massacre but him, he wasn't even touched by anything.
Marcille stared, confusion knotting her brow. 'Is this the same person?' She glanced at the bodies; mangled, torn apart, faces frozen in terror, and then back at him.
His smile didn't waver, but she couldn't shake the image: him snapping a man's spine, laughing as blood sprayed.
Yet here he was, calm, asking, "Don't worry, alright? You're safe now. Where are we, anyway? This place got a name?"
She hesitated, gripping her staff tighter. "This… this is the Verdant Expanse," she said, eyes darting to his face, searching for the six eyed monster she'd seen before. "A forest in… in Eldoria."
Satoru nodded, standing and stretching with a groan, like he hadn't just turned two dozen men into mulch. "Eldoria, huh? Sounds fancy. Guess I'm a long way from home."
He glanced at her, that warm grin still there, and Marcille's mind spun; relief clashing with unease. Savior or slaughterer? She wasn't sure yet.
The forest was still, the air thick with the fading stench of blood and death. Satoru stood a few paces from Marcille, hands in his pockets, watching as the elven girl's small frame began to shake.
The bandits were gone; torn apart, scattered in pieces across the path, but the weight of what happened finally hit her like a brick.
Her staff clattered to the ground, and she sank to her knees, golden hair falling over her face. A sob broke free, then another, until she was crying hard, tears streaming down her cheeks, soaking the dirt.
The tension, the fear, the adrenaline; it all drained out, leaving only grief. The merchants who'd sheltered her, the kind woman who'd held her hand, the adventurers who'd died swinging; all gone.
Satoru didn't move, didn't speak. He just stood there, a silent shadow, letting her cry. He got it; those raw, jagged emotions spilling out.
He'd seen it before, felt it himself once or twice, back when loss still stung. The girl needed this, and he wasn't about to interrupt.
Her wails echoed through the trees, sharp and broken, until they softened into hiccups. When she finally looked up, eyes red and puffy, he crouched down, voice gentle.
"Hey, kid. Any of those folks your family?" Marcille shook her head, wiping her nose with her sleeve.
"No… but they were good to me," she whispered, voice cracking. He nodded, standing again. "Yeah. That's enough to hurt." He muttered.
She steadied herself, gripping her staff, but her gaze drifted to the bodies; merchants and adventurers sprawled in the wreckage, blood pooling under them.
Satoru followed her look, then moved without a word. He kicked the bandit corpses aside, piling their mangled remains into a ditch, until the path was clear of their filth.
Then he turned to the caravan. One wagon was still intact, splintered but rolling. He dragged the dead merchants and adventurers over, using his ability.
Lifting them one by one, stiff, some still warm; and stacking them inside. He didn't need to use his hands, nor did he flinch while doing so.
Marcille stumbled forward, reaching to help, her small hands trembling. "I-I can-" she started, but Satoru cut her off, sharp but firm. "No way, kid. Stay back."
His tone brooked no argument, and she froze, stepping away. He wouldn't let her touch this mess; not a chance.
It hit him then, a flash of memory; Yuta, stubborn as hell, begging to take out the higher-ups after everything went to shit.
Satoru had done it himself, blood on his hands, so his student wouldn't have to carry that weight. Same deal here; no kid was shouldering this, not on his watch.
He hitched the wagon by his Amplification, pulling it along as Marcille led the way down the path. She walked ahead, staff tapping the ground, her voice quiet.
She was taking him to her village. "It's a human village… where I lived with my mom. She's gone now." Said, Marcille, more sadness taking over her.
Satoru silently pulled the cart, wheels creaking under the load. He didn't know why he was doing it; hauling dead bodies wasn't his style, not for glory or gratitude.
But the way Marcille's eyes lingered on them, reluctant to leave them to rot, got under his skin.
"So, that trick with my head," he said, breaking the silence. "How'd you pull that off?" She glanced back, hesitant.
"Magic. It… gave you my language. What I know of it." He smirked at that reply and thought, 'Explains why I'm missing a lot of adult stuff. She's too young to know any of that.'
They walked for hours, the sky dimming to a bruised purple. The forest thinned, opening into sprawling farmlands; fields of wilted crops stretching out, fed by a single, pitiful canal snaking through the dirt.
Poor setup, barely enough water to keep it alive. At the edge sat a village; small, maybe thirty houses, thatched roofs and mud walls, with terraced farms climbing the hills behind.
Smoke curled from chimneys, the voices carried laughter and chatter. The people seemed happy, despite the struggling land.
Satoru stopped the cart just outside, out of sight. If these were their folks, the night was about to turn grim.
He sighed, rubbing his neck. "Shit luck," he muttered, glancing at Marcille. She nodded, silent, her face still pale.
The sky was a deep indigo now, stars peeking through, and the farmland stretched out in patchy, struggling rows under the dim light.
Ahead, at the village center, a cluster of people gathered; maybe twenty or thirty, their faces tight with worry.
They clutched unlit torches, their flickering glow not yet needed, and makeshift weapons; rakes, pitchforks, a few dented shovels. Hardly tools for a fight, but it was all they had.
Their murmurs hushed as a sharp-eyed woman spotted Marcille, her voice cutting through the quiet. "It's the girl! Marcille's back!" Heads turned, and a ripple of relief washed over them; smiles broke out, tense shoulders sagging.
Satoru watched it unfold, his Eyes picking up every shift; the way their eyes lit with hope, the quick steps toward her.
An older woman pushed through the crowd; gray hair tied back, face weathered but kind, her tunic patched and faded.
She dropped to her knees, wrapping Marcille in a tight hug, muttering, "Thank the gods, child." Marcille hugged back, small hands clutching the woman's shoulders.
The woman stood, brushing dirt off her knees, and turned to Satoru. "I'm Elna," she said, voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "I'm the village chief. And you are?"
He gave a lazy nod, hands in his pockets. "Satoru Gojo. Just passing through."
The crowd's attention shifted, questions tumbling out. "Where're the merchants? The guards?" a man called; his voice edged with dread.
Marcille's face fell, and she stepped forward, her staff tapping the ground. "Bandits," she said, quiet but clear. "They ambushed us. Killed… everyone."
She then explained what happened afterwards. Each of her words landed like stones, sinking into the villagers.
Faces crumpled; relief shattered into horror. A woman gasped, hand flying to her mouth; a man's rake clattered to the dirt, his eyes glazing over.
Elna's jaw tightened, but she nodded. "And the bodies?" she asked, voice breaking. Satoru turned his head around and replied, "Brought them back. In the wagon."
He led them to it, parked just outside the village's edge. The crowd followed; a slow, reluctant march.
The wagon's canvas was stained dark, the stench of death wafting out as he pulled it aside. Five merchants from the village lay there; faces pale, throats slashed, one with a chest carved open, ribs jutting out like broken teeth.
The adventurers and other merchants; outsiders from Loran, were piled beside them, blood crusted on their armor, limbs stiff.
A woman screamed, collapsing at the sight of a merchant; her husband, maybe; his gut torn open, flies buzzing over the mess.
Another fainted, hitting the ground hard, her torch rolling away. A man's gut retched, turning to heave into the grass, the sour smell mixing with the rot.
Elna took charge, her voice cutting through the chaos. "Get the families. We'll handle our own tonight. The Loran folk; we'll send 'em south tomorrow."
The villagers moved, some stumbling, others sobbing as they dragged the bodies free. Marcille stood by; her eyes wet again, explaining in a shaky voice how she'd tagged along for experience.
It was supposed to be a daily run with the merchants, a chance to see the world. This time, it'd ended in blood.
Satoru stayed quiet, arms crossed, watching the grief unfold. He didn't know these people, didn't feel their pain, but he got it; the hollow ache of losing someone, the way it carved you out.
He'd buried enough himself.
Night fell heavily, the village turning into a tableau of mourning. Torches flared to life, casting long shadows as families claimed their dead.
Five pyres burned at the edge of the farmland; crude stacks of wood, bodies wrapped in whatever cloth they could spare.
The flames crackled, smoke curling thick and acrid into the sky, carrying the scent of burning flesh.
A woman wailed, clutching herself as her husband's pyre roared; an old man sat silent, staring at his son's shrouded form, tears cutting tracks through the dirt on his face.
Marcille stood with them, her small figure dwarfed by the crowd, golden hair glowing in the firelight.
She didn't cry now; just watched, hands tight around her staff, face pale and drawn.
Satoru didn't join them. Elna had offered him a room at the village inn; a squat, thatched building with a sagging roof, and he took it, slipping away as the rites began.
The room was sparse: a straw mattress, a rickety table, a single oil lamp flickering on the wall. He kicked off his shoes and sprawled on the bed, snagging a couple of books from a shelf
Worn, leather-bound things written in the tongue Marcille had gifted him. He flipped through them, piecing together this world.
Delmar, the continent; five kingdoms sprawled across it. Eldoria, the elven realm, was the big dog, and this village sat on its edge, north of Loran, a trading hub south of the Verdant Expanse.
The maps were rough, the history dry; wars, empires, mages and monsters, but it was a start. Loran sounded like his next stop, whenever he felt like moving.
He leaned back, lamplight dancing across the pages, and let his mind drift. Elna directing men to load the Loran bodies onto a cart, her face etched with exhaustion; a woman dropping something onto a pyre, hands shaking.
It was grim, heavy, and he sighed, rubbing his neck. "One crazy ass adventure." He muttered, remembering how in just one day so many things happened as he flipped another page.
First, a hellscape ruled by a Dragon then this place, where he'd thought he'd have some fun, which was then replaced by a somber and gloomy night.
He set the book down, staring at the ceiling. The gravity of it all sat there, quiet but real. Not his tragedy, but close enough to feel.
Marcille's face flashed in his mind; puffy eyes, trembling lips. And he figured she'd be out there, till dawn, mourning people who'd been kind to her.
He'd rest, let them grieve, and tomorrow, he'd see what he would do next.
...... To be continued!!!