Vol. 2 Ch. 17 Ben, Samuel and Roger

Author's note: Edited by SnazzyCub. Recurring Characters: Peter: The Protagonist of the story. Mariah: Peter's Mom. Tarin: A red-haired, 13-

Author's note:

Edited by SnazzyCub.

Recurring Characters:

Peter: The Protagonist of the story.

Mariah: Peter's Mom.

Tarin: A red-haired, 13-year-old boy whom Mariah and Peter found recently. He is skinny and the only survivor of a bandit attack.

Recap:

‘Something else is at play here,’ he thought, opening his IDE. ‘If the skills aren’t faulty, then that doesn’t leave a lot of culprits behind.’  

‘It’s to be one of these three: Negative Karma, or New Titles, or My Class.’ He thought, opening up the stat description of Karma.

...End of Author's Note...

…

The padding of footsteps prompted both Tarin and Mariah to look up.

“I’m—”

“We’ve got their location.” Peter said, interrupting Tarin. His gaze drifted to Mariah. “I’ve a plan, but I’ll need your help.”

“…wait!” Tarin said, standing up with a hopeful look on his face. “Did you really find them?”

“Yes,” Peter nodded, motioning toward the little bird sitting on a nearby rope. “She did. Now, stay quiet for a bit. We’re not attacking a fortified hideout without planning.”

“What do I need to do?” Mariah asked, her eyes filled with determination.

“You’ll need to act.” Peter said, picking up a nearby stick and drawing on the ground to better illustrate his plan.

…

“Hey, Roger! C’mere… quick.” Ben hissed, looking at the ground of their usual scouting route.

“What, you pig? Won’t even let me piss in peace, eh?” Roger approached closer, fiddling with his pants. “What is it? Finally found a lass willin’ to spread her legs for ya without bein’ paid or threatened?”

“I like my girl beggin’ to stop. You got a problem with that?” Ben said, before pointing at the wheel tracks. “Look, these’re pretty fresh.”

“Wyrm’s fangs, Ben.” Roger laughed, patting him on the back. “If luck’s kind, we’ll have a lass screamin’ on the side come supper.”

The bandits fanned out along both sides of the dirt road, slipping into position with the ease of habit. Each one had been handpicked for patrol due to their stealth skills.

Their boots barely disturbed the dust as they moved in a loose formation, relying on the environment to hide their bodies. After a short while, the trail yielded fruit.

Three carriages creaked along the path ahead—stragglers from a larger group, perhaps. The bandits halted in unison, crouching low behind the follage. A few exchanged brief nods. Their eyes had already found the supposed guard.

A single warrior.

She limped beside the middle carriage, her stride uneven, a faint drag to one foot. Leather armour clung to her body due to sweat, showing her lean frame. A sword hung on her hips.

Poor fellows must have angered the gods. It was almost too easy.

…

Peter sat at the driver’s seat, the sun shining hot on his head. He played his part, acting like a distraught kid tasked with moving the carriages.

After more than three hours of travelling on their chosen route, the prey had finally arrived. Peter had to give them their fair share of credit. They were able to evade his mana sense.

Sadly for them, Deathknell’s shadow sense was too sharp for them to hide from.

When two men appeared about just ahead of the leading carriage, Peter acted shocked as if they had emerged out of nowhere. His eyes flickered with fear, his body freezing up. The carriage continued to move due to his indecision, slowly approaching the men.

A closer distance would allow him to inspect them with much less mana, but they didn’t need to know that.

“Lookin’ lost. Need any help?” The man standing on the left asked, his tone jovial. He was burly, with arms as wide as Peter’s thigh and a large frame. A beard that reached his chest gave him a menacing look, further intensified by the absence of his right eye.

The man on the right was much leaner, with sharply defined muscles that gave the impression of someone who trained their body every day for hours. Both of them looked worse for wear, covered in dried mud and twigs all over their bodies and clothes.

Peter wondered when these men last bathed. There were no obvious weapons on them, which made them even more suspicious.

“Can’t you see? Travelling from one place to another,” Mariah replied, her tone laced with poison as she approached the front.

“Tryin’ to be smart, eh?” The leaner man chuckled, showing his rotten teeth. “I ‘specially love the tough ones. Always fun watchin’ ‘em crack.”

Inspect…

[

Name: Roger

Race: Human

Class: Dagger specialist{Common} lv. 89, Villager. Lv. 1

Level: 90

Age: 48

Title: Murderer, Rapist, Bandit

Karma: -260

]

Inspect…

[

Name: Ben

Race: Human

Class: Alchemist{Common} lv. 94, Villager. Lv. 3

Level: 97

Age: 56

Title: Murderer, Bandit, Rapist

Karma: -260

]

“If you’re done talking, shall we move to the good part?” Roger, the muscular one, asked, looking straight at Mariah, when she kept a neutral face.

While they talked, Peter had already quietly dismounted. Tarin remained inside the carriage, acting unconscious.

“Make way and let us pass,” Mariah said, appearing defiant.

“You’re brave, woman. I’ll give ya that.” The alchemist said, spitting on the side before giving her a crooked grin. “I wonder… for how long?” His lecherous eyes scanned her body.

He didn’t know it yet, but he was already a dead man talking. Peter had no qualms about killing these lowlives if it came to that. Their intentions were justification enough, but their titles had sealed their fates.

A few more men appeared, approaching both sides of the carriages. They sported grins on their faces and were heavily armed.

“Don’t be fooled by her, Ben. Look, she don’t got enough health points to heal her limpin’,” a long-haired man said, standing on the left side of the dirt path.

He spared a glance at Mariah, pulling his left hand up to his chin and licking the dagger with his tongue, a lustful look on his face. “A feisty bitch for our enjoyment, and two little brats for this month’s quota.”

Peter looked around, and a quick glance revealed their carriages surrounded by at least a dozen men. All of them wore similar smiles, carrying weapons like daggers, swords, and tridents. One of them even had a crossbow. Peter narrowed his eyes, deciding to deal with him first.

Ben and Roger seemed even more confident once everyone had come out of hiding.

Peter’s eyes wandered among the bandits, swiftly inspecting them to check their karmic values and titles.

“Close your eyes,” he told Mariah, his tone soft.

Before the bandits could process what they were hearing, the air shifted—shadows burst inward, racing from every direction toward Peter. They collided around him with a soundless roar, forming a writhing vortex of darkness that swallowed him whole.

“Wha—”

In the blink of an eye, a whip lashed out like a lightning strike before coiling around the arm of the lone crossbowman. There was a sharp tug. The man yelped as his feet left the ground, his body flung skyward in a blur, a cloud of dust exploding where he’d stood.

The torpedo exploded. The walking calamity swept his arm back in a smooth arc. His whip hissing through the air before twisting mid-motion, its shape warping. By the time it completed the swing, it had become a scythe, gleaming with menace.

One heartbeat, he stood grounded, his feet sunk in soft soil. Next, he was airborne above Ben and Roger. His scythe was already halfway through its swing, the blade descending on them like a guillotine.

Heads flew, bodies falling like puppets with their strings cut. Someone screamed. The men finally came to their senses and turned to run as far away as possible.

Peter turned, his weapon once again turning into a whip. It lashed out, wrapping around the neck of the long-haired bandit who looked lustfully at his mother.

He gasped, eyes bulging from pressure. His hands shot up, scrambling for the whip tightening around his neck. Before his fingers could reach it, the tail end—now morphed into a snake-head—snapped forward, struck him across the face, hissing as it forced him back.

Before he could react, the whip snapped taut. Peter pulled. The bandit hurtled forward. His feet leaving the ground, only to be caught mid-air by the throat, Peter’s hand locking around his neck like a steel trap.

“Kuhurk!” The man struggled, legs failing in the air before he lost consciousness, and Peter let go of him.

The others didn’t have any good luck either. A dome of darkness rose, blocking them from escaping the vicinity as Peter mercilessly killed those who deserved death and tied those who only committed robbery and looting.

He used Mental Domination on them, ensuring they couldn’t lie and were compelled to obey him for as long as the skill remained in effect.

Once Peter was done, the shadows unravelled from his form, slithering across the ground like living snakes. They swept over the bloodstained earth, consuming every trace of gore around the carriages until nothing remained. Then, they vanished, as if they had never been.

…

“You can open them now.”

Mariah opened her eyes and witnessed four bandits lying on the ground beside Peter, their hands tied behind their backs with rope. She didn’t ask about the rest of the men. Her eyes were closed, but her ears were listening quite well.

Deathknell had already retreated to the carriage’s shadow. Now that the battle was over, Peter allowed the system notifications to appear before him.

System...

[ You have levelled up(s) two times. You are now level 43. ]

Two new levels—just two.

Together, Peter and his summon had defeated eight foes at the peak of Tier 1. To think that would only amount to two levels.

‘This is going to be a long ride,’ He lamented, sighing. Opening his status, he added a point to dexterity, bringing it to 20. The rest, he allocated to intelligence, making it surpass both strength and agility by a single point.

He kicked, waking the long-haired bandit from unconsciousness.

“ugh…”

“What’s your name?” Peter asked, grabbing his chin.

“…Samuel…” The bandit said, face twisted in pain and confusion, eyes unfocused and foggy.

“How long have you been a bandit?”

“…for ‘round three years,” Samuel said, his expression flickering between confusion, panic, and a blank stare.

“Why become a bandit?”

“…Survival. Liked the blacksmith’s daughter,” he muttered, words slurring together like his thoughts. “Imagined a future with her… hehehehe. But… but… that bitch! She went an’ married that bloke. I couldn’t handle it, so I punished her. The villagers kicked me out. Had no choice but to join the group for survival.”

“Disgusting,” Mariah said, looking hatefully at the tied man. Her jaw clenched tight with anger.

“How many bandits are in the group you're part of?” Peter asked, pressing further to learn who he was dealing with.

“We used to be more’n eighty strong, but the new boss killed quite a few… bad temper,” Samuel said, shivering with phantom pain. “Only… only ‘round sixty remain now,” he finally confessed, after what looked like a painful internal struggle.

Peter pursed his lips. Twelve men attacked them, which still left quite a large number at the hideout.

As the son of a village militia leader, he had some knowledge of bandits. Travelling merchants, frequent targets of bandit raids, often shared what they knew during their stays in the village.

‘Such a large group…but there is no ongoing famine or civil unrest,’ he thought.

“Why is the group so large? Is it because of your new boss? Something to do with him?” Peter asked, knowing that if he planned to attack them, he needed to be fully prepared.

“That’s ‘cause o’ the leader. He’s strong, got a big bounty on his head ‘round these parts. Ain’t seen him lose to no one… ‘cept the new boss.”

As time passed, Samuel’s words began to flow more smoothly. A smile tugged at his lips, his eyes rolled back now and then in what looked like bliss, and a flushed, intoxicated hue settled on his cheeks—effects of severe mental domination. Peter wasn’t kind enough to be careful with the application on the scum.

...End of Chapter 17...