The land did not change.

  It stayed flat and open, a broad sweep of grassland stretching away in every direction until distance blurred detail into haze. Low grass rippled under the constant wind, broken here and there by patches of exposed stone or thin stands of trees that looked more stubborn than healthy. The soil was dark in places, lighter in others, uneven but not barren. Not good land. But land that could be worked, if anyone cared enough to work it.

  Otwin had seen worse.

  He marched on, setting a steady pace that his body could maintain without complaint. Not fast. Not slow. Just enough to eat miles without burning himself out. His boots scuffed through grass and dirt, the weight of his pack familiar and grounding. The vibro sword rested against his hip, awkward without a proper scabbard but manageable. The stasis tube rode under his arm or against his shoulder, shifting from time to time as he adjusted his grip.

  The minimap arrow hovered steadily in his vision, pointing him onward. He followed it without comment. There was no better option.

  The hours passed in silence, broken only by the wind and the soft sounds of his own movement. He skirted rocky ground when it grew too rough, cut through thin woods when they offered shelter from the sun, and crossed open stretches when there was nothing else to do. The land rolled gently but never rose enough to block the horizon.

  It felt endless.

  Marching for fourteen hours per day, estimated arrival at the Imperial City of Rafborough is five days at this rate.

  Otwin did not break stride. “Yeah,” he said. “I figured it was something like that.”

  The arrow remained fixed. The land remained empty.

  Then the HUD flickered.

  Magitech detected. Incoming small tracked vehicles.

  Otwin slowed.

  “What?”

  He stopped and turned slowly, scanning the open ground around him. There was nowhere to hide. No ravines. No hills. Just grass, stone, and sky. The trees were too sparse and too far apart to offer cover. Running would be pointless. Anything with tracks would eat this ground faster than his legs ever could.

  He narrowed his eyes and looked again.

  There.

  Far off, at the edge of his vision, three dark shapes moved across the grass. Low. Compact. They did not kick up dust the way coal or steam-powered machines did. They moved smoothly, almost quietly, their presence announced more by instinct than sound.

  STVs.

  Small tracked vehicles. Magically powered.

  Otwin cursed under his breath.

  He took a quick look around and made a decision.

  A cluster of rocks jutted from the ground nearby, not boulders, but large enough to disrupt movement. Jagged slabs half-buried in the soil, worn smooth in places by weather. The tracks could navigate around them, but not through them at speed.

  He moved toward the rocks at a brisk walk, not running. Running drew attention. He reached the cluster and positioned himself among them, choosing a spot where the stone rose to either side, narrowing the approach.

  Then he waited.

  The STVs drew closer.

  He could feel them before he could hear them, a faint vibration in the soles of his boots, a low hum that crept up through the ground and into his bones. It was subtle. Controlled. Whoever had built these machines had known what they were doing.

  The shapes resolved into detail as they approached.

  Three vehicles, squat and angular, riding on thick, segmented tracks that hugged the ground. Metal plating covered their frames, scratched and dented, patched in places with mismatched pieces. They were not military fresh, but they were not junk either.

  Each carried a rider.

  The vehicles slowed as they neared the rocks, then came to a stop a short distance away. The hum of their engines dropped to a near-silence, replaced by the sound of cooling metal and the whisper of grass in the wind.

  Otwin did not move.

  The riders dismounted.

  The first was a huge man, broad of chest and shoulder. He reached up and unstrapped a massive battle axe from the side of his STV, the blade nicked and stained from use. He hefted it easily, testing the weight.

  The second was leaner, carrying a spiked club that looked more brutal than refined. The head was heavy, studded with metal teeth designed to crush rather than cut. He rolled his shoulders as he took it in hand, eyes fixed on Otwin.

  The third stayed back a step, smaller than the others. A woman, if Otwin had to guess. She brought a crossbow from her vehicle and checked it with practiced motions, loading a bolt and setting the mechanism without taking her eyes off him.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  They spread slightly as they began to move.

  Otwin shifted his stance among the rocks, planting his feet where the ground was firm. His hand drifted toward the vibro sword at his side, resting there without drawing it. Not yet.

  The big man with the axe smiled.

  Otwin did not return it.

  The vibrations from the STVs faded completely now, leaving only the tension of the open ground and the certainty that this encounter was not accidental.

  They advanced on him, slow and deliberate, weapons ready, confident in numbers and terrain.

  Otwin stood his ground among the rocks and waited for them to close the distance.

  ***

  “Well wot duz we got ’ere?”

  The voice was thick and amused, carrying easily across the open ground. The big man with the battle axe rolled one shoulder as he spoke, his grip loose and confident, like he was already bored with the outcome.

  “Looks like we got an ol’ scav, Dirk,” the woman with the crossbow said. She kept her distance, feet planted wide, the weapon held comfortably at chest height. Her eyes never left Otwin.

  Dirk grinned and started forward.

  “Well,” he said, dragging the word out, “turns out yer pockets, ol’ timer. An’ we won’t be ’avvin ta ’urt ya.”

  Otwin stayed where he was, feet braced among the rocks. He angled his body slightly, letting the stone hide the line of his right hip. The vibro sword rested there, silent, its presence a weight he did not want to reveal yet. They knew he had something. They always did. But knowing you had something and knowing what you had were very different things.

  “I’m good,” Otwin said. His voice was calm. Tired, maybe. Not afraid. “Thanks, Dirk.”

  The name made the big man chuckle.

  “I sez ya gives us wot ya got, ol’ man,” Dirk said, taking another step closer. “Or I’ll split ya wig.”

  The man with the spiked club moved behind Dirk, spreading out just enough to threaten Otwin’s flank. The woman adjusted her stance, thumb brushing the stock of the crossbow.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Otwin said.

  “Well, that’s jus’ too bad, innit?” Dirk replied.

  He reached out as he closed the last step, thick fingers grabbing for Otwin’s collar.

  “I warned you.”

  Dirk laughed.

  Then his hand closed.

  There was a brief, almost imperceptible movement from Otwin’s arm. Not a wide swing. Not a dramatic draw. Just a sharp, controlled motion, practiced and precise.

  Dirk felt it before he understood it.

  A sudden numbness raced up his arm, like the limb had fallen asleep all at once. The strength went out of his grip. His fingers slackened.

  “Wot...?”

  The woman screamed.

  She brought the crossbow up instinctively, panic replacing calculation, but Otwin was already moving. He stepped in close, shoving Dirk sideways, using the man’s bulk as a shield. Dirk stumbled, confused, his body slow to register what his nerves were trying to tell him.

  Dirk looked down.

  Where his arm had been, there was only a perfectly sliced stump.

  For a heartbeat, he stared at it stupidly.

  Then the blood came.

  It burst from the wound in a bright, pulsing spray, soaking his chest and splattering the grass at his feet. Dirk screamed, the sound raw and animal, dropping his axe as he clawed at the stump with his remaining hand, trying to stop what could not be stopped.

  The man with the club swore and rushed around Dirk’s right side.

  Otwin pivoted.

  For a fraction of a second, he moved one way, then cut back the other, ducking low. The woman fired. The bolt snapped through the air where his head had been a moment before and vanished into the grass.

  The clubman hesitated.

  That hesitation was fatal.

  Otwin’s sword was humming now, the faint vibration barely audible but unmistakable, a living edge singing through the air. The man swung the club up in a desperate block, teeth bared as he tried to meet the blade with brute force.

  The vibro sword did not care.

  Otwin cut upward.

  The blade sliced cleanly through the spiked club, metal parting as if it were soft wood. It continued without slowing, carving through the man’s jaw, cheek, and skull in one smooth motion.

  The front half of the man’s head slid away.

  For a moment, he stood there, club halves dropping from nerveless fingers. Then his body realized what had happened. His knees buckled and he collapsed in a heap, blood pooling beneath him.

  Dirk was still screaming.

  Otwin ran.

  He circled around the big man, boots slipping in blood-slick grass, and charged toward the woman. She was fumbling with the crossbow, hands shaking as she tried to reload, panic flooding her face as she looked up and saw him coming.

  She dropped the weapon.

  “MERCY!”

  Otwin did not slow.

  The vibro sword flashed once.

  Her arms came away from her body. Her head followed a split second later, clean and precise, the blade passing through flesh and bone as easily as air. The pieces fell separately, hitting the ground with dull, final sounds.

  Dirk collapsed to his knees, still screaming, hands slick with his own blood.

  Otwin turned back toward him, chest heaving, sword dripping red.

  “No mercy for bandits,” he said.

  The wind carried the words away.

  Silence followed.

  Only the low hum of the vibro blade remained, steady and controlled, as Otwin stood among the bodies and the rocks, breathing hard and very much alive.

  ***

  The hum of the vibro sword faded as Otwin shut it down.

  He stood there for a moment longer, chest rising and falling, the smell of blood sharp in the air. The wind moved through the grass again, indifferent, brushing past bodies that would never stand up on their own.

  I thought you were not violent.

  The words came up in Otwin's HUD.

  Otwin wiped the blade clean on the grass before sliding it back against his hip. “Bandits don’t deserve mercy,” he said. His voice was flat, certain. “They prey on innocent people. They’re worse than tax collectors. At least those bastards let you live.”

  He looked down at Dirk’s body, then away.

  “These scum,” Otwin continued, “they would’ve done the same to me. I’m happy to end them.”

  That would have been a likely outcome.

  Otwin did not argue.

  He did not bury them either.

  He went to work.

  Years of scavenging took over, hands moving with practiced efficiency. He stripped weapons first, then packs, then anything that looked even remotely valuable. Coins. Trade bars. A few small magitech trinkets he didn’t bother identifying yet. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was money, and money meant options.

  The STVs came next.

  He inspected all three, quickly judging condition and quality. Two were rough but serviceable. The third, the one Dirk had ridden, was larger, better maintained, its plating thicker and its track assemblies quieter.

  Otwin grunted approval.

  He rigged the machines together with straps and cables, setting the two lesser vehicles into neutral. It took time and sweat, but when he was done, the largest STV sat ready, the others hitched behind it like stubborn beasts.

  He climbed onto the seat, adjusted the controls, and brought the engine up.

  The STV moved smoothly, the ground rolling beneath its tracks with ease. The endless grassland suddenly felt much smaller.

  This is a superior method of travel, DAC observed.

  Otwin guided the machine back onto his course and glanced once at the minimap arrow realigning itself ahead.

  “You don’t say,” he replied blandly.

  The STV rumbled forward, towing its prizes behind it, carrying Otwin away from the bodies, away from the rocks, and deeper into the long road toward Rafborough.

  The land stretched on, but now it felt a little less unforgiving.